The Long Twilight (29 page)

"None of your impertinence, now! Stand over there; I'll get to you presently." The small man turned his back to Nolan.

"Where can I find the man in charge?" Nolan asked. The man ignored him. He turned toward the boat; the little man shouted after him, but he went on.

At the pier, a harassed-looking fellow with a tight, office-pale face stared him up and down.

"In charge?" he echoed Nolan's inquiry. "Don't worry about it. Get back to your crew."

"I'm not a crew member," Nolan said patiently. "I'm—"

"Don't argue with me!" the man snapped, and motioned to a bigger man overseeing the maneuvers of the forklift. "Grotz; take his number." He turned away.

"All right, you, let's have that number," Grotz demanded tiredly.

"Number one," Nolan said.

"One what? One-ten?"

"If you say so."

"All right." Grotz jotted. "They were looking for you, one-ten. Better get busy now, before I dock you."

"I think I'll do just that," Nolan said, and left the pier.

II

Back at the house, he went directly to the study, switched on the callbox.

"Some kind of official snafu," he told Annette. "I'll have to place a call to Toehold and see what they know about it."

"Reed—that's so expensive . . ."

"Can't be helped. They seem to be too busy to talk to me." Nolan looked up the code for the Office of Colonial Affairs, punched it out.

"Reed," Annette said from the window. "They're putting up some kind of big tents on the lawn!"

"I know . . ." An operator came on the line; another minute passed before Nolan reached the OCA.

"Nolan, you say?" a harassed official voice said. "Oh, yes, I recall the name . . ."

Briefly, Nolan outlined the situation. "Someone's apparently got his coordinates confused," he finished. "If you'd put a call through on the IC band to whoever's in charge—"

"Just a minute, Nolan. What was that number of the boat again?"

Nolan told him.

"Mm. Just a moment . . . Ah, yes. I see that the vessel is chartered to the Union for Human Privileges. They're only semiofficial, of course—but they're a powerful organization."

"Not powerful enough to legally pitch camp on my land," Nolan said.

"Well—I think it's more than a camping trip, Mr. Nolan. The HPU intends to set up a permanent relocation facility for underprivileged persons displaced by overcrowding from the Welfare Center."

"On
my
claim?"

"Well, as to that, your claim isn't actually finalized, you realize. The five year residency requirement hasn't yet been fulfilled, of course—"

"Nonsense. That approach wouldn't hold up in court for five minutes!"

"Perhaps—but it might be some years before the case appeared on the agenda. Meanwhile—well, I'm afraid I can't offer much encouragement, Mr. Nolan. You'll just have to adjust."

"Reed!" Annette gasped. "There's a man with a power saw; he's cutting down one of the sycamores!"

As Nolan turned to the window a black-painted personnel car pulled to a stop outside. The hatches popped up. Four men, a stout woman, and a lath-thin youth stepped down. A moment later Nolan heard the front door open. A short, heavily-built man with bristly reddish hair strolled into the front hall, his retinue close behind him.

"Well, a fortunate find," a suety voice said. "The structure seems sound enough. We'll establish my administrative HQ here, I think. And you can make ready personal quarters for me as well; much as I'd prefer to share issue accommodations with our people, I'll need to remain close to affairs."

"I think there's ample room for all the staff here, Director Fraswell," another voice said, "if we make do with a room apiece—"

"Don't be afraid to share a little hardship with the men, Chester." The man called Fraswell cut off his subordinate's remark curtly. "I'll remind you—" He broke off abruptly as he caught sight of Nolan and Annette.

"Who's this?" the plump man barked. He had a mottled complexion and a wide, unsmiling mouth. He turned to the man beside him. "What's this fellow doing here, Chester?"

"Here, who're you?" A lean, bony man with a crooked face spoke sharply, coming forward from behind his chief.

"My name is Nolan—"

"Get his crew number." A third man spoke up.

"Here, fellow, what's your number?" the crooked-faced man said quickly.

"Who's the woman?" the plump man barked. "I made it clear there was to be no fraternization!"

"Get the woman's number," Chester said sharply.

"All right, crew and unit numbers," the man in the rear rank said, coming forward. "Let's see your wrists, both of you."

