The spring planting did well. The rains didn't come until after the
seedlings had taken root and anchored themselves well into the soil, and
the rows showed no signs of heavy bruising. Anketam had been watching
one section in particular, where young Basom had planted. Basom had a
tendency to do a sloppy job, and if it had showed up as bruised or
poorly planted seedlings, Anketam would have seen to it that Basom got
what was coming to him.
But the section looked as good as anyone else's, so Anketam said nothing
to Basom.
Russat had come back after twenty days and reported that there was an
awful lot of fuss in Chromdin, but nothing was really developing. Then
he had gone on back home.
As spring became summer, Anketam pushed the war out of his mind.
Evidently, there wasn't going to be any real shooting. Except that two
of The Chief's sons had gone off to join the Army, things remained the
same as always. Life went on as it had.
The summer was hot and almost windless. Work became all but impossible,
except during the early morning and late afternoon. Fortunately, there
wasn't much that had to be done. At this stage of their growth, the
plants pretty much took care of themselves.
Anketam spent most of his time fishing. He and Jacovik and some of the
others would go down to the river and sit under the shade trees, out of
the sun, and dangle their lines in the water. It really didn't matter if
they caught much or not; the purpose of fishing was to loaf and get away
from the heat, not to catch fish. Even so, they always managed to bring
home enough for a good meal at the end of the day.
The day that the war intruded on Anketam's consciousness again had
started off just like any other day. Anketam got his fishing gear
together, including a lunch that Memi had packed for him, and gone over
to pick up Blejjo.
Blejjo was the oldest man in the village. Some said he was over a
hundred, but Blejjo himself only admitted to eighty. He'd been retired a
long time back, and his only duties now were little odd jobs that were
easy enough, even for an old man. Not that there was anything feeble
about old Blejjo; he still looked and acted spry enough.
He was sitting on his front porch, talking to young Basom, when Anketam
came up.
The old man grinned. "Hello, Ank. You figure on getting a few more fish
today?"
"Why not? The river's full of 'em. Come along."
"Don't see why not," said Blejjo. "What do you think, Basom?"
The younger man smiled and shook his head. "I'll stay around home, I
think. I'm too lazy today to go to all that effort."
[Illustration]
"Too lazy to loaf," said Blejjo, laughing. "That's as lazy as I ever
heard."
Anketam smiled, but he didn't say anything. Basom _was_ lazy, but
Anketam never mentioned it unless the boy didn't get his work done.
Leave that sort of kidding up to the others; it wasn't good for a
supervisor to ride his men unless it was necessary for discipline.
Basom was a powerful young man, tall and well-proportioned. If the truth
were known, he probably had the ability to get a good job from The
Chief--become a secretary or something, like Russat. But he was sloppy
in his work, and, as Blejjo had said, lazy. His saving grace was the
fact that he took things as they came; he never showed any resentment
towards Anketam if he was rebuked for not doing his work well, and he
honestly tried to do better--for a while, at least.
"Not too lazy to loaf," Basom said in self-defense. "Just too lazy to
walk four miles to loaf when I can do it here."
Old Blejjo was taking his fishing gear down from the rack on the porch.
Without looking around, he said: "Cooler down by the river."
"By the time I walked there," said Basom philosophically, "walking
through all that sun, I'd be so hot it would take me two hours to cool
down to where I am now, and another two hours to cool down any more.
That's four hours wasted. Now--" He looked at Anketam with a sly grin.
"Now, if you two wanted to carry me, I'd be much obliged. Anketam, you
could carry me piggyback, while Blejjo goes over to fetch my pole. If
you'd do that, I believe I could see my way clear to going fishing with
you."
Anketam shook his head positively. "I'm afraid the sun would do you in,
anyway."
"Maybe you'd like The Chief to carry you," said Blejjo. There was a bite
in his voice.
"Now, wait," Basom said apprehensively, "I didn't say anything like
that. I didn't mean it that way."
Blejjo pointed his fishing pole at the youth. "You ought to be thankful
you've got Anketam for a supervisor. There's some supers who'd boot you
good for a crack like that."
Basom cast appealing eyes at Anketam. "I _am_ thankful! You know I am!
Why, you're the best super in the barony! Everybody knows that. I was
only kidding. You know that."
Before Anketam could say anything, the old man said: "You can bet your
life that no other super in this barony would put up with your
laziness!"
"Now, Blejjo," said Anketam, "leave the boy alone. He meant no harm. If
he needs talking to, I'll do the talking."
Basom looked gratefully reprieved.
"Sorry, Ank," said Blejjo. "It's just that some of these young people
have no respect for their elders." He looked at Basom and smiled.
"Didn't mean to take it out on you, Bas. There's a lot worse than you."
Then, changing his tone: "Sure you don't want to come with us?"
Basom looked apologetic, but he stuck to his guns. "No. Thanks again,
but--" He grinned self-consciously. "To be honest, I was thinking of
going over to see Zillia. Her dad said I could come."
Anketam grinned at the boy. "Well, now, that's an excuse I'll accept.
Come on, Blejjo, this is not a sport for old men like us. Fishing is
more our speed."
Chuckling, Blejjo shouldered his fishing pole, and the two men started
down the dusty village street toward the road that led to the river.
* * * * *
They walked in silence for a while, trying to ignore the glaring sun
that brought the sweat out on their skins, soaking the sweatbands of
their broad-brimmed hats and running in little rivulets down their
bodies.
"I kind of feel sorry for that boy," old Blejjo said at last.
"Oh?" said Anketam. "How so? He'll get along. He's improving. Why, he
did as good a job of transplanting as any man this spring. Last year, he
bruised the seedlings, but I gave him a good dressing down and he
remembered it. He'll be all right."
"I'm not talking about that, Ank," said the old man, "I mean him and
Zillia. He's really got a case on with that girl."
"Anything wrong with that? A young fellow's got a right to fall in love,
hasn't he? And Zillia seems pretty keen on him, too. If her father
doesn't object, everything ought to go along pretty smoothly."
"Her father might not object," said Blejjo, looking down at his feet as
they paced off the dusty road. "But there's others who might object."
"Who, for instance?"
Blejjo was silent for several steps. Then he said: "Well, Kevenoe, for
one."
Anketam thought that over in silence. Kevenoe was on The Chief's staff
at the castle. Like many staff men--including, Anketam thought wryly,
his own brother Russat, on occasion--he tended to lord it over the
farmers who worked the land. "Kevenoe has an eye on Zillia?" he asked
after a moment.
"I understand he's asked Chief Samas for her as soon as she's eighteen.
That would be this fall, after harvest."
"I see," Anketam said thoughtfully. He didn't ask how the old man had
come about his knowledge. Old Blejjo had little to do, and on the
occasions that he had to do some work around The Chief's castle, he made
it a point to pick up gossip. But he was careful with his information;
he didn't go spreading it around for all to hear, and he made it a point
to verify his information before he passed it on. Anketam respected the
old man. He was the only one in the village who called him "Ank,"
outside of Memi.
"Do you think The Chief will give her to Kevenoe?" he asked.