“What?”
“It’s the only real law we have in Heaven. Do you think nobody ever tried the life, then changed his mind? This community depends on secrecy; and the only way we can be sure of getting it, is by never allowing anyone to go back.
“From now on, big brother, you’re permanently on the side of the angels.”
Chapter Eight
The village occupied the southeast corner of the He, and housed some two hundred people. Women made up about a fourth of the population; but, although the majority of them had paired off with men, Stirling had seen no children during his brief survey. He guessed that even rebel women would be too practical to take off into the blue without packing a lifelong supply of oral contraceptives. At a rate of one pill a month, a small handful would be enough to secure permanently the doors of life. Yet, the rigid control of the birth rate was one of the most irksome features of life in the Compression—Stirling thought briefly of the anonymous couple whose bodies in the river had indirectly triggered the events which brought him to Heaven—and he would have expected those restraints to be the first to go. He made up his mind to ask someone about it before he left the He for good.
His fourth morning on the raft was exactly like the previous three: an affair of achingly pure blue sky, pastel mists, the sober green geometries of the soil beds, sunlight splintering through transient treasures of dew. Stirling filled his lungs with it gratefully as he crawled out of his personal burrow and began to prepare for the day’s work.
The people of the He built no real houses, partly through lack of structural materials, partly because of the risk of attracting the attention of transatlantic jet crews.
Because its air was comparatively warm and moist, a milky canopy of water vapor was usually drawn across the underside of the He’s shell field; but there was always the chance that some sharp-eyed pilot would penetrate the screen. Transatlantic air travel had never regained the peak it had achieved before the War, before the country had curled up on itself like a wounded animal; but International Land Extension, U.S. 23, was close to the main trade arteries. The daily freighter, carrying the token food gifts from India, seemed to take a particular pleasure in coming in low over the raft and freezing the people of the village in their tracks. Stirling had considered signaling to one of the planes; but he would have been more likely to attract the attention of the people around him; and this was the last thing his plans required.
It had taken every shred of his self-control not to run in blind panic when Johnny told him there was no going back. He had shrugged, admitted the validity of Johnny’s analysis of his motives, and asked for a job. The gamble had been that a man, who was sufficiently unbalanced to choose to live on the He, would accept the story.
“Hi there, Vic. Ready for the day’s work?”
Stirling nodded and smiled as Pete Biquard approached. Every man on the lie was lean and brown, Stirling had noticed; but Biquard was stringier than most, and his skin was almost chestnut in color. His tattered but functional clothing, slitted eyes and loose, easy walk made him look like a re-creation of the classical frontiersman. Stirling was sure Biquard had been specially appointed to work with him because of his loyalty to Johnny and the Council, but he found himself liking the other man.
“How far are we going today, Pete?”
Biquard screwed up his face in thought. “We oughtta go right up to the northeast corner—I ain’t been up that way in nearly a week. Do you think you could drag that overweight carcass of yours that far?”
“I could do it with your skinny carcass on my back,” Stirling replied in mock belligerence. “How long will it take us?”
“Depends on how much stuff we get. Allow two hours to reach the corner, mebby three coming back. If we get a haul of structural plastic, it could take even longer.”
“What sort of plastic?”
“We call it structural because it’s good for building huts and roofing burrows. Actually it’s covers from the shell-field booster units around the perimeter. They’re on the outside of the wall. So you can’t see them from here. Some of them get crisped up a bit by lightning strikes, and the maintenance robots dump them in a salvage depot in the northeast corner.”
“Aren’t the quantities that go back for salvage checked?”
“We don’t take complete covers—just some ribs and odd pieces of skin. You’re nearly as nosy as that brother of yours was when he first got here.” Biquard studied Stirling’s face with inquisitive blue eyes.
“Let’s get something to eat,” Stirling said.
A sheltered area under a raised water tank housed the communal soup kitchen at which the foraging and scavenging teams ate before setting out. As they walked towards it, Stirling calculated his chances of a successful break. He and Biquard were going out on a five-hour trip. If they traveled north for an hour, they should be just about on the He’s longitudinal axis, at which point—if Stirling broke free—he would have a straight fifteen-mile slog to the transit area. With the sort of start he would have, his chances of reaching the elevator were excellent. It was difficult to imagine even Johnny’s tireless, weather-beaten lieutenants catching him if he got so much as a single hour’s lead.
The smell of the now familiar soup distracted Stirling as he and Biquard reached the water tower. A dozen men were standing or squatting around, eating from crudely formed plastic plates. They greeted Biquard enthusiastically; most of them included Stirling in their welcome, but with varying degrees of reserve. He had no way of telling how much his reception had been influenced, one way or the other, by his relationship to Johnny. None of the men ever discussed “Jaycee” in Stirling’s presence, and he had not seen his brother, except at a distance, since the night he arrived. Each time Johnny had waved with ironic courtesy and gone his way, accompanied by Dix and other Council members. It seemed that the break between the brothers had been as clean as it was sudden. Johnny apparently spent most of his time in discussions—unimaginable to Stirling—which he treated with all the seriousness of a statesman controlling the destinies of billions. There were moments when Stirling found it difficult to realize that this fantastic holiday from reality was taking place within sight of the East Coast conurbation. Did all the other Des scattered around the coast have their own little colonies? Their own petty dictators parading minute armies across microscopic dominions?
Stirling went under the tower with Biquard and was served a generous helping of the thick, aromatic soup by a middle-aged woman dressed in the usual makeshifts of black plastic and faded textiles. As he stood, scooping the hot food into his mouth, he caught sight of Melissa Latham moving through the shade beyond the line of cooking fires. Her mass of jet-black hair was loosely brushed back, and her slim body was snake-like in its glistening wrappings of black plastic. She glanced hi his direction, and he instinctively raised his hand in a half-salute. Instantly, she turned away, and he felt an odd flicker of pleasure at having been recognized. Watch it, Stirling, he thought. This is no time to try the “What’s-a-nice-kid-like-you-doing-in-a joint-like-this?” routine.
“You can’t have her, Vic.” Biquard spoke into Stirling’s ear from close up and startled him.
“I understand Jaycee has spoken for her.”
“He has. But that ain’t the reason. Her old man ain’t letting her pair off with anybody.”
“Not even with Jaycee?” Stirling probed gently, surprised at the extent of his own interest.
“Not even with Jaycee. Judge Latham’s daughter is a cut above any of the men around these parts.” Biquard snorted into his soup. “Still, there’s no need for you to worry none, Vic. Not all the women are so stand-offish. A handsome, big guy like you won’t have no trouble. I’ll introduce you to a couple of real friendly girls tonight—you should have mentioned it sooner.”