Anketam stretched his arms out as though he were trying to embrace the
whole world. He pushed himself up on his tiptoes, arched his back, and
gave out with a prodigious yawn that somehow managed to express all the
contentment and pleasure that filled his soul. He felt a faint twinge in
his shoulders, and there was a dull ache in the small of his back, both
of which reminded him that he was no longer the man he had been twenty
years before, but he ignored them and stretched again.
He was still strong, Anketam thought; still strong enough to do his
day's work for The Chief without being too tired to relax and enjoy
himself afterwards. At forty-five, he had a good fifteen years more
before he'd be retired to minor make-work jobs, doing the small chores
as a sort of token in justification of his keep in his old age.
He settled his heels back to the ground and looked around at the fields
of green shoots that surrounded him. That part of the job was done, at
least. The sun's lower edge was just barely touching the western
horizon, and all the seedlings were in. Anketam had kept his crew
sweating to get them all in, but now the greenhouses were all empty and
ready for seeding in the next crop while this one grew to maturity. But
that could wait. By working just a little harder, for just a little
longer each day, he and his crew had managed to get the transplanting
done a good four days ahead of schedule, which meant four days of
fishing or hunting or just plain loafing. The Chief didn't care how a
man spent his time, so long as the work was done.
He thumbed his broad-brimmed hat back from his forehead and looked up at
the sky. There were a few thin clouds overhead, but there was no threat
of rain, which was good. In this part of Xedii, the spring rains
sometimes hit hard and washed out the transplanted seedlings before they
had a chance to take root properly. If rain would hold off for another
ten days, Anketam thought, then it could fall all it wanted. Meanwhile,
the irrigation reservoir was full to brimming, and that would supply all
the water the young shoots needed to keep them from being burnt by the
sun.
He lowered his eyes again, this time to look at the next section over
toward the south, where Jacovik and his crew were still working. He
could see their bent figures outlined against the horizon, just at the
brow of the slope, and he grinned to himself. He had beaten Jacovik out
again.
Anketam and Jacovik had had a friendly feud going for years, each trying
to do a better, faster job than the other. None of the other supervisors
on The Chief's land came even close to beating out Anketam or Jacovik,
so it was always between the two of them, which one came out on top.
Sometimes it was one, sometimes the other.
At the last harvest, Jacovik had been very pleased with himself when
the tallies showed that he'd beaten out Anketam by a hundred kilos of
cut leaves. But The Chief had taken him down a good bit when the report
came through that Anketam's leaves had made more money because they were
better quality.
He looked all around the horizon. From here, only Jacovik's section
could be seen, and only Jacovik's men could be seen moving.
When Anketam's gaze touched the northern horizon, his gray eyes narrowed
a little. There was a darkness there, a faint indication of cloud
build-up. He hoped it didn't mean rain. Getting the transplants in early
was all right, but it didn't count for anything if they were washed out.
He pushed the thought out of his mind. Rain or no rain, there was
nothing could be done about it except put up shelters over the rows of
plants. He'd just have to keep an eye on the northern horizon and hope
for the best. He didn't want to put up the shelters unless he absolutely
had to, because the seedlings were invariably bruised in the process and
that would cut the leaf yield way down. He remembered one year when
Jacovik had gotten panicky and put up his shelters, and the storm had
been a gentle thing that only lasted a few minutes before it blew over.
Anketam had held off, ready to make his men work in the rain if
necessary, and when the harvest had come, he'd beaten Jacovik hands
down.
* * * * *
Anketam pulled his hat down again and turned to walk toward his house in
the little village that he and his crew called home. He had warned his
wife to have supper ready early. "I figure on being finished by
sundown," he'd said. "You can tell the other women I said so. But don't
say anything to them till after we've gone to the fields. I don't want
those boys thinking about the fishing they're going to do tomorrow and
then get behind in their work because they're daydreaming."
The other men were already gone; they'd headed back to the village as
fast as they could move as soon as he'd told them the job was finished.
Only he had stayed to look at the fields and see them all finished, each
shoot casting long shadows in the ruddy light of the setting sun. He'd
wanted to stand there, all by himself feeling the glow of pride and
satisfaction that came over him, knowing that he was better than any
other supervisor on The Chief's vast acreage.
His own shadow grew long ahead of him as he walked back, his steps still
brisk and springy, in spite of the day's hard work.
The sun had set and twilight had come by the time he reached his own
home. He had glanced again toward the north, and had been relieved to
see that the stars were visible near the horizon. The clouds couldn't be
very thick.
Overhead, the great, glowing cloud of the Dragon Nebula shed its soft
light. That's what made it possible to work after sundown in the
spring; at that time of year, the Dragon Nebula was at its brightest
during the early part of the evening. The tail of it didn't vanish
beneath the horizon until well after midnight. In the autumn, it wasn't
visible at all, and the nights were dark except for the stars.
Anketam pushed open the door of his home and noted with satisfaction
that the warm smells of cooking filled the air, laving his nostrils and
palate with fine promises. He stopped and frowned as he heard a man's
voice speaking in low tones in the kitchen.