Island in the Sea of Time

"Doesn't seem to be much of anything there, Jack," Cofflin said.

Jack Elkins looked up. "Hi, Chief! No, it's samples. Hardcase here-that's as close as I can get to pronouncing his name-"

"At least it wasn't King Phillip," Martha muttered.

"-brings the samples here, we show him what we've got, we agree on quantities, and he brings the actual stuff to Providence Base over on the mainland and picks up his merchandise. Easier that way. I think he's collecting from a lot of his friends and relatives, sort of an entrepreneur."

Cofflin blinked, surprised. "Mighty fancy deal, since you can't talk to him," he said.

"Oh, he's picked up a little English," Elkins said.

The Indian looked up from sorting his goods. "Hardcase very good talk English," he said with an indescribable accent, then inclined his head in an odd gesture and returned to his work.

"And you can do a lot by holding up fingers and such."

"Ayup," Cofflin replied. Well, they may not have a market economy, but they understand swapping. "Surprised they can spare the time to find all this stuff."

Martha nodded. "Lot of underemployment in most hunter-gatherer economies," she said. "No point in working to get a surplus, because there's nothing you can do with it. We provide an outlet, and the trade will build up fast. Provided there are any Indians left around here to do business with."

Jared winced. Meanwhile Elkins was demonstrating a metal gadget about the size of his hand. He crumbled tinder into a shallow pan. Above that was a steel wheel with a roughened surface; the islander wound up a spring inside it with a spa

The Indian's eyes flared interest as he took the fire-starter up, turning it over and over in his fingers. Cofflin wasn't surprised; he'd seen Martha's Scouts demonstrate using a bow-type fire drill. Fifteen minutes to start a fire, if you were lucky-and everything was bone-dry. Evidently the local Indians hadn't even gotten that far. They were still using the older method of twirling a stick between the palms, and that could take hours. This would be a real improvement."

Of course, once they're used to it, they'll be dependent on it, he thought uneasily. The same went for woven cloth and metal tools, even more so. Martha nodded when he voiced the thought aloud, and replied:

"No telling. No telling how that virus epidemic disrupted their society either… Nothing much we can do, dear."

One of the Indian women had looked up with a startled expression at Martha's voice, and she put her hand to her mouth in a gesture of surprise. Cofflin followed her gaze; his daughter was in a stroller in front of his wife, sleeping peacefully. The Indian woman craned her head to see around the hood of the baby carriage, then came over to look down. She unslung her own-well, papoose, I suppose-and held it out to Martha, smiling broadly and speaking in her own fast-rising, slow-falling language. Martha smiled back at her and picked up young Marian; the women held their babies side by side, the Indian fascinated by the pink skin and the cloth diaper with its safety pin. She exclaimed and laughed when the American demonstrated that, bringing her own around to nurse as she did so. The Cofflins' child yawned, waved pudgy hands, and went back to sleep.

Well, only fair, Jared thought, smiling. She didn't do much sleeping last night, and so neither did we.

The man's voice rose behind them. Then he was at the Indian woman's side, pulling her away with a swift hard tug on one braid. She cried out sharply in pain, then stood half-crouched. He cuffed her across the side of the head, then raised the hand again.

"Hold it, dickweed!"

The guard who'd been sitting unobtrusively on a stool in one corner pushed between them. There was a bolt locked into the firing groove of her crossbow, the edges of the three-bladed head glinting cruel and sharp in the sunlight that came through the window behind her. The Indian froze. One hand moved very slightly toward the knife at his belt.

"Back off, shithead!" the guard barked. "Now. I mean it, fucker. Back off or your liver does the shish kebab thing."

Sweat beaded the Indian's forehead; he knew exactly what one of those crossbows could do. The Nantucketers had demonstrated, and also refused to sell them at any price. Behind him the clerk brought another out from under the counter and laid it on the wood with a small deliberate clatter. The Indian drew himself up, turned, and walked back to his bundles of goods, the woman with the papoose following meekly behind him. The bargaining resumed, slow and stiff.

Cofflin let out a breath he hadn't been conscious of holding. Martha put the baby back in the carriage, tucking her in; there was a small protesting murmur.

"You have much trouble like that?" Cofflin asked the guard. Amelia Seckel, his mind prompted him. As far as he knew, she was working for Seahaven's clerical department. "Ms. Seckel," he added.

"Nope, not often, Chief. Just, you know, sometimes with these guys you have to use, like, visual aids to get things across." She patted her crossbow. "It's the universal language. That's why Ron has one of us out here when they're in to trade, me or John or Fred Carter. Hey, cute kid! You want I should watch her while you're in there? Bit noisy on the workshop floor for a youngster."

"Thanks, Ms. Seckel, I'll take you up on that," he said. "Culture clash," he murmured to his wife as they turned for the main entrance.

Martha nodded, her mouth still drawn thin. "Well, that settles Angelica's notion, I think."

"What-oh."

Angelica Brand had been wondering aloud at Council meetings if they couldn't recruit some temporary harvest labor on the mainland. It would be extremely convenient; with enough seed and to spare, they were clearing more land and planting a lot more this year, and every other project was crying out for hands as well. Putting everything on hold while they got in the harvest was an absolute pain in the fundament-and the various crops meant that harvest stretched through most of the summer and on into fall.

On the other hand, the locals didn't look like being the best imaginable braceros, and anyway, it was a bad precedent to start relying on foreign labor, he supposed.

"I see what you mean."

Martha nodded again, a gesture sharp enough to cut hide. "Well, there's always the Sir Charles Napier method of cultural reconciliation," she said. At his raised eyebrow, she went on: "He was a British governor in India, back- you know what I mean-in the 1830s. A delegation of Brahmins came to him and complained that he was oppressing them by forbidding suttee, widow-burning, that it was part of their religion."

"What did he tell them?" Cofflin asked, curious.

"Roughly…" She assumed a British accent; it wasn't too different from her native academic New England:

"It is your custom to burn widows. We also have a custom. When men burn a woman alive, we take those men, tie a rope around their necks, and hang them. Build your funeral pyre; beside it my carpenters will build a gallows. You may follow your national custom. And then we will follow ours."

A few people looked up as Cofflin guffawed. "There's British understatement for you," he said. "We're not really in a position to do much crusading, though."

"No, but we'll do what we can where we can." She swallowed. "That's one thing I became quite determined about during the… episode… down south."