The last of Jomo's men came aboard, dragging the last laden sack, and waved his stunner to signal "all clear."
Jomo turned toward the first man in line. "Is this all they had?" he asked, very coldly.
"We searched thoroughly, Baas." The man automatically dropped into the Submissive Position of the Chacma Baboon.
Jomo frowned and turned away. "Poor pickings," he growled. "Let us hope that the next farm has more to offer. Pilot, haul away."
Former-captain Feinberg cast one glance back at the thick smoke-column rising over the remains of the once-successful lakeside farm, shivered, and turned back toward his engines. There was nothing he could do about this, no available escape short of getting his throat cut. He breathed a quick prayer to any gods who could hear him to give him an opportunity to run.
The Last Resort fired up her engine, and dutifully turned south.
Brodski and Van Damm were sitting in the hammocks outside their cabin, arguing over whose turn it was to weed the goddam vegetable garden.
"I've done it the last three times," Van Damm complained, nursing carefully on his next-to-last bottle of downriver beer. "I have blisters from the verdammt weeds. It's high time you did it."
"You should've worn gloves, like I told you," Brodski retorted, measuring out a half-bowlful of his dwindling tobacco. "Hell, you expect a lame man to go bendin' and choppin' all over that garden? My back would lock up before I finished one row. Besides, who's been doin' all the cookin' and laundry around here?"
"I washed the dishes, last time."
"Yeah? And who scoured the pans?"
"Scheiss! This is no proper work for a man!" Van Damm gulped the last of his stoneware-cup load, and glowered at the sky.
Brodski laughed until he ran out of wind. "Whooo! Heh! What'd you think, that all those women would come over here and do the housework for us, for nothin' but a sight of your pretty face? Get real, Vanny: we got exactly what we contracted for, and now we're stuck with it."
"Shh!" Van Damm whispered, looking down river.
"Shh, what?" said Brodski, warily setting down his pipe.
"Boat." Van Damm jumped out of his hammock and sprinted for the cabin.
It took Brodski longer to get up; he was just struggling clear of the hammock when Van Damm ran back out carrying a pair of binoculars and the portable radio. He threw the radio to Brodski and peered out at the river.
"Which boat and which way?" Brodski asked, working the radio.
"The Last Resort, right enough," muttered Van Damm, peering low toward the river. "Heading upstream, and . . . loaded with armed men. Makhno guessed right."
"That tears it; the war's starting." Brodski thumbed down a switch and winced at the chatter coming through the earpiece. "Girls, clear the lines! We've gotta get word down to Janesfort. The Last Resort's heading there right now, with Jomo's boys on it. Spread the word, warn everybody, get everyone into the fort, and be sure to tell Jane first."
There was an instant's pause for breath, then a wild jumble of chatter on the airwaves, most of it demands for more news. Brodski rolled his eyes heavenward, muttered something about civilians, then repeated his message slowly and carefully.
This time, only one voice answered. "This is the fort. We receive your message, Se?or Brodski. Can you see Jomo's people yet?"
"Not yet. Give us ten minutes to get down to the water and we'll call you back. Ski out." Brodski thumbed off the switch, picked up his cane, slung the binoculars around his neck and started back into the cabin. "You get to carry the spare rations and water."
Jomo scanned the riverbank slipping slowly past, and considered where suitable farms might be hiding. Surely some of the squatters must have hidden in these thick woods; the cover, and the possible game, were too good to go to waste. He didn't like this alien forest himself, but he could tell a good hideout when he saw one.
Hey now, what was that? It looked like a thin streak of smoke against the sky, the marker of a farmhouse's chimney. How handy that everybody on this cold planet kept at least one heating-fire going all the time; it gave him a dead-sure way to find prey.
Jomo snapped his fingers at the pilot, then pointed a languid hand toward the riverbank.
Feinberg, having grown used to Jomo's little ways after all these turns, sighed wordlessly and turned toward the shore.
Van Damm poked his binoculars a little further through the screen of eggtree fronds, studying details of the Simbas' equipment. He smiled sourly at the bell-mouthed stunners. "Mark I's . . . lousy guns," he whispered. "No range, not designed for woods work, good for nothing but hosing down the near scenery. Doesn't anyone use good weapons anymore?"
"Yeah, Jane." Brodski tapped the shotgun and the silenced rifle on Van Damm's back. "Now let's fade back and keep watching."
They slipped back quietly through the woodlot. Where the wood gave way to the narrow plot of cleared land they hurried around the lone field, back into the woods again on the field's far side, and flattened behind an ancient half-rotted log. "Hey Vannie, you ever work for Intelligence?"
Van Damm froze for an instant, then rolled slowly to face Brodski. "What makes you say that?"
"I did some troop training at Camp Pendleton about six years ago," said Brodski, casually pointing his rifle in Van Damm's direction. "And we had a couple of spooks come through. I didn't have anything to do with them, but I remember one in particular. He was an Afrikaaner, and had a scar on his thumb-just like yours. I remember it because I watched his hands when he arm-wrestled with Bill Mason for the beers at the E.M. Club one night. He moved like you. That's a real hard thing to change, you know?"
"Ja, I forgot." Van Damm smiled thinly. "You know, that's how covers get blown."
"You working for the CoDo?" Brodski wasn't smiling.
"Yes, Fleet Intelligence." Again, Van Damm considered, the truth was the best defense. "But I'm thinking of settling down here. I'm getting to like the place. It grows on one."
"Van, I got on that ship one jump ahead of the cops and arranged my retirement on board. I'll only get twenty-five years instead of thirty, but what the hell, this place is a lot looser than Earth." His gun-muzzle lowered a little.
"I'll tell you one thing, Ski; I am not doing anything against Jane. In fact, I was sent here to do what I could to start trouble, give the CoDo its excuse . . . . Nobody knew about Jane back on Earth, but she has done a very good job on her own."
"How do y'mean? She hasn't hurt Castell or his claim."
"You don't understand." Van Damm shook his head in frustration. "CoDo wants Haven for-for, dammit, Kennicott's mining! They have found a rich strike of hafnium here, and BuReloc's dumping miners from Earth . . . . Does that suggest anything to you?"
"Where does Janey come in?"
"Farming!" Van Damm almost wrung his hands. "Aside from the Harmonies, who farms? Squatters, trying to live off the land, barely surviving-how could they feed the numbers BuReloc wants to dump here, even with the synthetic food factories? People would starve. BuReloc or the CoDo wouldn't care . . . . Scheiss!"
"Why, Vanny, can a spook actually have a conscience?"
"Their training did not take that from me." Van Damm looked away, automatically checking the empty field. "Jane . . . She makes farming successful, even for squatters. Surplus of food, not to mention the cloth, oil, paper . . . She can make poor squatters rich, Brodski."
"More precisely, she's creating an independent middle class."
"If she succeeds . . . then many people will not starve, will even do well, who would starve otherwise. I have seen a famine, Brodski. I . . . do not wish to see it again."
"Okay, Owen, that's good enough for me." Brodski took position and shifted his gun-muzzle toward the field. "Let's get ready; here they come."
"Warn the others," said Van Damm, all business again.
"They're coming," Brodski whispered into the radio, seeing the first of the Simbas emerge, branch-slapped and dusty, from the trees near the river. "Any last-minute changes?"
"No," Jane's voice whispered back. "Lie low or thin them out. Up to you."