A week of the dust-filled air of Meloa had left its mark on Captain
Duke O'Neill. It had spread filth over his uniform, added another year
to his face, and made waking each morning a dry-throated torture. Now
he stopped at the entrance to the ship where he had been reassigned a
berth for the night shift. An attendant handed him a small bottle,
three biscuits, and a magazine. He tasted the chemically purified water
sickly, stuffed the three ersatz biscuits into his pocket, and moved
down the ramp, staring at the magazine.
It was from Earth, of course, since no printing was being done yet on
Meloa. It must have come in on one of the three big Earth freighters
he'd heard land during the night. Tucked into it was another of the
brief notes he'd been receiving: "Director Flannery will be pleased to
call on Captain O'Neill at the captain's convenience."
He shredded the note as he went across the field; he started to do the
same with the news magazine, until the headlines caught his attention.
Most of the news meant nothing to him. But he skimmed the article on
the eleventh planet to join the Outer Federation; the writer was
obviously biased against the organization, but Duke nodded approvingly.
At least someone was doing something. He saw that Cathay was in for
trouble. Earth was living up to her old form! Then he shoved the
magazine into his pocket and trudged on toward the veteran's
reassignment headquarters.
Machinery was being moved from the Earth freighters, and Duke swore
again. Five billion Earthmen would read of their "generosity" to Meloa,
and any guilt they felt for their desertion would vanish in a smug
satisfaction at their charity. Smugness was easy in a world without
dust or carrion smell or craters that had been factories.
There were only a few Meloans in the crude tent that served as their
headquarters. Duke went back toward the cubbyhole where a thin, haggard
man sat on a broken block behind a makeshift desk.
The hairless blue head shook slowly while the man's eyes dropped
hungrily to the paper in Duke's pocket and away again guiltily. "No
work, Captain O'Neill. Unless you can operate some of those Earth
machines we're getting?"
Duke grimaced, passing the magazine over to hands that trembled as they
took it. His education was in ultra-literary creative writing, his
experience in war. And here, where there was the whole task of
rebuilding a planet to be done, the ruin of tools and power made what
could be done too little for even the few who were left. There was no
grain to reap or wood to cut after the killing gas from Throm had
ruined vegetation; there were no workable mines where all had been
blasted closed. Transportation was gone. And the economy had passed
beyond hand tools, leaving too few of those. Even whole men were idle,
and his artificial hand could never replace a real one for carrying
rubble.
"Director Flannery has been asking for you again," the man told him.