Then Baylor struck my father – or my father struck Baylor. I have never been quite sure who struck the first blow, nor are my impressions of the melee that followed clear. In seconds the entire village was engaged in a general brawl. I rushed to my father’s aid and was promptly smashed down, whether by friend or foe I am not sure. He and Baylor stood toe to toe trading blows with their staves until Baylor fell. I remember staggering to my feet and being caught up in my father’s arms as he retreated with me.

He dropped me to the dirt floor inside our house, and I sat holding my head while he and my mother argued. He was rummaging in his chest, that same chest he had carried two decades earlier when he emigrated. I could make little sense of my mother’s words for she was hysterical. I stood, swayed, leaned against a table and watched as my father pulled out the automatic pistol he had taken as plunder in some war. He checked its load, drew back the cocking bar and strode out. I can see his face as if it were before me and even now, as then, the expression is unreadable.

He left the house at a run and I heard the bullroar of a heavy rifle. My father was not the only one to have gone for better weapons. Then I heard a scream and it went on and on, high-pitched, mad, the cry of a woman bereaved. More shots echoed, different pitches distinguishing different weapons, some of which I recognized. I heard more screams as I staggered outside. Buildings intervened between me and the fighting, but I could see flames where someone’s house was burning. My mother caught my arm and held me back.

The flames had spread to other buildings, or were being spread. Alan crouched beside my mother; he was ten. I realized that Jennie was not with us. Someone ran up our street, staggered, and fell. Then he began to crawl forward, and when he raised his head I recognized him. Mr. Thoms! I broke away and ran to him. He had been shot through the leg and was bleeding badly. I stopped the wound and helped him drag himself inside the house. Wounds were nothing new to me, even then, for Hallam was still a frontier world.

His face was white from shock and loss of blood.

“Anna,” he said, gripping my mother’s arm, “it’s terrible. Those damned new people . . . ” He broke off, too angry to continue. The smell of smoke had reached us now. Firing was sporadic, but unrelenting. Apparently both sides had taken cover to snipe at one another. Two women herded a group of children into sight, heading toward us. Our house was one of the town’s original structures, of full hewn logs set on a mound with an open field of fire, a relic of first ship days when the cannys had not yet been killed off. It was apparent that they intended to take shelter here. I took down Papa’s single-shot hunting rifle and loaded it, cursing myself for not having remembered it sooner, and went down to help.

The women were Mrs. Thoms and her daughter Margaret, but the children were a mixed lot, her own and a round dozen from other families. She saw her man as she entered the house and ran to him with tears of relief on her face. Margaret was all dry-eyed business, herding the children to an inner room and threatening dire punishment if they whimpered or left its security. Then she came back and walked to where Mama and Alan were crouched. Her face was white; she seemed in greater shock than her father, though there was no wound on her. She looked down at Mama and said, “I saw Jennie. She’s dead.”

Chapter 6
Interlude: Incident on Hallam’s World

“Andrax, you can’t seriously contend that crucifixion is a viable part of the Monomythos. It is a barbaric concept, not a true part of the Word.” The speaker was angry, as was my father’s reply.

“It is not my place to advise God on what is and is not proper. Crucifixion, the self-sacrifice of God for Man, is a part of a vast array of religions from Zulis to the Christ. Who are we to throw it out?”

They stood face to face, poised like fighting cocks, two small men with pretensions to power, each secure in his own theology. This I know now, but then I only saw that my father was threatened by the heretic Baylor and that, insofar as he was threatened, I was likewise threatened. I was twelve years old.

I remember the incident clearly still. It was the last argument that Baylor and my father had. I had been schooled in the Danneline Monomythos and I believed it implicitly. There was no room for doubt in my small, ordered world.

The sun was warm; flowers were blooming in the village square on the imported fruit trees that were our village’s special pride. The grass was green after a long winter of brown and the pond at the base of the muddy main street was clear blue again, having shed its winter coat of ice. All these details are made more poignant by the intervening years and the comparison they offer to this cold hell-planet. Hallam, or Hallam’s World as it is often called, is a prime property.

