The World at the End of Time by Frederik Pohl

and in inconvenient places. He was away from the community two or three days at a time, with a team of other men similarly among the technologically unemployed. They spent their time collecting the low-priority cargo pods that had fallen at the inconveniently far perimeter of the drop zone, or even outside it. They sledged them into the city; not only hard work, but not even very interesting.
    Pal Sorricaine didn’t seem to mind. He took on the job of cartography when he was out in the wildwoods, searching for lost pods, and his maps became the best the community had. When he was home he was cheerful. He took his turn at minding Baby Weeny. He was loving to his wife and affectionate to Viktor. It was puzzling to Viktor that his mother seemed to worry about her husband. But when he asked her about it she simply laughed and said, “It’s a kind of a problem for your dad, Viktor. He was one of the most important men on the ship. Now he’s sort of—well—general labor, you know? When things get more settled and he can do real astronomy again . . .”
    She let it trail off there. Viktor didn’t bother to ask her when she thought things would be that settled. Of course, she didn’t know any more than he did. Maybe the only right answer would have been “never.” But that night, when his father returned with the tractor team, four great pods of steel bumping and scraping behind them, he seemed content enough. Pal was in a good mood, anxious to hear about what had been going on in the town while he was away, and bursting with a couple of pieces of gossip he had brought back from long night talks with the other men. “Do you know what Marie-Claude’s been doing?” he asked his wife, chuckling. “She’s pregnant, that’s what!”
    Viktor dropped the spoon he was trying to feed his baby sister with. “But—her husband’s dead!” he cried, appalled at the news.
    “Did I say anything about a husband?” Pal Sorricaine asked good-naturedly. “I just said she’s going to have a baby. I didn’t say she was getting married. I guess she likes the idea of being a merry widow.”
    “Pal,” Viktor’s mother said warningly, looking at her son. “Don’t make it sound awful, Pal. Marie-Claude’s a good person, and besides we need more babies.”
    Pal grinned at her. “So it’s all okay with you? You wouldn’t mind if I, uh, volunteered to help out along those lines next time?”
    “Pal,” she said again, but the tone was different; she was almost laughing. “What’s the matter, aren’t I keeping you happy?”
    His father grinned and began to mix a cocktail. Halfway through, he paused and looked thoughtfully at his son. Then he glanced at his wife and added more of the gin—it was real gin, almost the last they had—to the mix. “You’re old enough to try one now, Vik,” he said kindly.
    In pain and misery, Viktor took the plastic tumbler and gulped a mouthful. The juniper stung the inside of his nasal passages; the alcohol scorched the inside of his mouth. He swallowed and coughed at the same time.
    “Viktor!” his mother cried in alarm. “Pal!”
    But Pal was already beside his son, arm around his shoulder. “It’s better if you just sip it a little at a time,” he said, laughing.
    Viktor was having none of that. He wrenched free and, as soon as he could postpone a cough long enough to swallow, downed the rest of the drink. Fortunately, there wasn’t much of it; his father had measured out only a junior-sized amount for his son’s first official cocktail.
    Viktor wasn’t short of willpower. He used it all. He managed to strangle the coughing fit, though his voice was hoarse while he was reassuring his mother that, really, he was absolutely all right. His throat burned. His eyes were watering. His nose still stung. But there was a warmth, too, that started in his chest and spread through his whole body.
    It almost seemed to numb his stark interior pain. It was, really, not a bad sensation at all.