"You know enough not to touch the spare control rod while I'm driving the car, don't you?" he said to Bleys.
"Of course," said Bleys.
Dahno laughed.
Below them the under-fans roared to life. The hovercar lifted, spun about, and began to go back between the trees toward the highway, along the dirt road from the farm.
Dahno, Bleys saw, as they left the farm behind, was a fast and excellent driver. By the time he hit the main highway and had found a strip for hovercars where he could let the vehicle out at full speed, the meter on the dashboard showed that they were doing over two hundred fifty kilometers an hour.
Bleys had assumed that they were just going to the local
store. But Dahno took him clear into Ecumeny. Once there they shopped in some of the larger stores for various kinds of work clothes, jackets, and boots for Bleys—and one formal suit of soft, black material like that Dahno himself was currently wearing.
"That'll be for Sundays," Dahno said, speaking of the suit. "It won't hurt if you outshine Uncle Henry and his two boys a little bit. Not too much—but a little bit. And that suit should do just that, as well, to anything the others at the church'll be wearing."
They stopped for a snack at a restaurant, and Bleys found himself enjoying the day. Dahno was a different person, now. He was a warm and friendly companion; and he poured out information about Ecumeny, about Henry's church, and a hundred other things that would be useful to Bleys. It was clear he knew that it was information Bleys would need; and therefore it was information he supplied.
By the time they had eaten, it had reached late afternoon. They left the restaurant, found the hovercar and headed back out toward the farm. As they went, Bleys' spirits sank in spite of himself.
Today had been the sort of day he would like to have always. Comfort, pleasant company—and an unending spate of interesting information to be garnered up and stored away for future use in the back of his mind. Now he was going back to where the rooms were cold at night, the bed was hard under the stuffed mattress, and with the next daybreak there would be household duties to do; but there would be no conversation of any worth.
Dahno was no longer talking, finally, and Bleys did not feel like talking himself. He stared out the windshield ahead; and the silence lasted between them until they drove at last up the dirt road to the farmyard.
"Don't look so down, Little Brother," said Dahno. The half-mocking note that had been in his voice when he first spoke to Bleys was back there again. "There'll be other days and I'll make other visits; and we'll go into town again. Just do what you have to, here, and learn as much as you can."
He reached across and opened the door on Bleys' side.
Slowly Bleys got out, reached back in for his purchases, and looked back at him for a moment through the open door. "I had a good time," said Bleys.
"Good," answered Dahno; and there seemed to be a note of real approval in his voice.
Then he shut the door in Bleys' face, and the hovercar rose again on its fans, spun about and disappeared away down the road from the farm to the highway. Bleys found himself standing alone in the farmyard with his hands full of boxes and bundles that were the fruit of their shopping.
He turned numbly to the house to take these things inside. But before he could reach it Will came out rather hurriedly, stopped very briefly to close the door softly behind him and then came swiftly down the steps.
Will would have dashed on past Bleys without even looking at him, if Bleys had not stopped him. The younger boy's face was white, so that here and mere a freckle that Bleys had not noticed before stood out against the paleness of his skin.
"What is it?" asked Bleys, catching Will's arm with one hand and holding him.
"One of the goats got its head caught between a fallen fence bar and the bar below, and strangled," said Will. He wrenched himself loose from the grip of Bleys' hand and left at a run, disappearing around a comer of the barn.
Wondering, Bleys went up the steps and in through the door.
Henry was seated in a chair half-turned from the table, and standing before him was Joshua. Joshua's face was not pale but his expression was solemn and still.
"—You didn't see it die then," Henry was asking Joshua.
"No, Father."
"That means you didn't see the rail come loose and fall down to trap her?" "No, Father."
"One of our best milk goats." There was a regretful note in Henry's voice; and he seemed to be speaking more to himself than to Joshua. He looked up at his son.
"Well," he said, "you won't let a loose rail like that happen again, will you?"
"No, Father."
"Yes. Well, see me after dinner then." Henry got to his feet. "You can go back to work, son."
Joshua turned and went out the door without looking at Bleys. Henry caught sight of him and beckoned him over to the table where, Bleys saw, there were a number of slips of paper spread out.
"Bleys," said Henry, then interrupted himself, "—take those things your brother must have bought you into your own room and leave them on your bunk. Then come back here. I've got some questions I want to ask you."
Bleys did as he was told. When he got back, Henry was seated in the chair again, apparently sorting the slips which he had laid out in rows stretching away from him, like the cards in a game of solitaire.
"Bleys," said Henry, looking up as Bleys appeared, "these are the records each day for each milk goat as to how much milk they gave. They vary in amount, but also in quality. Is there anything in the mathematics you say you learned in school that would help me figure out which are the most profitable of my milk goats?"
Bleys looked at the slips. Each was simply a small piece of paper with a date, a name—which he assumed was the name of the goat—and a figure that must be for the amount of milk mat animal had produced.
"Are those figures volume or weight, Uncle?" he asked.
"Volume—oh, I see," said Henry, "yes, they're the number of liters and part-liters we got from each one. Why?"
