"Good. Food processing all done by machines. Just feed birds in. Take
up to half the colony of young birds when bred, half the old ones when
coming to nest. Regular inspection of tern colonies by sail, your boat.
Helicopter lands June twenty, small freighter in July to load processed
birds in Rollins Harbor. Just the thing."
He took off his glasses to show that the problem had been solved.
"Look," Ranson said. "I don't have anything against George personally.
I want him to be useful and contented. If he can't be contented,
then at least I want him to be useful, instead of wasteful. Robbing
government food resources is a grave offense, but even that doesn't
justify putting him down in the middle of a pile of excrement where no
ordinary man can breathe for more than a few minutes without stifling."
"Healthy," Carter said. "Healthy. It does stink. That's one reason we
have such trouble keeping the stations manned."
"Boys," I said. "What is this pile of dung I'm supposed to sit on? And
what birds? And why?"
Carter explained. In the desperate search for food, the sea birds were
now being subjected to an annual harvest. From various nesting places
along all the ocean coasts in the world, birds were harvested, to
say nothing of their eggs, in large numbers. It was simply a matter
of catching and killing the birds, gathering their eggs, and feeding
the processing hoppers with same. These foods were later shipped to
Food Processing Plants to be added to other harvests and packaged for
consumption. In some cases, more specialized processing was necessary,
as with the fulmars on Rollins Island. The fulmars were much prized
because their alimentary system contained an especially stinking oil
rich in fat and vitamin A. In their case, no eggs were collected,
since they bred only once in a season, and the birds were separately
processed to retrieve the oil.
Literally millions of sea birds and their eggs were cropped yearly
from nesting sites on the east coast of North America alone. It was a
regular and assured source of food on an enormous scale the world over.
The thousands of tons of excrement were also gathered every five years
to be used in food processing and in agriculture. It was the policy of
the WFI to waste nothing and to use everything.
The cropping of the young birds took place in the spring and early
summer, depending on the species. The adult birds were trapped by
various devices when they returned to their nests. Over-cropping was
carefully avoided to insure a steady annual production.
"If it's the island or a Penal Food Plant, I'll take the island. I'm a
waterman, not a bird collector. At least I'll get a chance to use the
boat once in a while."
Both the WFI men looked relieved. Then Ranson put a question.
"Do you know of anyone else around here who might be fitted for such
work? I'm not asking you to inform. I know there's been a good deal of
discontent in this Sound region, which is one reason why I'm here. The
island may be a solution for other misfits as well."
I thought it over. "The Jackson boys aren't very happy. They were the
best men with drift nets this Sound has ever seen. Now they sit on
stools all day long and watch a row of bottles pass in front of lights.
Once in a while they lift a bottle out of the line and put it aside.
They get very drunk every night on some stuff they make out of berries
and dandelions from the marsh."
Ranson sighed. Carter again passed a warming look of complete
understanding, and nodded encouragement.
"Then there's Pete Younger. He was a trapper before WFI closed the
muskrat areas. He turns a valve several hundred times a day in the
Small Fish Processor. He oils his traps and talks to himself. He may be
too far gone. I think he is."
"Anyone else?"
"Others. But the WFI has a bight on them for good, I guess. They were
men, once."
"Are the Jackson men married?"