Nolan stepped in front of Annette. "We don't have numbers," he said. "We're not in your party. We live here. My name is Nolan—"

"Eh?" the plump man interjected in elaborate puzzlement. "
Live
here?"

"Live
here
?" his aid echoed.

"That's right. That's my dock you tied up to. This is my house. I—"

"Oh, yes." The plump man nodded, making a show of recalling a trivial datum. "You'd be the fellow, what's-his-name, ah, Nolan. Yes. I was told you'd established some sort of squatter's claim here."

"My claim is on file at Toehold, ten copies, notarized and fees paid. So I'd appreciate it if you'd load your property back aboard your boat and take another look at your charts. I don't know where you were headed, but I'm afraid this spot's taken."

The plump man's face went expressionless. He looked past Nolan's left ear.

"I've requisitioned this site for the resettlement of a quota of economically disadvantaged persons," he said solemnly. "We constitute the advance party, to make ready the facilities for the relocatees who're to follow. I trust we'll have your full cooperation in this good work."

"The facilities, as you call them, happen to be private property—"

"You'd prate of selfish interests with the welfare of hundreds at stake?" Fraswell barked.

Nolan looked at him. "Why here?" he asked levelly. "There are thousands of unoccupied islands available—"

"This one seems most easily adaptable for our purposes," Fraswell said flatly. "I estimate a thousand persons can be accommodated here quite nicely—"

"It's no different than any other island in the chain."

Fraswell looked surprised. "Nonsense. The cleared land along the shore is ideal for erection of the initial camp site; and I note various food plants are available to supplement issue rations."

A man in a clerical collar came into the room, rubbing his hands. "A stroke of luck, Director Fraswell," he cried. "I've found a supply of nonissue foodstuffs, including a well-stocker freezer—" He broke off as he saw Nolan and Annette.

"Yes, yes, Padre," Fraswell said. "I'll conduct an inventory and see to an equitable distribution of items found."

"Found—or stolen?" Nolan said.

"Whaaat?"

"Why can't these deserving cases of yours produce their own supplies? The land's fertile enough—"

The cleric stared. "Our people are not criminals, condemned to hard labor," he said indignantly. "They're merely disadvantaged. They have the same right to Nature's bounty as yourself—if not more!"

"Aren't you missing the distinction between Nature's bounty and the product of human effort? There's an ample supply of Nature on the next island. You have plenty of labor available. If you take virgin land, in a year you can harvest your own crop."

"You expect me to subject these unfortunate people to unnecessary hardships, merely out of your personal selfishness?" Fraswell snorted.

"I cleared land; they can start off the same way I did—"

"My instructions are to establish my group at a certain standard; the more quickly that standard is reached—"

"The better you'll look back at HQ, eh?"

A woman had followed the priest into the room. She was thick-necked, red-faced, with grimly frizzed gray hair, dressed in drab-colored clothing and stout shoes. She looked indignantly at Nolan.

"The land and what's on it belongs to everyone," she snapped. "The idea, one man trying to hog it all! I guess you'd just sit here in luxury and let women and children starve!"

"I'd let them clear their own land and plant their own crops," Nolan said gently. "And build their own headquarters. This happens to be my family's house. I built it—and the power plant, and the sewage system—"

"Wonder where he got the money for all that," the woman wondered aloud. "No honest man has that kind of cash."

"Now, Milly," Fraswell said indulgently.

"I saved eighty credits per month for twenty-seven years, Madam," Nolan said. "From a very modest salary."

"So that makes you better than other folk, eh?" She pursued the point. "Can't live in barracks like everybody else—"

"Now, Miltrude," Fraswell said mildly, and turned back to Nolan.

"Mr., ah, Nolan, inasmuch as I'll be requiring information from you as to various matters, you may as well be assigned a cot here at HQ. I'm sure that now you've considered it you'll agree that the welfare of the community comes first, though modest personal sacrifices may be required of the individual, eh?"

"What about my wife?"

Fraswell looked grave. "I've ordered that there'll be no sexual fraternization for the present—"

"How do
we
know she's your wife?" Miltrude demanded.

Annette gasped and moved closer to Nolan; the crooked-faced man caught at her arm. Nolan stepped forward and knocked it away.