"I just thought ..." Bleys hesitated. He was raking through the back of his mind, putting together several things picked up from different people at different places and different times. "If you weighed the milk they gave each morning, instead of just measuring it, you might be able to get an idea of how rich it was. I think the richer the milk the more fat mere is in it. So kilogram for kilogram the goat giving richer milk should be worth more."
He hesitated again.
"I think that's right, Uncle," he said, "I can't be sure.
Maybe there're other ways, other things that have to do with whether it makes more cheese or not—the milk I mean."
"Hmmm ..." said Henry, "it's a possibility. I can go to the district library and ask them if weight is a measure of whether goat milk makes better cheese, or not. But there's still the problem of comparing goat to goat."
"You could make a spreadsheet for that, Uncle," said Bleys, a little more boldly. One of the men who had lived with his mother for a while had shown him how to make a spreadsheet. But it had been done on a screen, working with a keyboard.
Still, possibly the same thing could be done simply with a pencil and a piece of paper.
"You put all the names of the goats across the top of a sheet," said Bleys, "then you put the dates down in the left-hand column and list the amount of milk each day under each goat that gives it, so that at the end of the year you can get totals. Maybe even just the totals could tell you something."
"Yes," said Henry, still looking at the slips of paper, "I can ask about that, too. You may have been very helpful, Bleys. I thank the Lord for your trying, however."
"I thank the Lord you have found me useful, Uncle," said Bleys. Henry looked at him; and Bleys found himself on the receiving end of one of the wintry smiles. But it only lasted for a few seconds.
"Well, that's enough of that," Henry said, abruptly. "Will cleaned up after lunch; but there must be a good deal of other work aroun
d the house that wasn't done because you left so early and just now got back. You should get busy at it right now."
"Yes, Uncle," said Bleys and went off toward the closet where the cleaning tools were kept.
"Oh, you can take time out to unpack those packages you brought in first, if you want," said Henry.
Bleys unpacked the packages, put the clothes away in the trunk underneath his bunk and stood, unsure of what to do with the boxes; finally he took them out and put them in one of the sheds where extra bits and pieces of equipment and worn-out items were kept. Few things were thrown away around the farm, he had noticed.
He had no idea if the boxes would be useful; but he did not want to risk disposing of them. Henry had gone, or else he would have asked his uncle what to do with them. He went back in and gave the house a cleaning. Since it was scrubbed every day, it hardly needed even that much attention. Meanwhile, he had started the evening stew in the pot over the fire; and in due time everyone came in and ate.
Henry announced the end of the meal as usual by putting down his eating utensils and standing up.
"Will," he said, "since you cleaned up after lunch you're free now. You can go to bed early or do anything you want until regular bed hour; and then you better be in your bunk. Bleys, you clean up everything and then it'll be bedtime for you. Joshua, in my room after your prayers."
Bleys noticed that as he went through the doorway of his room Henry lifted from a nail in the wall a long strap and took it in with him.
Bleys found the action puzzling. He could think of no reason for Henry to be bundling up things in his own room. As far as he knew, none of them were going on a trip, and it was the kind of strap that would reinforce a suitcase or other piece of luggage. However, there was no obvious answer. He put it out of his mind for the present, going to work at the business of cleaning up after the dinner and washing the dishes.
It did not take long to do the washing and clean up, now that he was experienced at it. He finished up and went to the bedroom he shared with the other two boys.
Will was still on his knees when Bleys came in, which meant he had been praying for an unusually long time. But at Bleys' entrance he scrambled to his feet, climbed up into his upper bunk, undressed hurriedly and wrapped himself in.his blanket, turning his face to the wall. He had not looked at Bleys since Bleys entered.
Further puzzled by this, but only slightly, Bleys went about his own business of undressing and getting into his own bunk. After the first few days of being awakened at dawn, he had adjusted to the idea of going to sleep early to make sure he got a full night's rest. It was only when he was pulling the covers up over him, that he looked across the room at the upper bunk, clinging to the outside log wall, where Will lay; and saw that the other boy had his head completely buried under his pillow.
Bleys had learned when he was a good deal younger not to chase after mysteries, but to lie in wait for them, adding up evidence until at last the mystery revealed itself. He told himself that this odd behavior of Will's would explain itself in the long run, turned over in his bunk so that he faced the wall to Henry's bedroom and dug his own head comfortably into his pillow.
It took him a few moments to doze off. He was vaguely aware of the sound of voices from Henry's room, but they were too low-pitched for him to understand anything. He was just starting to drift off when the voices ceased. There was a long moment of silence in which he hovered on the very edge of sleep, and then he heard an odd sound that he could not identify. There was a pause, then it was repeated. Then another pause and another repetition . . . and then he began to hear Joshua's voice ...
Horror flooded through him, leaving him cold as an icicle. Suddenly, clearly and unmistakably, he identified the sounds from Joshua as sounds of pain; and the rhythmic repetition of the first sound he had heard he now recognized as the kind of sound made by a leather strap hitting a human body.
