Part 20 (1/2)

”Come,” said the leader of the fleet.

With a sort of dignity that was theatrical only because he was aware of it, the leader of the people of Colin showed the way. Hoddan had been admitted with his s.p.a.ceboat into one gigantic cargo hold. He was now escorted to the next. It was packed tightly with cases of machinery. One huge crate had been opened and its contents fully disclosed. Others had been hacked at enough to show their contents.

The uncrated machine was a jungle plow. It was a powerful piece of equipment which would attack jungle on a thirty-foot front, knock down all vegetation up to trees of four-foot diameter, shred it, loosen and sift the soil to a three-foot depth, and leave behind it smoothed, broken, pulverized dirt mixed with ground-up vegetation ready to break down into humus. Such a machine would clear tens of acres in a day and night, turning jungle into farmland ready for terrestrial crops.

”We ran this for five minutes,” said the bearded man fiercely as Hoddan nodded approval. He lifted a motor hood.

The motors were burned out. Worthless insulation. Gears were splintered and smashed. Low-grade metal castings. a.s.sembly bolts had parted.

Tractor treads were bent and cracked. It was not a machine except in shape. It was a mock-up in worthless materials which probably cost its maker the twentieth part of what an honest jungle plow would cost to build.

Hoddan felt the anger any man feels when he sees betrayal of that honor a competent machine represents.

”It's not all like this!” he said incredulously.

”Some is worse,” said the old man, with dignity. ”There are crates which are marked to contain turbines. Their contents are ancient, worn-out brick-making machines. There are crates marked to contain generators.

They are filled with corroded irrigation pipe and broken castings. We have s.h.i.+ploads of crush-baled, rusted sheet-metal tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs! We have been cheated of our lives!”

Hoddan found himself sick with honest fury. The population of one-third of a planet, packed into s.p.a.ces.h.i.+ps for two years and more, would be appropriate subjects for sympathy at the best of times. But it was only accident that had kept these people from landing on Thetis by rocket--since none of their s.h.i.+ps would be expected ever to rise again--and from having their men go out and joyfully hack at an alien jungle to make room for their machines to land--and then find out they'd brought sc.r.a.p metal for some thousands of light-years to no purpose.

They'd have starved outright. In fact, they were in not much better case right now. Because there was nowhere else that they could go! There was no new colony which could absorb so many people, with only their bare hands for equipment to live by. There was no civilized, settled world which could admit so many paupers without starving its own population.

There was nowhere for these people to go!

Hoddan's anger took on the feeling of guilt. He could do nothing, and something had to be done.

”Why ... why did you come to Darth?” he asked. ”What can you gain by orbiting here? You can't expect--”

The old man faced him.

”We are beggars,” he said with bitter dignity. ”We stopped here to ask for charity--for the old and worn-out machines the people of Darth can spare us. We will be grateful for even a single rusty plow. Because we have to go on. We can do nothing else. We will land on Thetis. And one plow can mean that a few of us will live who otherwise would die with ... with the most of us.”

Hoddan ran his hands through his hair. This was not his trouble, but he could not thrust it from him.

”But again--why Darth?” he asked helplessly. ”Why not stop at a world with riches to spare? Darth's a poor place--”

”Because it is the poor who are generous,” said the bearded man evenly.

”The rich might give us what they could spare. But simple, not-rich people, close to the soil, will give us what they need themselves. They will share what they have, and accept a share of our need.”

Hoddan paced up and down the ancient flooring of this compartment in an ancient s.h.i.+p. Presently he said jerkily:

”With all the good will in the world.... Darth is poverty-stricken. It has no industries. It has no technology. It has not even roads! It is a planet of little villages and tiny towns. A s.h.i.+p from elsewhere stops here only once a month. Ground communications are almost nonexistent. To spread the word of your need over Darth would require months. But to collect what might be given, without roads or even wheeled vehicles-- No.

It's impossible! And I have the only s.p.a.ce vessel on the planet, and it's not fit for a journey between suns.”

The bearded man waited with a sort of implacable despair.

”But,” said Hoddan grimly, ”I have an idea. I ... ah ... have contacts on Walden. The government of Walden does not regard charity with favor.

The need for charity seems a ... ah ... a criticism of the Waldenian standard of living.”