Get Off the Unicorn (10 page)

Now Nora could hear the pitiful muted honking of the geese in the Poultry House. She winced. There were certain aspects of farming that could not be completely automated. You can't tape a broody hen, and you can't computerize the services of a rooster. Cocks' crows still heralded sunrise over the fields, whether the clarion summons issued from a wooden slated crate or the sleek multipentangle that housed the poultry raised by the Fenn Complex. Eggs laid by hens in Nora's charge would be powdered and eventually whipped to edibility on the Jupiter station, or be flash-frozen to provide sustenance when the first colony ship set forth as it was rumored to do in the next decade. Turkeys from this Complex regularly made the one-way trip to the Moon bases for Winter Solstice celebrations, call them Saturnalias or Santa Claus if you would.

She entered the poultry pentangle through the access tunnel which led straight to the computer core that handled all watering, feeding, cleaning, egg collection, and slaughter operations. The Fenn Complex did not sell to dietary groups, so the market preparations were the standard ones.

She checked the tapes on the Leghorn fifth, replenished the grit supply, and tapped out a reorder sequence. She flushed out all the pen floors and refreshed the water. Then she checked the mean weight of the tom turkeys, growing from scrawny, long-legged adolescence to plump-breasted maturity. A trifle more sand for digestion, a richer mash for firmer meats, and a little less of the growth hormones. Concentrated goodness, not size for size's sake anymore.

The geese were fattening, too, on their fixed perches. Goose livers on the rod. Nora hated the calculated cruelty that brought in credit margin for the Fenn Complex. Stuff the poor helpless fowl, engorge their livers for the delectation of the gourmet. The geese lived sheltered, circumscribed lives, which was not living at all, for they couldn't see out of their own quarters. Nothing distracted them from their purpose in life—death from enlarged livers. Nora was distracted from her chores by their shrill honking. She forced herself to read the gauges. Yes, the upper group were ready for market. Even their plaint registered the truth of their self-destruction. They'd been bred for one purpose. It was their time to fulfill it. She coldly dialed for a quotation on the price of geese and goose liver at the Central Farm Exchange. The European price printed out at a respectable high. She routed the information to the Farm's main console. It might just sweeten Father's cantankerous mood to realize a quick credit from the sale.

Nora took a detour on the way back, across the one-hundred-acre field. The willows her great-grandfather had planted the day the Farm Reforms were passed were tipped with raw yellow. Spring was an Earth-moment away. Soon the golden limbs would sprout their green filaments, to drape and float them on the irrigation ditch that watered their thirsty feet. Would
her
great-grandchildren admire the willows in their turn? The whimsy irritated her.

She walked faster, away from what the willows stood for. She didn't really have to be back at the Complex until mealtime, an hour or so away. Father always programmed too much time for her to tend the poultry house, which was an unflattering assessment of her ability but usually gave her more time for something she'd wanted to do that Father might not consider contributory. If only
once
he'd look at her as if she weren't something printed out by mistake. How in the name of little printed circuits
had
Mother dared to have twins?

Nora used her spare time to pick cress at the sluice gate beds. It was a soothing occupation and contributed to dinner's salad. When she finally got back to the house, she glanced into the office. The printout slot was clear, so Father had seen her report. She'd simply have to wait to find out if he'd acted on the data. The main console was keyed to his code only.

She heard the meal chime from the kitchen area and quickly brought the cress to her mother, who was taking roast lamb out of the oven. Did Mother know about Nick's quarrel? Lamb was her father's favorite protein.

“Oh, cress! That was a considerate thought, Nora. We'll put a few sprigs on the lamb platter for looks. There'll only be three of us for dinner, you know.”

Nora didn't know, for surely Nick would be back from the Everett Complex; but just then Father came in, grim-faced, and sat down. Again Nora wondered just how far he had goaded Nick this afternoon. Why had she played the coward and left?