"Oh, violence, eh?" Fraswell nodded as if in satisfaction. "Call Glotz in." Chester hurried away. Annette clutched Nolan's hand.

"It's all right," he said. "Fraswell knows how far he can go." He looked meaningfully at the plump man. "This isn't an accident, is it?" he said. "I suppose you've had your eye on our island for some time; you were just waiting until we had it far enough along to make it worth stealing."

The big man from the boat came into the room, looking around. He saw Nolan.

"Hey, you—"

Fraswell held up a hand.

"Now, Nolan—there'll be no more outbursts, I trust. Now, as I say, you'll be assigned quarters here at HQ provided you can control yourself."

A lanky, teen-age lad with an unfortunate complexion sauntered in through the open door. He had a small, nearly ripe tomato in his hand, from which he had just taken a bite, another fruit in his hand.

"Look what I found, Pop," he said.

"Not now, Leston," Fraswell barked. He glared until the lad shrugged and departed. Then he looked alertly at Nolan.

"Tomatoes, eh?" he said thoughtfully. "I'd understood they couldn't be grown here on Kaka Nine."

"Just one experimental plant," Nolan said grimly. "Leston seems to have terminated the experiment."

Fraswell grunted. "Well, have I your word, Nolan?"

"I don't think you'd like the word I'm thinking of, Mr. Fraswell," Nolan said.

"Pah!" the Director snorted. "Very well, then." He eyed Nolan severely. "Don't say I didn't give you every consideration! Glotz— Chester—take them away and lock them up somewhere until they see reason."

III

In the dark of the tool shed where he had been confined, Nolan massaged his bruised knuckles and listened to the soft sigh of the wind, the lonely call of the native nightbirds—and to a stealthy, persistent rasping, barely audible, coming from beyond the locked door across the small room.

The sound ceased with a soft clank of metal. The knob turned; the door swung inward. Through the opening, a youthful face appeared.

"Tim! Nice work!" Nolan breathed.

"Hi, Dad!" The boy slipped through, closed the door. Nolan held out his wrists, linked by braided steel a quarter inch in diameter. Timmy clamped the bolt cutter on the cable, snipped through the strands.

"My ankle is cuffed to the cot," Nolan whispered.

Timmy found the cable, cut it deftly. A moment later, Nolan and his son were outside. All was silence, though there were still a few lights in the upper rooms of the house, and down by the dock side.

"Your mother?" Nolan said as they moved off.

"They've got her in the last tent in line—down by the pond. Dad, you know what they did? They used a net and took every fish out of the pond! All our panfish and bass fingerlings! They cooked 'em up and ate 'em."

"They can be replaced—in time."

"They sure smelled good," Tim admitted.

"You had anything to eat?"

"Sure. I raided the kitchen while that fat man with the funny lips was trying to figure out how to work the tricordeo. All he could get was the ref patterns. He was pretty mad."

They passed behind the ranked tents. A light burned in one.

"That's where the honchos stay," Tim said.

"No sentries?" Nolan asked.

"Nope. They talked about it and decided they didn't need any."

They were behind the last tent in line.

"About here," Tim said, indicating a spot six paces from the corner. "I saw Mom just before they opaqued it."

Nolan asked. "I'll take the knife," he said. "You move back and be ready to run for it if there's an alarm."

"Heck, Dad—"

"So you can try again, if they catch me."

"Oh. OK."

Nolan worked the knife point through the tough material. Air hissed out. He ripped upward. From inside the tent there was a sharp exclamation, followed by a muffled thud. He thrust the cut flap aside and plunged through.

Annette met him.

"I knew you'd come," she whispered, and kissed him swiftly. "I had to hit her over the head." She nodded toward a bulky figure slumped at her feet.

"Timmy's outside," Nolan whispered as he passed her through the breach in the fabric wall.

Already the taut plastic had begun to sag.

"Patching goo," the boy said, and handed Nolan a roll of wide tape. Quickly they sealed the opening.

"Where to first?" Tim asked.

"The house," Nolan said.

The back door was locked; Nolan keyed it open. Inside, he went silently to the den, selected two small handguns and a lightweight power rifle. In the kitchen, Annette had assembled a small heap of concentrates not yet looted from the stores. Tim came in from the tackle room with packs.