A crowd gathered as the argument continued, each man gesturing with the staff he carried to kill the poisonous reptiles then prevalent. Baylor’s supporters were almost exclusively newcomers to Hallam, the company of a ship that had planeted only two years back. They were followers of the Pertoskan Monomythos, demons to me then. Now I recognize that the difference in doctrine between their people and mine was small.

When Louis Dumezil collated the earth’s religions into one grand scheme, he had hoped to put an end to religious persecution by deriving a universal religion. Scholars are uncertain today whether or not he believed in his teachings himself; it is a common theory among historians that he was not a religious man, merely a man of peace working through religion to attain his ends. If that is so, he failed miserably, for there has never been a more fractious group than the Universal Monists.

By the time the argument had continued for ten minutes, most of the village had gathered, each group of adherents separating from the other. My father was red-faced; Baylor had gone white. Each was gesturing, shouting, cutting off his opponent, making personal slurs. Then Baylor struck my father – or my father struck Baylor. I have never been quite sure who struck the first blow.

*****

I wrote Jandrax in 1976, less than a year after completing my first master’s thesis. It shows. I won’t ever rewrite Jandrax, but if I did, the end of the third paragraph is an example of what needs help.

This I know now, but then I only saw that my father was threatened by the heretic Baylor and that, insofar as he was threatened, I was likewise threatened.

If I were rewriting, I would replace it with:

And what threatened my father, threatened me.

Ah, the joys of hindsight.

Before we start today’s installment, here is the answer to Friday’s puzzle. If all that snowmelt flows into the lake without an outlet, it won’t be fresh for long. And an outlet big enough for all that snowmelt might stop the migrating herds. The concept needs a bit of tweaking.

You didn’t see that? Don’t be surprised. I wrote it in 1976, and only noticed the problem about a week ago.

Now, on to the story . . .

Angi rolled over and leaned on one elbow. The faint light touched one bare breast until she rearranged her clothing. Even in lovemaking they could not undress fully and for that Jan damned the cold planet anew.

“When are you going to marry me, Jan. I’m getting tired of snatching love when we can find a hole to hide in.”

He sat up and adjusted the hang of his pistol. It was true, more for him than for her. He could never relax and enjoy their brief liaisons because his Scout training kept him looking for danger when he should be concentrating on her; furthermore, he felt guilty for breaking his own rules about going beyond the sentry line.

But what could he say?

“Hon, it isn’t as simple as it seems.”

“Why isn’t it?”

To that he didn’t reply.

“You owe me the truth.”

“Not really. It may be that I owe you silence.”

“No, Jan.” He looked around uneasily and she smiled. He was worried about longnecks and afraid that if he suggested that they leave she would think he was avoiding the question. And at the same time, he was avoiding it. “Tell me about Hallam.”

She could not have shocked him more if she had shot him.

“How did you know about that!”

“No, I’m sworn to secrecy on my source. But I deserve to know – and I need to know – why you hate and fear my people.”

When he didn’t reply, she said, “Jan, either you let me into your life or I’ll put you out of mine.”

He dropped an oath. “Sexual blackmail?”

“No. Self-preservation. You know me better every day, but to me you remain an enigma. I can’t live with that.”

He cursed again and drew his weapon. It was apparent that there would be no retreating behind the sentry line now and defense remained his first instinct. “You won’t like the story.”

“No, I’m sure I won’t.”

*****

Today’s entry is short because it finishes a chapter, and what follows tomorrow is quite different. Thomas Anderson’s review of Jandrax complained that it is all over the place and hard to follow. Personally, I like a story that jumps around, although I admit that the connections are far from seamless. It was my first real book, after all.

Another thing is about to happen that the normal reader will probably miss, but will be of interest to writers. I wrote most of Jandrax in first person. It didn’t work, so I rewrote the whole thing in third person.

