PAC-4 SPRING

Or was it faith and cynicism, like Rudy said?

Gee shook his head and swished his tail back and forth over his back in what Quenton knew must be a remnant of racial memory, since there were no horseflies here on PAC-4. In fact Gee, decanterized at the Ag Station, had never even seen a horsefly. If there were any here they’d certainly be buzzing around the manure Gee had casually relieved himself of just now.

Quenton shook his head and spit again, still yellow. He was good with machines, and in spite of the cost effectiveness of transporting frozen, fertilized ova that were self repairing and self reproducing, Quenton would rather have a tractor. A pollution belching, fuel guzzling behemoth that could grind the rocks to still more powder as he steered from a seat high above the dust cloud, shaded by an umbrella. Maybe then farming wouldn’t seem so bad.

He cursed softly, yanked his bandanna up to cover his nose and whipped the reins. The team started with a lurch that tested his grip on the plow handles for the hundredth time. Within a dozen steps he hit a rock that tore the handles from his grasp, tipped the plow almost straight up and caused the horses to grunt, stopping short.

"Whoa, damn it, whoa!" he yelled as the team braced for another go. They relaxed and Quenton drew back his right foot to kick the dislodged rock, hesitated, then clawed down the bandanna and spit instead. Knowing the routine, the horses waited patiently for him to unhitch the plow and roll the rock into the sling before they dragged it up the furrow to the wall. Cresting the swell near the fence he could see Rudy pampering his team as he strolled along at a leisurely pace without even a bandanna. At that pace the dust never topped Rudy’s boots but he would still finish well before Quenton, since he had cleared most of his rocks years before. But Rudy still came to the fence to visit when Quenton came, walking slow and quoting Frost again how good fences make good neighbors. The truth was the fence provided a wind break for soil conservation, as well as a convenient way to dispose of the rocks unearthed by plowing - here on PAC-4 as well as New England. Quenton stacked the rock on top then mopped his brow with his already damp handkerchief as he waited.

"Doin’ real good, Quent," Rudy drawled, smiling up the swell. He even talked like a farmer now, Quenton knew Rudy had been a successful plumber back on Rylon-2.

"I’ll trade you fields, Rudy, farm and all."

"Clara too?" Rudy grinned. His wife, Elsa, was fat and forty, just like Rudy himself.

"You keep your kids, though," Quenton affirmed. Rudy looked thoughtful, then raised his eyebrows and grinned again. He was irrepressible.

"Make you nervous, do they, Quent?" He knew they did. It was part of what Quenton had run away from when he was sixteen; that and his overbearing mother, who hated men and had become more and more hostile toward him as he matured toward manhood. "It’s a bit rocky now," Rudy added, "your field and..." he winked, "your relationship with Clara. But things will smooth out if you work at them."

"I guess so," Quenton allowed. Being married was prerequisite to being assigned to an agricultural colony.