To someone like himself, born to an Exotic who, whatever else she was, was incapable of violence, raised completely apart from anything physically violent except in an occasional interaction with children his own age, the idea of a man beating a boy was frightening beyond conception.
He threw a quick glance over his shoulder back up at Will. The younger boy not only had his pillow over his head but both hands on top of that holding it down. At the sight, Bleys felt Will's reaction become his reaction. He huddled in his bunk pulling his own pillow over his head to block his ears, lying there and shivering. But the sound still came through.
Try as he would, he could not shut out of his imagination the image of Joshua being beaten by his father. A terrible fear possessed him, a fear so great that he felt hollowed out inside. Never could he endure such a thing himself. Never!
The sound ceased at last; or at least the sound of the strap ceased and Joshua's crying soon dropped below a level that could be heard through the wall. Bleys lay, trembling in his fear, but filled at the same time with a sort of terrible curiosity—the same kind of curiosity someone might feel to look upon the place and machine of his own execution.
He thought of Joshua, and his mind was torn, like an open wound. At all costs, he thought, he must go to the older boy. Now.
Shakily, he got up from the bunk. The air was already cold; and automatically he put his jacket on over his pajamas. Will was still huddled against the wall with the pillow over his head, motionless.
Bleys went out into the main room, and almost bumped into Henry. A Henry carrying no strap, and looking no different than at any other time.
Bleys was not thinking. He simply headed toward the entrance to Henry's bedroom. The man intercepted and caught him.
"Bleys!" said Henry, sharply, catching him by one shoulder. "What are you doing up? Where are you going?"
"Joshua," said Bleys, still with his eyes fastened on the doorway, "I've got to go to Joshua."
He tried to pull away, but Henry put his other hand on the shoulder that he was not holding already, and stopped him.
"No!" he said. "You shall not!"
His voice softened, for the first time since Bleys had heard
it.
"Joshua won't want to see you now," he said. "Go back to bed."
Bleys looked up at the man. It was the same stern face. There was no change in it. Only the face of a man, not of a monster.
"You—" Bleys could not find the words he wanted to say what was in him.
"I am God's instrument, nothing more," said Henry. But there was still that unusual softness in his voice. He turned Bleys around with his hands and his superior strength, so that against his will, Bleys found himself facing in the opposite direction.
"Go to bed now. You'll learn, boy. You'll leam."
Numbly, Bleys stumbled back to the door of his room, into it and into his bunk. He covered himself completely with the covers, as if he would shut out everything, and waited. After a while, there in the darkness, sleep finally came.
CHAPTER7
The next morning was no different from any of the other mornings Bleys had seen in that house; except that he was drugged with sleep. Will literally had to pull him out of his bunk.
When he was able to stand up and start dressing, he saw that Joshua was already dressed and leaving, and Will was right behind him. He hurried to finish getting into his clothes and went into the main rooms to begin bringing the embers of last night's fire to a fresh blaze that would heat the coffee—as they did indeed call the dark liquid he had been given on his first meal here.
He shivered in the sweater Joshua had given him as the little flames came alive among the tinder he had carefully laid on the still glowing coals. The fire grew as he added more fuel to it; until its strong flames licked at the blackened bottom of the coffeepot.
He was all alone in the house. Henry, Joshua and Will had gone outside to their pre-breakfast chores. He continued making breakfast, starting the water boiling for the porridge
like cereal that they made from a powdered form of the local, oa
t-like grain. Like the coffee, its taste at first had been strange in his mouth; but now hunger and familiarity were overcoming that difference. He found he was as eager for it this morning as his two cousins and his uncle.
After about twenty minutes they were all back inside and by that time both coffee and porridge were ready for them. He served it on the table and they all ate, in the silence of early morning when there was nothing much to be said and not much point in saying anything anyway. Plainly, it was a customary silence. Bleys s(tole glances at Joshua, but the other boy appeared no different than he had the day before. This thing that had happened to him seemed not to have touched or changed him in any way.
"Joshua," said Henry, at last, pushing his empty bowl away from him, "you'll see that that fence is fixed, first thing."
"I already have, Father," said Joshua, finishing his last spoonful of porridge. "I did it late yesterday afternoon."
"Good," said Henry. He looked at Bleys. "Bleys, I'm going to the store this morning; and as soon as you clean up here I want you to come with me. The storekeeper needs to get to know you; and you should get to know him, in case I have to send you alone for supplies."
He stood up; and at that signal that breakfast was over they all stood up with him, pushing their chairs back into place at the table.
Henry and the boys went out. Bleys busied himself collecting the porridge bowls and cups and washing them. Practice had begun to make him swift at this, also. It was not long before he was through and outside, looking for Henry.
Henry was in the yard with the goat team harnessed beside him. As Bleys came out, he was examining the feet of the goats he had harnessed to the cart. At Bleys' approach, he looked up and spoke.
"It did them no good, that traveling on surfaced roads," he said, "remember that, boy. These creatures don't take having metal shoes fixed to their hooves, the way horses do, back on Old Earth. Now, in the cart with you. We'll get going."