Two chapters, however, did work better in first person, and were retained unchanged. Jan Andrax’s recollection of the Hallam War, starting tomorrow, is a story told to Angi in his own voice. First person works there. Much later in the novel, his son Jean Dubois’ interlude on the island in the middle of the lake – which may be a dream, or a hallucination, or God (literally) knows what – comes off better as first person because he is both physically and emotionally alone at the time it occurs. more tomorrow

Okay, folks, no excerpt from Jandrax today. Instead, it is time for some world building. But first, a paragraph from yesterday’s post:

Captain Childe confirmed Jan’s suspicions; the melt would come twice yearly, but the herds only accompanied one melt. When the green latitude moved northward, the herds would follow the opposite shore of the lake.

Now let me apologize for the map. The draw portion of Apple Works wasn’t up to the job and I haven’t yet downloaded EazyDraw, so after decades of using computer graphics I was reduced to a paper, pencil, and scan.

The unharmonious planet called Harmony has an axial tilt of 32 degrees, enough greater than Earth to make the seasons extreme. It lies “close in to a cool sun” but we won’t worry about that, because I didn’t know that we were going to be dealing with two sets of seasons per year when I wrote that description on the first day of the first draft. Let’s just assume that we have a year roughly the same length as Earth’s. I also won’t repeat what is meant by two sets of seasons.

The heavy tilt makes the seasons extreme, but glaciation comes from the cool sun. Glaciation has locked up most of Harmony’s water, making the oceans small and salty. The landing site is inland near a large, freshwater lake.

Because Harmony is cold and water starved, with universal low humidity and no mountains nearby, it never rains in the vicinity of the landing site. It does snow during the coldest months, and this accumulates until warmth returns. This is the melt, during which plants grow.

Let’s watch the cycle from space, beginning with chapter one. The sun is overhead some degrees north of the equator, and moving southward. At that latitude, there is a world girdling band of melting snow. South of this, all is snowbound. North for a hundred miles, give or take, is a band of green and growing vegetation, briefly flourishing on snowmelt; further north still is a band of desiccated land reaching all the way to the face of the glaciers. In the green belt, the herds are happily munching their way southward on the east side of the lake only.

As the sun moves southward, the line of melting snow, followed by the band of growth, followed by the desert left after the snowmelt drains away, trails out behind. Snow begins in the far north, and becomes another southward trending band, following the dry belt. By the time the sun reaches its most southernmost excursion, snow covers the land to well below the equator. Now the sun starts northward, but it will be some time before it reaches the southern boundary of the snow and begins a new, northward-marching melt. What are the herds to eat until then?

They will have to eat the unsavory, dried out remnants of vegetation from the previous melt – which exists only on the west side of the lake -until the reach the latitude of the new, northward melt. You’ll see this happen quite late in the novel.

How did the all come about? Did it evolve as the planet cooled? Did the God-of-the-island plan it all? You’ll meet him late in the novel, too, unless he was just a hallucination. In any case, it’s up the the reader to decide. I just work here.

Now wouldn’t it be a horrible mess to dump all this onto the reader as an undigestible narrative lump? Does he (or she) even care?  World building is a means, not an end, and you have to feed it to your reader in digestible bites, as needed.

One last thing. There is something in all this that doesn’t add up. Did you see it? No? I’ll tell you what it is after the weekend. See you then.

Chapter 5

The camp had fallen into a pitiful squalor. The palisade was far too small and the brush huts inside were not only pathetic shelters but also a grave fire hazard. One spark could wipe them out.

The time had come to expand the colony and to go down to the lake, a distance of 450 kilometers and a move the colonists were reluctant to make. They had been living from moment to moment for five months and wanted some time to rest and enjoy the fruits of their labor. Once again, Jan was thankful for Marcel Dumezil’s drive. The leader agreed that the colony must move and must expand.

The colony needed a constant supply of fresh water. The river Lydia was too seasonal in its flow to support proper sanitary facilities, though it provided enough water for their primitive life style. The lake would allow a nonseasonal access to protein – fish – and a chance to try domesticating the native plants. Jan was convinced that water was the limiting factor in plant growth and that irrigation could provide a bountiful harvest of native flora.

The patriarch agreed with him on every particular. They spent a month finalizing plans for the new “city” – a trying time for Jan as he fought against his natural dislike of the man.

