Grampaw Moseley wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. There were
no napkins, which suited him fine.
"It warn't," he said, "a bad meal. But it warn't a fust-class un,
neither. Them synthos an' concentrates ain't got no more flavor than--"
Bobby agreed with him. Syntho ham wasn't too bad. It had a nice, meaty
taste. And syntho coffee tasted pretty much like the real thing. But
those syntho eggs tasted like nothing under the sun except just plain,
awful syntho eggs.
Four Eros days--the equivalent of forty-two Earth hours or so--had
passed since their crash landing. In that short time, much had been
done to make their beach camp-site comfortable. All members of the
family were waiting now for Dick to return.
Pop said seriously, "I'm afraid you'll have to eat them and like them
for a little while, Father. We can't get fresh foods until we're
settled; we can't settle until--Ah! Here comes Dick!"
"I'll eat 'em," grumbled Grampaw, "but be durned if I'll like 'em.
What'd you l'arn, Dicky-boy?"
Dick removed his helmet, unzipped himself from his bulger, shook his
head.
"It looks worse every time I go back. I may not be able to get in the
airlock again if the ship keeps on settling. The whole prow split wide
open when we hit, the ship is full of water. The flour and sugar and
things like that are ruined. I managed to get a few more things out,
though. Some tools, guns, wire--stuff like that."
"How about the hypatomic?"
"Let him eat, Rob," said Mom. "He's hungry."
"I can eat and talk at the same time, Mom. I think I can get the
hypatomic out. I'd better, anyhow. If we're ever going to raise the
ship, we'll need power. And atomic power is the only kind we can get in
this wilderness." And he shook his head. "But we can't do it in a day
or a week. It will take time."
"Time," said Pop easily, "is the one commodity with which we are
over-supplied." He thought for a minute. "If that's the way it is, we
might as well move."
"Move?" demanded Grampaw. "What's the matter with the place we're at?"
"For one thing, it's too exposed. An open beach is no place for a
permanent habitation. So far we've been very lucky. We've had no
storms. But for a permanent camp-site, we must select a spot further
inland. A fertile place, where we can start crops. A place with fresh,
running water, natural shelter against cold and wind and rain--"
"What'll we do?" grinned Dick. "Flip a coin?"
"No. Happily, there is a spot like that within an easy walk of here.
I discovered it yesterday while studying the terrain." Pop took a
stick, scratched a rude drawing on the sand before him. "This is the
coastline. We landed on the west coast of this inlet. The land we see
across there, that low, flat land, I judge to be delta islands. Due
south of us is a fine, fresh-water river, watering fertile valleys to
either side. There, I think, we should build."
Dick nodded.
"Fish from the sea, vegetables from our own farm--is there any game,
Pop?"
"That I don't know. We haven't seen any. Yet."
"We'll find out. Will this place you speak of be close enough to let me
continue working on the _Cuchulainn_? Yes? Well, that's that. When do
we start?"
"Why not now? There's nothing to keep us here."
* * * * *
They packed their meager belongings while Dick finished his meal; the
sun was high when they left the beach. They followed the shore line
southward, the ground rising steadily before them. And before evening,
they came to a rolling vale through which a sparkling river meandered
lazily to the sea.
Small wonders unfolded before their eyes. Marching along, they
had discovered that there was game on Eros. Not quite Earthly, of
course--but that was not to be expected. There was one small, furry
beast about the size of a rabbit, only its color was vivid leaf-green.
Once, as they passed a wooded glen, a pale, fawnlike creature stole
from the glade, watched them with soft, curious eyes. Another time
they all started violently as the familiar siren of a Patrol monitor
screamed raucously from above them; they looked up to see an irate,
orange and jade-green bird glaring down at them.