Jem

The medic said, “Well, it’s just that a couple of the ova turned out to be prefertilized. They’re fine. They’ll keep in the deep-freeze indefinitely, but whenever you want them reimplanted we won’t have to go to the bother of getting them started.”

“Hum.” Margie scratched thoughtfully. “I’m almost sorry you took the sample; we could start having kids any time now. Who were they? Come on, Cheech, none of this medical confidentiality; I’m your commanding officer.”

“Well, one was Ana Dimitrova.”

“No shit! Whose kid?”

“You can ask her if you want to. I didn’t.”

Marge shook her head wonderingly. “I would have guessed her about last,” she said. “And the other one? Now, wait a minute! It couldn’t be me! The IUD—”

“The IUD doesn’t keep an ovum from getting fertilized; it only prevents it taking root and developing.”

Margie sat back and stared at the doctor. “I’ll be damned,” she said.

Nguyen Dao Tree was ten minutes late for his 0200 appointment, and he arrived sleepy-eyed and irritable. “This twenty-four hour day of yours is not comfortable, Margie,” he complained.

“You’re not the one to bitch, Guy. I took the midnight-to-eight myself. If you’d spend your sleeping time sleeping instead of tomcatting around with every woman in the camp—”

“As to that, Marjorie,” he said, “I much preferred when you and I slept on the same schedule.”

“Yeah. Well. Maybe we’ll have to do something about that, Guy, but right now we’re late for inspection.” She swallowed the last of her coffee, now cold but still delicious, and led the way.

Complaints aside, the three-shift day was working well. On the plus side, the perimeter was well guarded, the hectarage under cultivation was growing by nearly two thousand square meters every day, the each-one-teach-one training schedule Santangelo had set up so that the skills of the community were shared among several persons (what if Chiche Arkashvili died? or their one and only surviving agronomist?) was on track. On the minus, aerial surveillance showed large numbers of Krinpit roaming around the woods, coffee was not the only food item to be ru

Margie allowed one hour of each day for her inspection, and she used every minute of it. No white-glove chickenshit. The inspection was rough and dirty; if everybody was doing their job and the jobs were being done, that was it. Her Bastogne grandfather had not cared if the troops were shaved, only if they could fight. And Margie had learned the skills appropriate to a fortress under siege.

That was what they were. No one had attacked the perimeter, not even a wandering Krinpit. But they were isolated in a world of enemies. From spy satellites and balloonists, from the breaking of codes and from what little could be gleaned from their infrequent radio contacts, above all from the contents of the Indonesian’s pouch, Margie had formed a pretty good idea of what the Greasies were up to. Or had been up to a few weeks earlier. They had occupied the Peeps’ camp; they had requisitioned quantities and varieties of perso

Not that she had done badly. But for Marge Me

For that matter, she thought, looking at Guy Tree as he chattered away about contingency plans in the event of a major Krinpit attack, who was the father of her own sort-of child? Dalehouse? Tree? That son of a bitch Sweggert, with his cute little tricks? They were the most likely candidates, but which?

In other times, one part of Marge Me

“Are there any archers in the camp?” she asked.

Tree stopped in the middle of explaining his proposal for arming a couple of canoes. “What?”

“People who know how to shoot a bow and arrow, dammit. We must have some. I’d like to organize a contest, part of the sports program.”

“Very likely so, Marjorie. I don’t believe there are any bows and arrows, however.”

“If they know how to shoot them, they know how to make them, don’t they? Or anyway, it’ll be in the microfiches. Get started on that, please, Guy. We’ll give prizes. Coffee, cigarettes. I’ll donate a bottle of Scotch.” The thought that had crossed her mind as he spoke of how he pla

Tree looked puzzled, but paused to make a note in his book. “It would be a useful skill for hunting, I suppose.”

Margie nodded without replying. Hunting what? Every animal they had seen on the surface of the planet was well enough armored to laugh off any homemade bow — a conspicuous blunder on the part of evolution in this place, she was convinced. But she let it go.

As they were inspecting the power plant a messenger from the communications shack trotted up. “Ship’s on its way in, colonel,” she reported, panting. “They’ve already retrofired. We ought to see them in a couple of minutes.”

“Thank God,” said Margie. “Put it on the PA. Guy, get twenty grunts for unloading. Tell Major Arkashvili to stand by in case they land rough.”