Captain Childe confirmed Jan’s suspicions; the melt would come twice yearly, but the herds only accompanied one melt. When the green latitude moved northward, the herds would follow the opposite shore of the lake.

For two months the land was desert, then for four months it was snowy. Throughout that time the colonists cut logs until great rafts of timber awaited the melt. They would form the palisade of the new lower colony. The women smoked meat and prepared pemmican.

The Lydia was now in a stationary equatorial orbit just overhead. Captain Childe had only to request it and Henri Staal would take the landing craft up to get him, but he persisted in his self-imposed exile. He had converted holdspace to hydroponic tanks using algae native to Harmony and had established a closed-cycle ecosystem for himself. Jan was sure that he had no intention of ever grounding.

***

Jan was on the crew that went to the lake. They steered their rafts into the shallows at the height of the flood and drove in the long pilings they had prepared. Then they sat, imprisoned on their wooden islands, living on raw fish to preserve their pemmican, and waiting for the melt to pass. When the waters had receded, they surveyed a site on a bluff on the south bank of the Lydia. There they dug trenches and carried up the logs.

Everything they had cut in six months was used to make the stockade. Houses would wait until the next melt. The return trip was made afoot, staying near the Lydia for her failing, muddy water.

Two more couples were married within a week of their return.

*****

Although I don’t really remember the moment of enlightenment, this is clearly when I realized for the first time that Harmony had two sets of seasons per year. This happens at equatorial locations. (see 120. Still Inclined) That the herds only return every other melt (i.e., once per year) was a notion that occurred to me when I became aware of this, but I never worked out why it happens. You can only do so much hidden world building; eventually, you just have to write. more tomorrow

The herds came. Like an endless river they flowed past the palisade. The colonists worked themselves into exhaustion with the slaughter, killing, killing, killing; butchering until their skins ran red with blood, until their hair was matted with clotted, black, insect ridden blood. Haunch after haunch of trihom, herby, humpox, and leer tumbled into the pit north of town to be covered with clean sand and still more haunches. Bones and entrails inundated the land.

On the third day of the hunt, the skimmer was destroyed by a moving mass of flesh. Tennyson Risley had been piloting it between the hunters and the pit. Broken castings and twisted sheet metal were scattered over a square kilometer and Tenn’s body was lost to the scavengers along with the load of meat he had been carrying.

On the eighth day of the hunt, young Jean Dumezil, the patriarch’s third son, was carried in dead, his throat ripped out by a longneck. He was wrapped in the skin of the animal which had killed him and buried beside Tom Dennison and Jason D’Angelo. Marcel Dumezil read the service dry-eyed.

Walking away from the grave, Lucien Dubois and Alexandre Chambard could not meet one another’s eyes. They remembered the day they had found young Jean standing over the body of Jason D’Angelo, a bloody club in his hand. They remembered all too well how Jean had felt no contrition for the murder, reminding them how D’Angelo had mocked their God.

They remembered dragging the body to a place where it would be struck by a falling tree. They remembered the look on Jan Andrax’s face when he found tiny bits of moss embedded in the wound.

And Lucien Dubois remembered Jason’s near-death protecting him from a charging leer.

When the herds had left, the land was tortured, gouged, and mangled. It was a morass of drying dung, blood, entrails, and bones.

The herbivores had swept the ground like locusts, leaving nothing behind. All plant life was gone and within a week the moisture was gone as well; the land stretched away as pure desert, save for the trees on the mountains behind the camp and the tough new growth that sprang up near the shrunken river.

A week after the herds’ disappearance, Helene Dumezil and Valikili were married. The ceremony took place in the courtyard, attended by the entire colony. Angi squeezed Jan’s arm in delight at its conclusion, a delight that died when she saw the look in his eyes. It was the look of a caged animal.

*****

As with yesterday’s post, the narrator (c’est moi) spills the beans and another mystery is subverted rather than revealed.

My thinking on this was logically valid, but not necessarily valid from the viewpoint of drama. Who threw the grenade, was D’Angelo murdered and, if so, by whom, and who attacked Valikili (something you will never be told) were issues of minor importance in the face of the colony’s fight for survival. That was my thinking. In the closing pages of the novel, the notion of retribution returns, but by then human society is settled into its new pattern, and its survival is well established.

