The Survivors

at night there was no surcease from the gravity. They could only go into a coma-like sleep in which there was no real rest and from which they awoke tired and aching. Each morning there would be some who did not awaken at all, though their hearts had been sound enough for working on Earth or Athena.

The killing labor was recognized as necessary, however, and there were no complaints until the morning he was accosted by Peter Bemmon.

He had seen Bemmon several times on the Constellation; a big, soft-faced man who had attached much importance to his role as a minor member of the Athena Planning Board. But even on the Constellation Bemmon had felt he merited a still higher position, and his ingratiating attitude when before his superiors had become one of fault-finding insinuations concerning their ability as compared with his when their backs were turned. This resentment had taken new form on Ragnarok, where his former position was of utterly no importance to anyone and his lack of any skills or outdoor experience made him only one worker among others.

The sun was shining mercilessly hot the day Bemmon chose to challenge Prentiss’s wisdom as leader. Bemmon was cutting and sharpening stakes, a job the sometimes-too-lenient Anders had given him when Bemmon had insisted his heart was on the verge of failure from doing heavier work. Prentiss was in a hurry and would have gone on past him but Bemmon halted him with a sharp command:

“You—wait a minute!”

Bemmon had a hatchet in his hand, but only one stake lay on the ground; and his face was red with anger, not exertion. Prentiss stopped, wondering if Bemmon was going to ask for a broken jaw, and Bemmon came to him.

“How long,” Bemmon asked, anger making his voice a little thick, “do you think I’ll tolerate this absurd situation?”

“What situation?” Prentiss asked.

“This stupid insistence upon confining me to manual labor. I’m the single member on Ragnarok of the Athena Planning Board and surely you can see that the bumbling confusion of these people”—Bemmon indicated the hurrying, laboring men, women and children around them—“can be transformed into efficient, organized effort only through proper supervision. Yet my abilities along such lines are ignored and I’ve been forced to work as a common laborer—a wood chopper!”

He flung the hatchet down viciously, into the rocks at his feet, breathing heavily with resentment and challenge. “I demand the respect to which I’m entitled.”

“Look,” Prentiss said.

He pointed to the group just then going past them. A sixteen-year-old girl was bent almost double under the weight of the pole she was carrying, her once pretty face flushed and sweating. Behind her two twelve- year-old boys were dragging a still larger pole. Behind them came several small children, each of them carrying as many of the pointed stakes as he or she could walk under, no matter if it was only one. All of them were trying to hurry, to accomplish as much as possible, and no one was complaining even though they were already staggering with weariness.

“So you think you’re entitled to more respect?” Prentiss asked. “Those kids would work harder if you were giving them orders from under the shade of a tree—is that what you want?”

Bemmon’s lips thinned and hatred was like a sheen on his face. Prentiss looked from the single stake Bemmon had cut that morning to Bemmon’s white, unblistered hands. He looked at the hatchet that Bemmon had thrown down in the rocks and at the V notch broken in its keen-edged blade. It had been the best of the very few hatchets they had …

“The next time you even nick that hatchet I’m going to split your skull with it,” he said.

“Pick it up and get back to work. I mean work. You’ll have broken blisters on every finger tonight or you’ll go on the log-carrying force tomorrow. Now, move!”

What Bemmon had thought to be his wrath deserted him before Prentiss’s fury. He stooped to obey the order but the hatred remained on his face and when the hatchet was in his hands he made a last attempt to bluster:

“The day may come when we’ll refuse to tolerate any longer your sadistic displays of authority.”

“Good,” Prentiss said. “Anyone who doesn’t like my style is welcome to try to change it—or to try to replace me. With knives or clubs, rifles or broken hatchets, Bemmon—any way you want it and any time you want it.”

“I—” Bemmon’s eyes went from the hatchet in his half raised hand to the long knife in Prentiss’s belt. He swallowed with a convulsive jerk of his Adam’s apple and his hatchet-bearing arm suddenly wilted. “I don’t want to fight—to replace you—”

He swallowed again and his face forced itself into a sickly attempt at an ingratiating smile.