Jem

“Colonel Me

“All right, major, I’m coming. Stay loose, Dan. We’ve got catching up to do.”

He stared after her. In the old Rotsy days in college, before he had dropped out as it became clear that nobody would ever need to fight wars anymore, colonels had seemed quite different. It wasn’t just that she was female. And pretty, and young. Colonels had seemed to have more on their minds than Margie Me

A husky man in a sergeant’s uniform was speaking to him. “You Dr. Dalehouse? There’s mail for you at the library.”

“Oh, sure. Thanks.” Dalehouse took note of the fact that the sergeant’s expression was both surprised and a little amused, but he understood both reactions. “Nice kid, the colonel,” he said benevolently. He didn’t wait for an answer.

Most of the “mail” was from Michigan State and the Double-A-L, but one of the letters was a surprise. It was from Polly! So long ago, so far away, Dalehouse had almost forgotten he had ever had a wife. He could think of no reason why she would be writing him. Nearly everyone in the first two parties had also received mail, and the lines at the viewers were discouraging. Dalehouse put the collection of fiches in his pocket and headed for Kappelyushnikov’s private store of goodies in the hydrogen shed. The pilot had long since scrounged the things he deemed essential to the good life on Jem, and among them was his own microfiche viewer. With considerable curiosity, Dalehouse slid his ex-wife’s letter into position.

Dear Daniel: I don’t know if you knew that Grandfather Medway died last summer. When his will was probated it turned out he left the Grand Haven house to us. I guess he just never got around to changing the will after our divorce. It isn’t worth a whole lot, but of course it’s worth something — the lawyer says its assessed value is $43,500. I’m a little embarrassed about this. I have this strong feeling that says you’re going to say you’ll waive your share. Well, if that’s really what you want I’d appreciate it if you’d sign a release for me and have it notarized — is there anybody there who’s a notary? Otherwise, will you tell me what you’d like to do? We are all well, Daniel, in spite of everything. Detroit had another blackout last week, and the rioting and looting were pretty bad, and the new emergency surtaxes are going to be hard to handle. Not to mention the heatless days and the moratorium on daytime TV and the scary news about international politics. Most people seem to think it’s because of what’s going on up where you are — but that’s not your fault, is it? I remember you with a lot of affection, Daniel, and hope you do me. Pauline

Sitting on the edge of Kappelyushnikov’s personal cot, Dalehouse put the viewer down thoughtfully. The Grand Haven house. It was really only a bungalow, at least fifty years old and only sketchily modernized. But he and Polly had spent their honeymoon in it, in a snowy January with the wind whipping up over the bluff from Lake Michigan all day and all night. Of course she could have the house. Somebody in the camp could probably notarize a quitclaim, at least legally enough to satisfy some up-country surrogate court.

He stretched out on the cot, thinking about his ex-wife and her letter. News from Earth had not seemed either very interesting or very relevant, and Dalehouse had spent a lot more time thinking about the balloonists and the complications of life on Jem than about the brief paragraphs on the camp wall newspaper. But Polly made it sound serious. Riots, looting, blackouts, heatless days! He decided he would have to talk to some of the new people as soon as they quit bustling around and getting settled. That Bulgarian girl, for instance. She could fill him in on what was really happening back home, and, besides, she was a pretty nice person. He lay drowsily trying to decide whether it was better to do that now or to keep on enjoying the private space to think his own thoughts.

The decision was taken out of his hands. “Hello, Dr. Dalehouse,” came Ana Dimitrova’s voice. “Mr. Kappelyushnikov said you’d be here. But I must confess I was not sure he was in earnest.”

Dalehouse opened his eyes and sat up as Gappy and the girl stooped through the entrance to the shed. The pilot’s expression made it clear that, whatever he had told the girl, he had hoped there would be no one there, but he rallied and said, “Ah, Anyushka, you must learn to trust me. Here is old friend to see you, Da

Dalehouse accepted the formal handshake she offered. She had a nice smile, he observed. In fact, if she had not chosen to wear her hair pulled severely back and avoid the use of makeup, she could have been quite attractive.

“I was hoping to get a chance to talk to you, Miss Dimitrova.”

“Heavens, Ana, please. Old cellmates must not be formal with each other.”

“But on other hand,” said the pilot, “must not impose on dear Da

“Nice try, Gappy,” Dalehouse acknowledged. “No, I’m not hungry. How are things on Earth, Ana? I’ve just been hearing some bad stories.”

Her expression clouded. “If the stories you have heard have been of violence and disaster, then, yes, that is how things are. Just before we left the television news spoke of martial law in the city of Los Angeles, and also in several cities of Europe. And there was some sinking of an Australian naval vessel off the coast of Peru.”

“Dear God.”

“Oh, there is much more than that, Dr. Dalehouse — Dan. But we have brought all the recent newspapers, as well as tapes of television programs — it is really quite an extensive library, I understand. I believe there are more than twenty thousand books in microfiche, at Colonel Me

“Twenty thousand books?” Dalehouse shook his head. “You know, I never thought of her as a reader.”

Ana smiled and sat cross-legged on the floor before him. “Please, let us be comfortable. I too am sometimes astonished at Colonel Me

“As bad as that?”

“Worse,” growled Kappelyushnikov. “You see, Da

“That’s another thing,” said Da

“No reason to worry, dear Da

Nan was quicker than he. “That is good advice, Gappy,” she said, standing up. “I think I will take it for myself.”

“I will escort you,” rumbled Kappelyushnikov. “No, do not disturb self, Da

Ana sighed. “Gospodin Kappelyushnikov,” she scolded, “apart from the fact that I am tired and quite disoriented from all these new experiences, you and I have barely met. I do hope that we will be friends. Please don’t make that difficult by behaving like some Cossack with a peasant maid.”

Gappy looked abashed, then angry. Then he gri