The men got tired of just being examined. Some fights broke out from complaints of losers. And the
Chiefs organized competitions to settle things.
The selections went well into darkness and were finally completed by firelight.
But Jonnie did not wind up with fifty. He finished with eighty-three. For diplomacy, Jonnie requested the Chiefs to select an older man as their representative, one in whom they felt confidence; they chose Robert the
Fox as a veteran of many raids and very learned. So that made fifty-one.
Apparently it would be unseemly not to have pipers, so two of those were chosen, and these claimed they needed a drummer so one of those was selected. This made fifty-four.
Then some old women elbowed themselves to the front and demanded to know who was going to mend torn kilts, scrape hides, dry fish, care for wounded, and cook? and Jonnie found himself with new arguments and elections and five old widows of indeterminate age but universally attested skills. This made fifty-nine.
Since the Chiefs had been told there was a lot of study involved, Jonnie found himself confronting a small but determined schoolmaster who claimed it took an iron rod to make young men, who had appetites only for hunting and women, study. And the Chiefs said he must go too: number sixty.
But the question of death had stirred up a row from three parsons. Who would care for the souls of these young men? And also keep them respectful? There was a further quarrel as to which of the three it would be, and the lucky one drew the long straw. This made sixty-one.
Jonnie had his own plan to take care of. All of those chosen were bright. But he had to have three very bright ones who also came somewhere near his height and build, who could learn Psychlo quickly, and who could at a distance or over poor radio connections look and sound vaguely like him. He found about a dozen and asked the Chiefs, schoolmaster, and parson which of these were quick studies. They named the three. And that made sixty-four.
A scholarly old fellow showed up who lamented the fact that no one would be writing the history that would become legend. It turned out he was the dean of literature of a sort of underground university that had been eking along for centuries, and on the argument that he had two capable replacements for himself in the school and– due to his age and poor health-was expendable anyway, he could not be left behind by the MacTyler. Robert the Fox thought that very necessary, so that made sixty-five.
Eighteen outright, uncontestable ties had shown up in the contests the Chiefs had arranged, and when it looked like blood would be spilled over it, Jonnie gave in. And that made eighty-three.
He woke up Terl, who had been hitting the kerbango pretty heavily since sunset and was lying like a mountain across the plane seats.
“We have eighty-three," said Jonnie. “The plane takes fifty Psychlos, and eighty-three humans won't occupy that space or make up that weight. I want to make sure you do not object to eighty-three.”
Terl was foggy and sleepy. “The casualty rate of such a project is high. We have to make it appear that they are just training all winter when they are operating, so the extra numbers are fine. Why'd you wake me up for a silly question like that, animal?” And he went back to sleep. Jonnie had culled another piece of Terl's project from this. Up to now he hadn't any real hard data on Terl's plans. Praise all for kerbango, thought Jonnie as he went off.
He had the historian draw up a roster of the Anguses and Duncans and all their parade of names, and sent them off in the night to hasten pell-mell to their homes and get heavy and light clothing and sleeping blankets, personal gear, and a few days' worth of food to tide them over until he could round up cattle. They must be back at dawn, and those who didn't have them borrowed horses, for in some cases it was a long ride both ways.
Jonnie had a final meeting with the Chiefs. “We have caused quite a row up here in the Highlands, and although the local minesite is five hundred miles away, it would be a good thing now for your people to be quiet and undemonstrative for the coming year.”
The English lord thought that was a very good idea. The Chiefs agreed to it.
“There is a distinct possibility,” said Jonnie, “that we will fail. And that I will never see you again and the group will be killed.”
They brushed this off. Brave men always risked death, didn't they? And they'd not blame MacTyler. The bad thing would be not to try. That would be what couldn't be forgiven.
In the midnight chill, Jonnie talked to those who had not been chosen, thinking he would leave disappointment there. But he found the Chiefs had already told them that when the mission succeeded they would be a recovery corps in charge of policing and reorganizing England, Scandinavia, Russia, Africa, and China, and they were already scheduling study, training, and organizing to do that at the end of a year. And the non-chosens were wild with enthusiasm.
Fearghus was spokesman as he calmly outlined it to Jonnie. It worked on a clan system, of course.
My god, gaped Jonnie, these Scots thought big!
“Don't fret, MacTyler. We're behind ye.”
Jonnie, exhausted, stretched out under the fuselage of the freighter, wrapped in a woolen blanket handwoven in the tartan of Clanfearghus, and fell into a hopeful sleep. For the first time since the death of his father, he did not feel alone.
Part VII
Chapter 1
The first trouble came from Terl. He had a hangover after his solo binge, and he had been irritated close to anger at the comings and goings and delays.
At first light, Jonnie began to load them as they arrived singly and in groups from their errands to their homes. The people in the meadow had not left but had slept on the ground around fires– no one was going to miss the departure. More Scots, having missed the gathering of the clans due to distance or infirmity, had come in, and the number had doubled.
Jonnie began showing them how to tie down their gear in the military supply locks of the personnel freighter, and how to fasten themselves into the seats, two to a seat, and adjust the belts. He had gotten about six fully settled when two of them promptly got out of their seats again and started showing newcomers where to stow their gear and how to handle the belts.
Some apologized for seeming to bring so little but times had been hard, they said. It was no longer safe to raid in the lowlands. Some thought perhaps they were bringing too much, but one never knew, did one?
Some were a bit late and streamed in a breathless rush, the historian worriedly checking off their names.
The old women came in a clatter of kettles. The parson arrived rolling a keg– in case someone became ill. Jonnie strapped it down tightly, curious: he had never seen whiskey before.
The sun was getting higher. Terl roared from the cab, “Get these filthy animals loaded!” People became very quiet; Jonnie winked at them and they relaxed and got loading going once more.
Finally, they were all there. All eighty-three of them.