"If I told you it was here, and then it was gone--how would you feel?"
"You think about things like that?" She stared at him curiously in the
faint moonlight. "Nobody else does. Not now."
"Come on," he growled. "Let's see if it's occupied."
The door was locked. Morgan chopped it open without ceremony. The
cabin was vacant except for a corpse on the floor. The corpse was of
ancient vintage and slightly mummified. He noticed that it had killed
itself with a shotgun--possibly because of an Oren-sting. He caught up
the scarce weapon lest the girl grab it and run. Then he dragged the
corpse out by the foot and left it under an orange tree. The oranges
were green, but he picked a few to stave off the pangs of hunger.
When he returned, Shera had found matches and a lamp. She sat at a
table, counting twelve-gauge shells.
"How many?"
"Even dozen." She gazed greedily at the gun. "I won't steal it."
He pitched her an orange and propped the gun in the corner. "If you
did, it would be a mistake."
Her eyes followed him about the room as he inspected the meagre,
dust-laden furnishings.
"I like you, Morgan," she murmured suddenly.
"Like you liked fat-boy?"
"He was a pig."
"But you liked his gun."
"You'd do all right without a gun."
"So?"
"Why don't we team up?"
"Whoa! We may not be looking for the same things."
She shrugged and toyed with the shells while she stared thoughtfully
into the lamplight. "What's there to look for? Besides escape from
Oren."
"Nothing maybe."
"But you think so, huh?"
He straightened suddenly and waggled a pair of cans over his head for
her to see--beans, and a tin of tobacco. He set them aside and
continued searching the cupboards.
"But you think so, huh?" she repeated.
"Shut up and heat the beans."
Shera caught the can and speared it with her knife. It spewed. She
sniffed, cursed, and threw them out. "We eat oranges."
"But what _are_ you looking for, Morgan?"
* * * * *
He rolled himself a cigarette with the aged tobacco which was little
more than dust. He came to the table and sat facing her. She had
placed an orange before him. Almost absently he laid the blade of his
hatchet atop it. The weight of it split the fruit neatly.
"Sharp," she muttered.
"Sharp enough to split Oren skulls."
"And that's all you're looking for?"
"I don't know. Ever hear of the Maquis?"
She hesitated. "Two wars ago? The French underground? I remember
vaguely. I was a _little_ urchin then."
"They had a goal like mine, I guess. To harass. They couldn't win, and
they knew it. They killed and wrecked and maimed because they hated. I
want to organize a band of Oren-killers--with no purpose save to
ambush and slaughter. I sat on that island and thought and
thought--and I got disgusted with myself for hiding."
The girl munched a cheekful of bitter orange pulp and looked
thoughtful. "Wish I had some clothes," she muttered indifferently.
He shot her a hard glance then stood up to pace the floor. "Ambush,
slaughter, and _rob_," he amended, and looked at her sharply again.
"Rob?"
"Oren's taken our cities. He's reorganizing industry. With individuals
coordinated by a mass-mind, it'll be a different kind of industry, a
more efficient kind. Think of a factory in which a worker at one
position shares consciousness with a worker in another position. Does
away with control mechanisms."
"You said 'rob'."
He grinned sourly. "When they get production started, there'll be
plenty to steal. Guns; explosives--clothes."
She nodded slowly. "Trouble is: every time you kill an Orenian, they
all feel him die. They come running."
"Sometimes. Unless they're too busy. They don't care too much about
individual deaths. It's the total mental commune of Oren that matters.
Like now. They could find us if they really tried. But why should
they? They'd come as recruiting agents--with bared stingers--if they
came."
"They'll come tomorrow," she said fatalistically.
"We'll try to be ready."
* * * * *
She inspected him carefully, as if weighing his size and strength. "I
still want to team up with you."
He recalled how quickly she had knifed the Orenian to death on the
road. "Okay--if you'll follow me without argument."
"I can take orders." She folded her arms behind her head and leaned
back with a grin. Her breasts jutted haughtily beneath a torn blouse.
"_Most_ orders, that is."
"Hell, I'm not marrying you!" he snapped.