Whether undercutting the mysteries was the best decision is for readers and future writers to decide. more tomorrow

Marcel Dumezil, patriarch of the Benedictine Monists on the planet called Harmony, moved with assurance in everything he did. It was not egotism, exactly, that made him feel his every act was correct, but faith in God, faith in his special place in God’s plan, and faith in his understanding of that plan. Had he been accused of egotism, he would have denied the charges hotly – but humbly. He had long since transcended identifying his personal wishes with God’s. Now he was tangled in the less common, but more dangerous fallacy of identifying God’s personal wishes as his own.

Marcel Dumezil was a man without doubts. He was also a man of great practical wisdom and vast experience in colonizing and in the leading of colonists. He held himself to be indispensable and was more than half right.

He slept only four hours each night, devoting to prayer the other four hours he allowed himself away from his duties. Hypocrisy was not one of his characteristics; he believed utterly in his God and his mission. And this made him dangerous. Lacking internal weakness, he tolerated no weakness in his followers. Believing first in God and only secondarily in man, he was utterly ruthless.

He had thrown the grenade.

*****

The description of Marcel Dumezil’s mindset at the end of the second paragraph is confusing, and I’m okay with that. If the reader passes over it, fine; if he is puzzled, perhaps his irritation will help clarify his thinking. Not everything needs to be spelled out.

To keep names straight as you read on, colony leader Marcel Dumezil is a fire eater who is totally consumed by his religion. Today, he would be a jihadi. His son, named Anton, is a competent leader whose religious fire also burns, but with less heat. He becomes the colony’s leader after his father’s death. Anton’s son, also named Anton, is a twit. All the strength in that line dies out in three generations, but Anton the younger will still set things in motion in the second half of the book.

The last line in this section irritated Thomas Anderson at Schlock Value, when he reviewed Jandrax recently. He said:

Oh wait, about twenty pages in we just…learn who did it (threw the grenade). It’s not even a mystery solved. The narrator tells us. Out of the blue. It was very disappointing.

In fact, Dumezil threw the grenade to remove his people from the temptations of the world. It set up the story and gave a clear picture of his character. There was no intention of creating a mystery. The stranding was of supreme importance; who did it, wasn’t particularly important. Once the results of the explosion had been firmly nailed down, I let the reader know who did it at the first convenient moment. No mystery intended; just a timing issue.

Of course, there is a lesson here for the would-be writer. What we intend is a great deal less important than what the reader sees. more tomorrow

Chambard wandered off, but Adrian Dumezil remained to pass the time. He was chewing a siskal twig, which the colonists had discovered to be bitter and mildly narcotic. Those who had smoked tobacco before had, to a man, taken up chewing siskal. He was one of the many to have adopted the surname of Mentor Louis Dumezil and was unrelated to Angi. 

Adrian watched the archers at their practice as Angi fed the fire. When she stood up and stretched, he grinned down at her and asked, “Has Andrax proposed yet?”

Angi flushed, then laughed, taking no offense. “No, not yet.”

“I wonder if he will?” He did not seem to notice Angi’s blush, nor recognize the inappropriateness of his comment; rather, he seemed absorbed in some problem beyond her knowledge.

“Why do you say that, Adrian?”

“That isn’t my name.”

Now she was completely bewildered.

“My name is Sabine Conners. I knew Andrax as a boy, though he has not recognized me yet. I wore a different face then, as well as a different name. Plastic surgery. I was a wanted man.”

“Why tell me that?”

He chuckled, “Why not? I’m not wanted any more, now that we’re stranded here.

“But your question was the right one. Why not isn’t an answer to why. I tell you this because I’ve known you since you were a child and I don’t want to see you hurt. Have you ever wondered why Jan keeps himself so aloof?”

“He’s awfully busy, and he has a lot of responsibilities.”

Sabine shook his head. “Jan doesn’t trust us because we are Monists.”

“I know, but I don’t know why.”