The tender lamb stuck in her throat like so much dry feed. Her stomach seemed to close up as if eating had been programmed out, but she forced herself to clear her plate. No one, in this day and age and especially at George Fenn's table, wasted real food. Once—and only once—as a child she had left real food on her plate. She'd spent the next two weeks trying to swallow common subsistence-level rations.

Conversation was never encouraged at Fenn meals, so the awkward meal dragged on. When Nora could finally excuse herself and make for the sanctuary of her room, her father stopped her.

“So, Nora, you've been doing Nicholas's programming for him, eh?” Father's voice was icy with disapproval; his eyes were specks of gray.

Nora stared back, speechless. Oh, Nick couldn't have!

“Don't gawk at me, girl. Answer!” Father's big fist banged the table and a startled “Yes, Father,” came from her.

“And how long has this . . . this deception gone on?”

Nora didn't dare look at him.

“How long?” Father repeated, his voice rising in volume and getting sharper.

“Since—since spring,” she answered.

“
Which
spring?” was the acid query.

Nora swallowed hard against the sudden nauseating taste of lamb in her mouth.

“The first year of programming.”

“You
dared
take over a task assigned your brother—by me? Designed to acquaint him with the problems he'll face as a landsman?”

Instinctively Nora leaned as far back in her chair, away from her father's looming body, as she could. Not even George Fenn would disrupt family harmony by striking a child, but he was so angry that it seemed to Nora he had become a terrible stranger, capable even of causing her physical harm.

“Nick couldn't seem to get the trick of it,” she managed to say in her own defense. “I only helped a little. When he got jammed.”

“He's a Fenn. He's got farming in his blood. Five generations of farming. You've robbed him of his heritage, of his proper contribu—”

“Oh, no, Father. Nick's always contributed. He'd do the poultry . . .” and her sentence broke off as she saw the bloated, red face of her father.

“You dared . . .
dared
exchange assignments?”

“You miss the point entirely, George,” Mother interceded in her placid way. “The tasks were completed, were well done, so I cannot see why it is so wrong for Nick to have done which, and Nora what. They're both Fenns, after all. That's the core of the matter.”

“Have you changed state, woman?” Father wanted to know, but astonishment had aborted his anger. “Nicholas is my son! Nora's only a girl.”

“Really, George. Don't quibble. You know, I've been thinking of enlarging my contribution to society now that the children are about to advance. I'd really like to go back to the Agriculture Institute and update my credentials. Sometimes,” Mother went on in the conversational way in which she was apt to deliver startling conclusions, “I think the children have studied a whole new language when I hear them discussing computer logic. Remember when I used to take an apprentice's place, George? Of course, it would be much more interesting for me if you'd diversify the Complex. I can't have any more children, of course, but if we bred lambs or calves, I'd've young things to tend again. Society does say it'll satisfy every individual's needs.” She gave her husband an appealing smile. “Do try to compute that in your fall program, George. I'd appreciate it.”

Looking at Mother as if she'd taken leave of her senses, Father rose and pushed back his chair. He mumbled something about checking urgent data, but stumbled out of the dining area, past the office, and out of the house.

“Mother, I'd no idea . . .”

The rest of Nora's words died in her throat because her mother's eyes were brimming with mischief and she looked about to laugh.

“I oughtn't to do that to George when he's had a big dinner. But there're more ways to kill a cat than choking him with butter—as my grandmother used to say. Although that's a shocking way to use butter—not to mention a good cat—but Grandmother was full of such dairy-oriented expressions. Hmmm. Now dairy farming might not be such a bad compromise, considering the printout quotes on milk and cheese this spring.” Then she closed her lips firmly as if her own loquacity startled her as much as it did Nora. The laughter died in her eyes. “Nora?”

“Yes, Mother?”

“In this society, a person is legally permitted to develop at his own pace and follow his own aptitudes. Not even a stubborn atavist like your father has the right to inhibit another's contribution. Of course, the responsible citizen tries to maintain harmonious relations with his family unit up to that point of interference.

