are the kinds most used by the
natives for clothing and ornament. Some are right pretty, too."
"We'll do a full-scale analysis of their breeding strength, likelihood to prosper in various other climates, and the like, when we return to the Trade City," Andrea said. "The girls have done a good job as trappers as well as guides. Meanwhile it might be a good idea to collect soil and food samples from their natural
habitats. We'll camp near here for the night, do that, and turn back in the morning."
Before long, the clearing they had reached was bustling with the activity of setting up small tents: one
for the two Amazons, one for Andrea, one for her assistants. One of the assistants wrote in a locked
record book. The Amazon girl Menella went off with her snares to fetch meat for supper. Andrea stood
under the trees, silent, her eyes fixed on the distant skyline, the black and jagged stumps rising lonely to the rain. Not a pleasant sight for any lover of trees, she thought dispassionately; but I've seen lovelier worlds than this die in a good cause. In my own way I'm dying in a good cause, helping man to spread
further, have more progress. I have no child, nor shall I ever have, but some of these great spaceports,
the giant steps mankind takes between stars, are perhaps my children.
And if a world stands in the way of technology, who is to judge the fittest to survive? One race dies;
another is born. Who should know that better than I? A race without the strength to survive dies like the better races which have come and gone before it.
They told me in the spaceport that Free Amazons were better guides and woodsmen than most men, and
so far they are right. Yet it is a strange sight to me; women who might bear children, electing of their
own free will not to do so. A sign, perhaps, of a sickness between men and women, in any world. I do
not understand men. How could I? I do not understand women, either.
Does anyone ever understand anyone? I'd better stick to my own job. I understand planets and ecologies
and I've got a job to do on this one.
She returned to her tent and unlocked a metal box with a heavy combination lock. She did not turn the
lock, but touched one finger lightly to her temple and laid a finger of her other hand against the lock.
After a moment it whirred and dropped open. From inside she took a small sealed packet, which she
thrust into her pocket, and went off into the woods.
Under the trees she knelt, dug up with her own strong hands unaided by any tool a small hole in the
ground. She picked up a handful of the soil. It was moist, soft, rain-drenched and sweet-smelling, and
alive with small invisible creeping things.
Andrea unwrapped the small package from its protective coating of impervious plastic. It looked like a
grayish dust with black flecks. It too is alive, she thought: Well, that is the way of life. New times—and new predators.
Which will survive? Can I load the dice strongly enough? This —she fingered the living soil of Darkover
— or this .
She emptied the grayish black, evil-smelling dust into the soil; covered it; fastidiously brushed the dust from her long fingers. She walked back toward the camp.
A picture rose in her mind; the crystal black virus working under the ground, against all the creeping
things, worms, nematodes, all the things that make a soil live; spreading, growing, reseeding itself to
make a dying soil even more barren.
What would I have done to those who poisoned my forests?
Why should I have done anything? We no longer had need of our forests. But on the other hand I need
shed no tears for those who came after us. If it is their turn to be swept away—well, they will go as we
went.
She checked off a mental list.
Telepaths.
Forests.
Soil.
Ocean? No. The population which remains must be fed somehow. Leave the ocean alone. In any case it
is not much used now, and as food supplies decline, the movement of men from the forests to the
natives for clothing and ornament. Some are right pretty, too."
"We'll do a full-scale analysis of their breeding strength, likelihood to prosper in various other climates, and the like, when we return to the Trade City," Andrea said. "The girls have done a good job as trappers as well as guides. Meanwhile it might be a good idea to collect soil and food samples from their natural
habitats. We'll camp near here for the night, do that, and turn back in the morning."
Before long, the clearing they had reached was bustling with the activity of setting up small tents: one
for the two Amazons, one for Andrea, one for her assistants. One of the assistants wrote in a locked
record book. The Amazon girl Menella went off with her snares to fetch meat for supper. Andrea stood
under the trees, silent, her eyes fixed on the distant skyline, the black and jagged stumps rising lonely to the rain. Not a pleasant sight for any lover of trees, she thought dispassionately; but I've seen lovelier worlds than this die in a good cause. In my own way I'm dying in a good cause, helping man to spread
further, have more progress. I have no child, nor shall I ever have, but some of these great spaceports,
the giant steps mankind takes between stars, are perhaps my children.
And if a world stands in the way of technology, who is to judge the fittest to survive? One race dies;
another is born. Who should know that better than I? A race without the strength to survive dies like the better races which have come and gone before it.
They told me in the spaceport that Free Amazons were better guides and woodsmen than most men, and
so far they are right. Yet it is a strange sight to me; women who might bear children, electing of their
own free will not to do so. A sign, perhaps, of a sickness between men and women, in any world. I do
not understand men. How could I? I do not understand women, either.
Does anyone ever understand anyone? I'd better stick to my own job. I understand planets and ecologies
and I've got a job to do on this one.
She returned to her tent and unlocked a metal box with a heavy combination lock. She did not turn the
lock, but touched one finger lightly to her temple and laid a finger of her other hand against the lock.
After a moment it whirred and dropped open. From inside she took a small sealed packet, which she
thrust into her pocket, and went off into the woods.
Under the trees she knelt, dug up with her own strong hands unaided by any tool a small hole in the
ground. She picked up a handful of the soil. It was moist, soft, rain-drenched and sweet-smelling, and
alive with small invisible creeping things.
Andrea unwrapped the small package from its protective coating of impervious plastic. It looked like a
grayish dust with black flecks. It too is alive, she thought: Well, that is the way of life. New times—and new predators.
Which will survive? Can I load the dice strongly enough? This —she fingered the living soil of Darkover
— or this .
She emptied the grayish black, evil-smelling dust into the soil; covered it; fastidiously brushed the dust from her long fingers. She walked back toward the camp.
A picture rose in her mind; the crystal black virus working under the ground, against all the creeping
things, worms, nematodes, all the things that make a soil live; spreading, growing, reseeding itself to
make a dying soil even more barren.
What would I have done to those who poisoned my forests?
Why should I have done anything? We no longer had need of our forests. But on the other hand I need
shed no tears for those who came after us. If it is their turn to be swept away—well, they will go as we
went.
She checked off a mental list.
Telepaths.
Forests.
Soil.
Ocean? No. The population which remains must be fed somehow. Leave the ocean alone. In any case it
is not much used now, and as food supplies decline, the movement of men from the forests to the
Similar Books