Sabine sucked on the twig for a moment longer before throwing it away. “Jan Andrax was born on Hallam. His father was the leader of the Danneline Monists in their guerrilla war against the Pertoskans. He was orphaned there.”

Angi was shocked. The Hallam war had been one of the bitterest in recent history. Then she made another connection. “You said you knew him as a boy. That was after Hallam?”

Sabine chuckled again. “Delicately put. No, I fought right beside him and his father. That is what I was wanted for.”

“Then Jan was wanted, too?”

“No, and that’s something I don’t understand. He still carries the face and name he was born with and he is a Scout. How did he ever get into the Scouts with his record?”

Angi looked puzzled, so he expanded. “Jan’s father and I lost track of him during a skirmish. We both thought he was dead – never saw him again until I got off the landing boat here and saw him giving orders. You can bet that was a shock.”

“You don’t know what happened from then till now?”

Sabine shook his head. “No, and I don’t intend to ask him and blow my cover. I’ll expect you to keep my secret; anyone who fought on either side at Hallam is still a pariah.”

“Of course.”

“In a war, people think and act differently than they do otherwise. There isn’t much time for affection. I liked Jan well enough as a boy, but I never felt toward him like I do toward you. We just didn’t have time for the softer emotions. –

“Still, I liked him. He was a brave, decent boy and he has grown into a brave, decent man. But there is some demon riding him. You’d best find out what that demon is before you marry him.”

He hesitated so long that Angi thought he had finished. Both of them were staring across the courtyard to where Jan was dressing down a careless archer. “Another thing for you to think about. Daniel Andrax, Jan’s father, was a driving, self–assured man – a born leader. He had a faith in himself and his religion that would stop at nothing.

“He was a lot like your father – and you can bet that Jan has seen the resemblance, too.”

*****

If I were writing this today, it would no longer seem realistic to export tobacco-smoking to the stars. Weed yes; tobacco no. Also, here is another reference to everyone taking the name of the originator of Monism. A good idea, yes; confusing to have everyone named Dumezil, oh, yes. more tomorrow

Chapter 4

Two (see below, 1) local months after the Lydia was stranded, the snows began to melt. At first only the surface melted during the day, refreezing at night. For a time, footing was treacherous. Then there came a time when the water did not completely refreeze, merely skimmed over. Finally the palisade was surrounded by a vast ocean of snowmelt, extending to the horizon and breaking like an inland sea against the foothills. The river swelled until it filled its kilometer-wide bed with a violent rush of ice-clogged, mud-brown water.

Even while the land was still covered, the first vegetation appeared; leaves and flowers sprang up on every withered bush and fresh shoots thrust out, growing at an unbelievable rate. When the water receded to mud, the gluegrass burst the bounds of earth, soft, stubby spikes of mucilaginous growth that clung to and fouled the legs of those who ventured out.

Then came the leers and the first wave of krats. Angi Dumezil watched the huge flightless birds from the palisade as they slogged about, buoyed up by their webbed feet. The hunters were only a hundred kilometers north of the settlement now, which eased the strain on the failing skimmer. In the palisade, preparations were being made to greet the main herd when it came. The mammalian herbivores would not arrive until the mud had dried enough to support their hooves.

Off to the north a small, deep lake in the shape of a perfect square marked the permafrost cellar dug earlier by the men. Now water filled, it would be filled with meat in the coming weeks and sealed with a covering of soil.

In the courtyard below, Jan was conducting classes in archery. The bows were of fiberglass formed from native sand by the lifeboat’s power pile. The arrows were tipped with the first native iron to have been smelted. Angi watched the men fire a volley, pride of community mingled with pride in her man. Jan had not asked her to marry him, but she expected the invitation any day – perhaps after the herds had passed and a measure of leisure had returned.

She returned to the task at hand, pouring boiling water through layers of ash to obtain the materials from which to make lye soap.(see below, 2) She was a pioneer and the daughter of pioneers; hard work was nothing new to her. Still, she had never been in a situation before where such a sense of urgency infused every act. It had welded them, crew and colonists alike, into a tightly knit community with the common purpose of survival. There was little bickering and an almost unnatural peace, due in part to the heritage of Benedictine Monism shared by all but the crew.

