The Survivors (7 page)

“Maybe we won’t have to use Schroeder’s method,” he said. “We’ll see if the other works—I’ll give it the first try.”

This he was not to do. Less than an hour later one of the men who helped dry the meat and carry it to the caves returned to report the camp stricken by a strange, sudden malady that was killing a hundred a day. Dr. Chiara, who had collapsed while driving himself on to care for the sick, was sure it was a deficiency disease. Anders was down with it, helpless, and Bemmon had assumed command; setting up daily work quotas for those still on their feet and refusing to heed Chiara’s requests concerning treatment of the disease.

Lake made the trip back to the caves in a fraction of the length of time it had taken him to reach the plateau, walking until he was ready to drop and then pausing only for an hour or two of rest. He spotted Barber’s camp when coming down off the plateau and he swung to one side, to tell Barber to have a supply of the herbs sent to the caves at once. He reached the caves, to find half the camp in bed and the other half dragging about listlessly at the tasks given them by Bemmon. Anders was in grave condition, too weak to rise, and Dr. Chiara was dying.

He squatted down beside Chiara’s pallet and knew there could be no hope for him. On Chiara’s pale face and in his eyes was the shadow of his own foreknowledge.

“I finally saw what it was”—Chiara’s words were very low, hard to hear—“and I told Bemmon what to do. It’s a deficiency disease, complicated by the gravity into some form not known on Earth.”

He stopped to rest and Lake waited.

“Beri-beri—pellagra—we had deficiency diseases on Earth. But none so fatal—so quickly. I told Bemmon—ration out fruits and vegetables to everybody. Hurry—or it will be too late.”

Again he stopped to rest, the last vestige of color gone from his face.

“And you?” Lake asked, already knowing the answer.

“For me—too late. I kept thinking of viruses—should have seen the obvious sooner. Just like—”

His lips turned up a little at the corners and the Chiara of the dead past smiled for the last time at Lake.

“Just like a damned fool intern … ”

That was all, then, and the chamber was suddenly very quiet. Lake stood up to leave, and to speak the words that Chiara could never hear:

“We’re going to need you and miss you—Doctor.”

*

*

*

He found Bemmon in the food storage cavern, supervising the work of two teen-age boys with critical officiousness although he was making no move to help them. At sight of Lake he hurried forward, the ingratiating smile sliding across his face.

“I’m glad you’re back,” he said. “I had to take charge when Anders got sick and he had everything in such a mess. I’ve been working day and night to undo his mistakes and get the work properly under way again.”

Lake looked at the two thin-faced boys who had taken advantage of the opportunity to rest. They leaned wearily against the heavy pole table Bemmon had had them moving, their eyes already dull with incipient sickness and watching him in mute appeal.

“Have you obeyed Chiara’s order?” he asked.

“Ah—no,” Bemmon said. “I felt it best to ignore it.”

“Why?” Lake asked.

“It would be a senseless waste of our small supply of fruit and vegetable foods to give them to people already dying. I’m afraid”—the ingratiating smile came again—“we’ve been letting him exercise an authority he isn’t entitled to. He’s really hardly more than a medical student and his diagnoses are only guesses.”

“He’s dead,” Lake said flatly. “His last order will be carried out.”

He looked from the two tired boys to Bemmon, contrasting their thinness and weariness with the way Bemmon’s paunch still bulged outward and his jowls still sagged with their load of fat.

“I’ll send West down to take over in here,” he said to Bemmon. “You come with me. You and I seem to be the only two in good health here and there’s plenty of work for us to do.”

The fawning expression vanished from Bemmon’s face. “I see,” he said. “Now that I’ve turned Anders’s muddle into organization, you’ll hand my authority over to another of your favorites and demote me back to common labor?”

“Setting up work quotas for sick and dying people isn’t organization,” Lake said. He spoke to the two boys, “Both of you go lie down. West will find someone else.” Then to Bemmon,

“Come with me. We’re both going to work at common labor.”

They passed by the cave where Bemmon slept. Two boys were just going into it, carrying armloads of dried grass to make a mattress under Bemmon’s pallet. They moved slowly, heavily. Like the two boys in the food storage cave they were dull-eyed with the beginning of the sickness.

Lake stopped, to look more closely into the cave and verify something else he thought he had seen: Bemmon had discarded the prowler skins on his bed and in their place were soft wool blankets; perhaps the only unpatched blankets the Rejects possessed.

“Go back to your caves,” he said to the boys. “Go to bed and rest.”

He looked at Bemmon. Bemmon’s eyes flinched away, refusing to meet his.

“What few blankets we have are for babies and the very youngest children,” he said. His tone was coldly unemotional but he could not keep his fists from clenching at his sides. “You will return them at once and sleep on animal skins, as all the men and women do. And if you want grass for a mattress you will carry it yourself, as even the young children do.”

Bemmon made no answer, his face a sullen red and hatred shining in the eyes that still refused to meet Lake’s.

“Gather up the blankets and return them,” Lake said. “Then come on up to the central cave. We have a lot of work to do.”

He could feel Bemmon’s gaze burning against his back as he turned away and he thought of what John Prentiss had once said:

“I know he’s no good but he never has guts enough to go quite far enough to give me an excuse to whittle him down.”

*

*

*

Barber’s men arrived the next day, burdened with dried herbs. These were given to the seriously ill as a supplement to the ration of fruit and vegetable foods and were given, alone, to those not yet sick. Then came the period of waiting; of hoping that it was all not too late and too little.

