That’s on Petticoat Lane right across from my studio. About ten minutes, perhaps?” All the while he was talking, he was jabbing a finger at the sign he was showing me.
I answered, “Righto!” and switched off.
I was not in the habit of going to farm country, since full gravity is not kind to my bad leg and farms have to be at full gravity. No, that’s not correct; there may be more habitats in the System that use for farming whatever fractional gee they wish (or that mutated plants prefer) than there are that use natural sunlight and full gee. As may be. Golden Rule goes the natural sunlight and full gee route for much of its fresh food. Other spaces in Golden Rule use artificial light and other accelerations for growing food—how much, I don’t know. But the enormous space from ring fifty to ring seventy is open air, side to side, save for struts and vibration dampers and walkways joining the principal corridors.
In this span of twenty rings—eight hundred meters—radii 0-60, 120-180, and 240-300 let in the sunlight; radii 60-120, 180-240, and 300-0 are farmland—of which 180-240, ring 50-70 is Old MacDonald’s Farm.
That’s a lot of farmland. A man could get lost there, especially in fields where corn grows even taller than it does in Iowa. But Doc Schultz had paid me the compliment of assuming that I would know where to meet him: at a popular outdoor restaurant and bar called The Country Kitchen, right spang in the middle of the farm, ring sixty, radius 210, at (of course) full gravity.
To reach the restaurant we had to go downstairs forward of ring fifty, then walk aft (at full gee, damn it!) to ring sixty, a distance of four hundred meters. A short distance, oh certainly—about four city blocks. Try it on a false foot with a stump that has already been used too much in walking and too much in carrying for one day.
Gwen spotted it, in my voice, or my face, or my walk, or something—or she read my mind, maybe; I’m not sure she can’t. She stopped.
I stopped. “Trouble, dear?”
“Yes. Senator, put down that bundle. I’ll balance Tree-San on my head. Give me the bundle.”
“I’m all right.”
“Yes, sir. You surely are and I’m going to keep you that way. It is your privilege to be macho whenever you wish…and it’s my privilege to go female and be vaporish and weak and unreasonable. Right now I’m about to faint. And I’ll stay that way until you give me the bundle. You can beat me later.”
“Hmm. When is it my turn to win an argument?”
“On your birthday, sir. Which this is not. Let me have the bundle. Please.”
It was not an argument I wanted to win; I handed over the bundle. Bill and Gwen went on ahead of me, with Bill walking in front, breaking trail. She never lost control of the burden balanced on her head, even though the road was not corridor-smooth—a dirt road. Real dirt—a piece of totally unnecessary swank.
I limped slowly along behind, leaning heavily on my cane and putting almost no weight on my stump. By the time I reached the outdoor restaurant I felt fairly well recovered.
Dr. Schultz was leaning against the bar with an elbow hooked over it. He recognized me, did not admit it until I came up to him. “Dr. Schultz?”
“Ah, yes!” He did not ask my name. “Shall we look for a restful spot? I find that I enjoy the quiet of the apple orchard. Shall I ask our host to have a small table and a couple of chairs placed back in the trees?”
“Yes. But three chairs, not two.”
Gwen had joined us. “Not four?”
“No. I want Bill to watch our chattels, as he did before. I see an empty table over there; he can pile stuff on it and around it.”
Soon we three were settled at a table that had been moved for us back into the orchard. After consulting, I ordered beer for the Reverend and for me. Coke for Gwen, and had told the waitress to find the young man with the bundle and give him what he wanted—beer. Coke, sandwiches, whatever. (I suddenly realized
I answered, “Righto!” and switched off.
I was not in the habit of going to farm country, since full gravity is not kind to my bad leg and farms have to be at full gravity. No, that’s not correct; there may be more habitats in the System that use for farming whatever fractional gee they wish (or that mutated plants prefer) than there are that use natural sunlight and full gee. As may be. Golden Rule goes the natural sunlight and full gee route for much of its fresh food. Other spaces in Golden Rule use artificial light and other accelerations for growing food—how much, I don’t know. But the enormous space from ring fifty to ring seventy is open air, side to side, save for struts and vibration dampers and walkways joining the principal corridors.
In this span of twenty rings—eight hundred meters—radii 0-60, 120-180, and 240-300 let in the sunlight; radii 60-120, 180-240, and 300-0 are farmland—of which 180-240, ring 50-70 is Old MacDonald’s Farm.
That’s a lot of farmland. A man could get lost there, especially in fields where corn grows even taller than it does in Iowa. But Doc Schultz had paid me the compliment of assuming that I would know where to meet him: at a popular outdoor restaurant and bar called The Country Kitchen, right spang in the middle of the farm, ring sixty, radius 210, at (of course) full gravity.
To reach the restaurant we had to go downstairs forward of ring fifty, then walk aft (at full gee, damn it!) to ring sixty, a distance of four hundred meters. A short distance, oh certainly—about four city blocks. Try it on a false foot with a stump that has already been used too much in walking and too much in carrying for one day.
Gwen spotted it, in my voice, or my face, or my walk, or something—or she read my mind, maybe; I’m not sure she can’t. She stopped.
I stopped. “Trouble, dear?”
“Yes. Senator, put down that bundle. I’ll balance Tree-San on my head. Give me the bundle.”
“I’m all right.”
“Yes, sir. You surely are and I’m going to keep you that way. It is your privilege to be macho whenever you wish…and it’s my privilege to go female and be vaporish and weak and unreasonable. Right now I’m about to faint. And I’ll stay that way until you give me the bundle. You can beat me later.”
“Hmm. When is it my turn to win an argument?”
“On your birthday, sir. Which this is not. Let me have the bundle. Please.”
It was not an argument I wanted to win; I handed over the bundle. Bill and Gwen went on ahead of me, with Bill walking in front, breaking trail. She never lost control of the burden balanced on her head, even though the road was not corridor-smooth—a dirt road. Real dirt—a piece of totally unnecessary swank.
I limped slowly along behind, leaning heavily on my cane and putting almost no weight on my stump. By the time I reached the outdoor restaurant I felt fairly well recovered.
Dr. Schultz was leaning against the bar with an elbow hooked over it. He recognized me, did not admit it until I came up to him. “Dr. Schultz?”
“Ah, yes!” He did not ask my name. “Shall we look for a restful spot? I find that I enjoy the quiet of the apple orchard. Shall I ask our host to have a small table and a couple of chairs placed back in the trees?”
“Yes. But three chairs, not two.”
Gwen had joined us. “Not four?”
“No. I want Bill to watch our chattels, as he did before. I see an empty table over there; he can pile stuff on it and around it.”
Soon we three were settled at a table that had been moved for us back into the orchard. After consulting, I ordered beer for the Reverend and for me. Coke for Gwen, and had told the waitress to find the young man with the bundle and give him what he wanted—beer. Coke, sandwiches, whatever. (I suddenly realized
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