“You realized, I'm certain, that even if Nick has no love of crop farming, he is basically attuned to rural life. I've been so grateful to you, dear, for . . . soothing matters between your father and brother.” The words came out haltingly and though Mother didn't look directly at her, Nora could appreciate her difficulty. Mother had scrupulously avoided taking sides in the constant altercations between Nick and Father. She had somehow always maintained family unity. Her unexpected frankness was essentially a betrayal of that careful neutrality. “I had hoped that Nick might be a more biddable boy, able to go along with his father's ambitions. They may be old-fashioned—”

“Mother, you
know
Father is positively medieval at times.” Nora regretted her flippancy when she saw the plea for understanding in her mother's eyes. “Well, he is, but that's his bit. And he does make a distinguished contribution as a landsman.”

“Yes, Nora. Few men these days have your father's real love of the earth. It isn't every landsman,” Mother added, her voice proud, “who runs a Complex as big as ours and makes a creditable balance.”

“If only Father didn't
try
 . . .”

But Mother was looking off into the middle distance, her face so troubled, her eyes so dark with worry, that Nora wanted to cry out that she really did understand. Hadn't she proved that with all she'd done to keep unity?

“You're a kind, thoughtful, considerate child, Nora,” Mother said finally, smiling with unexpected tenderness. “You undoubtedly rate very high on interpersonal relationships.”

“You must, too,” Nora protested, glancing toward the office.

Mother gave a rueful little laugh. “I do, or I shouldn't have got on so well with your father all these years. But, right now, we both have to work together to maintain family harmony.”

“You haven't had a deficiency notice on me, have you?”

“Good lands, no, child,” and Mother was clearly startled at the notion. “But Nick had an interview with Counselor Fremmeng and he's reasonably certain, from the way the Counselor talked, that he is going to disappoint your father. You know that George has been positive Nick would receive Academic Advancement. And frankly Nora, Nick not only doesn't want it, he's sure he won't get it.”

“Yes, he mentioned something like that to me this afternoon after Father reamed him,” Nora said sadly. “But what could Father possibly do in the face of E.A. postings except admit that he couldn't compute Nick into his own program?”

Mother gave Nora one of her long, disconcertingly candid stares.

“It's not a question, Nora, of what your Father would or would not do. It's a question of how we maintain family unity, and your father's dignity and standing in the Sector. With a little tactful and affectionate . . . handling, he can think it was all his own notion in the first place.”

Nora stared at her mother with dawning respect and admiration.

“That's why you offered to update your credentials?”

Mother grinned. “Just thought I'd plant the notion. It
is
spring, you know.”

“Mother, why on earth did you marry Father?” Nora asked in a rush. She might never get another chance to find out.

An unexpectedly tender expression on her mother's face made her appear younger, prettier.

“Land's sake, because he was the kind of man I wanted to marry,” Mary Fenn said with a proud lift of her chin. “A man to do for, and George takes a lot of doing, you know. Keeps me on my toes. He has such tremendous vitality. I like that. He knows and loves, and understands the land, and I wanted that, too. I knew that was good for me, to be close to the land, and I wanted to raise my children close to natural things. Sometimes I think there's too much dependence on technology. I'm a throwback, too, Nora, just as much as your father is with his antiquated notions of a son following in his father's footsteps on land that's been in the same family for generations.” Mother looked down at her square-palmed strong-fingered hands as if they represented her inner self. “I like to feel warm earth, to get dirty. I want to
do
with my hands, not just let them idly punch a button or two. I like growing things, young things. If I could've defied the Population Control laws, too, I'd've had a whole passel of brats to raise. As it was . . .” and her lips formed a glowing smile of love and compassion that could encompass a whole county.

“As it was,” Nora said with a giggle, “you had twins in spite of Father.”

“Yes,” Mary Fenn chuckled, her eyes lit up with laughter, “I had twins. A boy for your father,” and her face was both dutiful and mischievous, “and a girl for me.”