A noticeable change for the better began on the second day. A week went by and the sick were slowly, steadily, improving. The not-quite-sick were already back to normal health. There was no longer any doubt: the Ragnarok herbs would prevent a recurrence of the disease. It was, Lake thought, all so simple once you knew what to do. Hundreds had died, Chiara among them, because they did not have a common herb that grew at a slightly higher elevation. Not a single life would have been lost if he could have looked a week into the future and had the herbs found and taken to the caves that much sooner.

But the disease had given no warning of its coming. Nothing, on Ragnarok, ever seemed to give warning before it killed.

Another week went by and hunters began to trickle in, gaunt and exhausted, to report all the game going north up the plateau and not a single creature left below. They were the ones who had tried and failed to withstand the high elevation of the plateau. Only two out of three hunters returned among those who had challenged the plateau. They had tried, all of them, to the best of their ability and the limits of their endurance.

The blue star was by then a small sun and the yellow sun blazed hotter each day. Grass began to brown and wither on the hillsides as the days went by and Lake knew summer was very near. The last hunting party, but for Craig’s and Schroeder’s, returned. They had very little meat but they brought with them a large quantity of something almost as important: salt. They had found a deposit of it in an almost inaccessible region of cliffs and canyons. “Not even the woods goats can get in there,” Stevens, the leader of that party, said. “If the salt was in an accessible place there would have been a salt lick there and goats in plenty.”

“If woods goats care for salt the way Earth animals do,” Lake said. “When fall comes we’ll make a salt lick and find out.”

Two more weeks went by and Craig and Schroeder returned with their surviving hunters. They had followed the game to the eastern end of the snow-capped mountain range but there the migration had drawn away from them, traveling farther each day than they could travel. They had almost waited too long before turning back: the grass at the southern end of the plateau was turning brown and the streams were dry. They got enough water, barely, by digging seep holes in the dry stream beds.

Lake’s method of stalking unicorns under the concealment of a woods goat skin had worked well only a few times. After that the unicorns learned to swing downwind from any lone woods goats. If they smelled a man inside the goat skin they charged him and killed him. With the return of the last hunters everything was done that could be done in preparation for summer. Inventory was taken of the total food supply and it was even smaller than Lake had feared. It would be far from enough to last until fall brought the game back from the north and he instituted rationing much stricter than before.

The heat increased as the yellow sun blazed hotter and the blue sun grew larger. Each day the vegetation was browner and a morning came when Lake could see no green wherever he looked.

They numbered eleven hundred and ten that morning, out of what had so recently been four thousand. Eleven hundred and ten thin, hungry scarecrows who, already, could do nothing more than sit listlessly in the shade and wait for the hell that was coming. He thought of the food supply, so pitifully small, and of the months it would have to last. He saw the grim, inescapable future for his charges: famine. There was nothing he could do to prevent it. He could only try to forestall complete starvation for all by cutting rations to the bare existence level.

And that would be bare existence for the stronger of them. The weaker were already doomed.

He had them all gather in front of the caves that evening when the terrace was in the shadow of the ridge. He stood before them and spoke to them:

“All of you know we have only a fraction of the amount of food we need to see us through the summer. Tomorrow the present ration will be cut in half. That will be enough to live on, just barely. If that cut isn’t made the food supply will be gone long before fall and all of us will die.

“If anyone has any food of any kind it must be turned in to be added to the total supply. Some of you may have thought of your children and kept a little hidden for them. I can understand why you should do that—but you must turn it in. There may possibly be some who hid food for themselves, personally. If so, I give them the first and last warning: turn it in tonight. If any hidden cache of food is found in the future the one who hid it will be regarded as a traitor and murderer.

“All of you, but for the children, will go into the chamber next to the one where the food is stored. Each of you—and there will be no exceptions regardless of how innocent you are—will carry a bulkily folded cloth or garment. Each of you will go into the chamber alone. There will be no one in there. You will leave the food you have folded in the cloth, if any, and go out the other exit and back to your caves. No one will ever know whether the cloth you carried contained food or not. No one will ever ask.

“Our survival on this world, if we are to survive at all, can be only by working and sacrificing together. There can be no selfishness. What any of you may have done in the past is of no consequence. Tonight we start anew. From now on we trust one another without reserve.

“There will be one punishment for any who betray that trust—death.”

*

*

*

Anders set the example by being the first to carry a folded cloth into the cave. Of them all, Lake heard later, only Bemmon voiced any real indignation; warning all those in his section of the line that the order was the first step toward outright dictatorship and a police-and-spy system in which Lake and the other leaders would deprive them all of freedom and dignity. Bemmon insisted upon exhibiting the emptiness of the cloth he carried; an action that, had he succeeded in persuading the others to follow his example, would have mercilessly exposed those who did have food they were returning.

But no one followed Bemmon’s example and no harm was done. As for Lake, he had worries on his mind of much greater importance than Bemmon’s enmity.

*

*

*

The weeks dragged by, each longer and more terrible to endure than the one before it as the heat steadily increased. Summer solstice arrived and there was no escape from the heat, even in the deepest caves. There was no night; the blue sun rose in the east as the yellow sun set in the west. There was no life of any kind to be seen, not even an insect. Nothing moved across the burned land but the swirling dust devils and shimmering, distorted mirages. The death rate increased with appalling swiftness. The small supply of canned and dehydrated milk, fruit and vegetables was reserved exclusively for the children but it was far insufficient in quantity. The Ragnarok herbs prevented any recurrence of the fatal deficiency disease but they provided virtually no nourishment to help fight the heat and gravity. The stronger of the children lay wasted and listless on their pallets while the ones not so strong died each day.