People no longer spoke of the fact that they were marooned. Angi, innocent of the complexities of spaceflight, found it strange that the uninjured ship orbiting Harmony – as they were corning to call the planet – was useless without the flight computer. And no one talked about the fact that they had been stranded by a deliberate act. Everyone knew that one of their number was responsible for their exile, but no one had the courage to speculate as to whom.

She looked up as Adrian Dumezil and Alexandre Chambard arrived from the outside with a fresh barrel of water. They had it slung from two poles. Working together they transferred its contents to the stationary barrel above her kettle. 

*****

1.   This seems a short time for all that has happened. I didn’t make a physical calendar while writing Jandrax, so I can’t refer back to see why I said two months. Certainly it is too soon for iron smelting, as mentioned a few paragraphs later. 
2. If I were writing this today, I would set her a different task. Lye soap fits the circumstances she is in, but it is unlikely to have been in her skill-set on the planet from which she originated.

After three months, Marcel Dumezil reinstituted the Sabbath. From a practical standpoint it was a good system. Planning and good judgment depend on frequent periods of rest; otherwise the immediate but trivial has a tendency to swamp more important long range considerations.

With that in mind, Jan walked with Angi to the field beyond the palisade after the service. Everyone in the colony seemed to have the same idea and soon the snowy earth was dotted with furry shapes, each sitting a little apart from his neighbor, relishing privacy after the cramped squalor of life within the palisade.

“Jan,” she said, placing her hand on his arm, “you look worried. Today is a day of rest, so please relax. I spend half my time worrying that either you or Papa will crack under the strain you are carrying.”

Jan looked up at the broad, barren expanse of snow, at the mountains beyond, where the scars of their cutting lay, and behind at the palisade. They had done well; yet it was not any natural disaster that worried him, He feared the seeds of dissension carried within the group.

“Nur and Tenn did not attend the service,” Jan pointed out. “How will your people feel about that?”

She shrugged. “It is their right. We are not barbarians, you know.”

Jan said nothing. Angi scooped up snow, balled it angrily and tossed it down. “You think we are, don’t you?”

“Huh? Are what?”

“Barbarians. You think Nur and Tenny are in danger from us because they are of a different religion. Where did you ever get such an idea? What have we done to make you think that of us. Or are you just prejudiced?”

“I never said any such thing,” Jan replied, but he was thinking of Jason. And he was remembering Hallam.

***

There was a holiday air about the camp. Raoul LaBarge was a trained geologist; he had explored the hills back of the settlement – keeping mainly to the creeks for reasons of future transportation – and he found an outcropping of iron ore, something infinitely more precious than gold.

Jan gave himself the afternoon off for good behavior and took Angi out. They went on skis, for the snow was half a meter deep. She looked beautiful to him, though, in truth, imagination played a good part in that. She was dressed as everyone else, Jan included, in a trihorn parka cut from the hairy shoulder section of the hide, wide herbyskin trousers, and boots made from the hairless rump section of trihorn hide. Only her face and a few wisps of hair showed from beneath her krathide cap. Angi’s beauty was a thing remembered from warmer days, not something available for immediate experience.

They talked of things which had become commonplace and of the future of the colony. They spoke a little of a more personal future and she remained very close to him while he cursed the cold that imprisoned them in their furry armor.

Jan was not a man given to noticing natural beauty. It was not a thing to brag about, but his profession had made him very businesslike in his relationship to the environment. Were that not so, he would long since have been dead. Yet he had come to love their cold, barren world – but never so much as on that afternoon when imprisoned passion was transmuted into softer feelings as they skiied hand in hand across the clean, white plains, moving in a common rhythm.

*****

Jan’s indifference to natural beauty was suggested a decade before I became a writer when Peter Matthiessen, in The Cloud Forest, considered an orange that he was eating after a long period of near starvation. He was a world traveller who often found himself short on meals. He confessed to having no interest in food as anything but fuel, until that orange after that privation became the finest taste he had ever encountered. more tomorrow