“The wagons,” Tim said, “they're all alike.”
Damon nodded; Halida smiled.
Spiral children noticed early. Eggs were alike, seeds were alike, babies were alike, but crafted things were not. Things that were all alike were ancient machines from the time of Landing, “settler magic” like computers and microwave ovens; or they were the wood-and-iron wagons of a caravan.
Wagons were painted in flamboyant fashion, a match for merchants' clothing. When the side opened to form a counter and sunscreen, each wagon became a shop different from every other shop. But the counters were up, the wagons were closed, and this was Tim Bednacourt's first good look at wagons. They were identical down to the last centimeter, as if made all at the same time, from identical components, by identical workmen.
The drivers' alcoves denied their similarities. They were painted too, and furnished with pillows and little shelves and niches that held mugs or pieces of carved wood. From arcs of driver's benches that would be roomy for four, merchants watched Tim pass. They didn't speak, but they smiled.
“They smile for you,” Halida said. “We might have had to eat our own cooking.”
The chugs weren't paying much notice to passersby, or the Road, or anything but their own steady motion.
Fourth wagon from the end: the chugs were marked with two vertical bars on an S. Halida climbed four shallow steps to the driver's bench. The drivers shifted to give her room. She looked down at Tim and said, “Milasevik. We carry tents and bedding.”
They walked on.
Ibn-Rushd was sixth from the end, out of thirteen wagons. A summer caravan would have been fifteen to twenty. Senka smiled at Tim from the driver's bench; Rian merely watched. The last chug was marked with a crescent and six-pointed star.
Damon ignored the steps. He was into the driver's alcove in a smooth pull-and-jump maneuver. A gesture invited Tim to do the same.
Tim dropped his pack into the alcove, then scrambled over the side. practice, he promised himself.
Milo called up to him. “Milo Spadoni. Second in line. We carry ammunition, we and Tucker.” He walked on.
The driver's bench would hold four, and it was full. Senka, Rian, an elderly lady Tim didn't know, and man's brother. Tim said, “Hello, Joker.”
“Tim,” Joker said.
Damon said, “Tim Bednacourt, this is Shireen ibn-Rushd. You obey her in all things. Mother, Tim is a wonderful cook.”
“Very pleased,” Tim said. The old lady smiled.
Tethers from each of the chugs were tied to knobs on a half-circle of rail, but the women weren't bothering with them. The chugs seemed to know what they were doing.
Damon ibn-Rushd said, “You're a yutz now, but not a labor yutz. Your rank is 'chef.' There are three other chefs and me and Marilyn Lyons. Lyons wagon carries the rest of the cookery. You take orders from me or Marilyn, but if any other merchant tells you to lift or carry something, you don't have to. You can draft a loose labor yutz if he'll put up with it, but any merchant might give him another job.
“And this is yours.” Damon stooped and dug under the bench. Senka ibn-Rushd slid aside for him. He came out with what Tim recognized as a gun, and a broad belt in his other hand.
He handed the gun to Tim. “Have you ever fired a shark gun?”
Tim Bednacourt said, “No.” He took the gun, suppressing the flinch, and held it as if he didn't know which part was the handle. It looked exactly like the gun that had killed Fedrick. He felt queasy.
“Hold it like this.” Damon showed him. “Never point at anything valuable, and never at a person. Keep your fingers off the trigger unless you're serious. These are bullets.” Bullets were the size of Tim's thumb: a ball of metal in a case made of what might be compressed vegetable fiber, “You load it like this. It doesn't work without bullets.” The gun took eight. “Never be caught with an unloaded gun. Twice never at sunset or sunrise! Let's get up on the roof and I'll give you some practice.”
Pull and jump, Damon was on the roof. Tim set his hands, pulled and jumped, lunged too far as the wagon rolled, and nearly fell off.
The roof was flat. At its corners were coils of rope. Cloth had been nailed along a ten-centimeter-high rim.
“Some of us like to get down on our bellies, prop up on our elbows and shoot that way,” Damon said. “I'm not going to teach you that. You can't swing far enough. Something could come at you from the side. See that tree?”
Not far inland, a slender Destiny fisher tree leaned far over, tip almost horizontal, lace blowing and shredding in a brisk breeze.
“Suppose you want to shoot the tip off that. Stand facing right by a little.” About thirty degrees right. “You're right-handed? Both hands on the gun. Fold your left fingers over the right, like this. Now your right arm is straight, but your left elbow bends. Lean forward a little, because the gun is going to kick back. Pull the trigger.”
The noise was an assault. The gun kicked in his hands. Something burst into view from trees nearby: a caricature of a bird, feathery and two-legged and big as a man. It ran in circles, squawking madly, then off down the Road.
Tim braced his arms, pointed, and fired again. The gun didn't snap up as high.
“Arms pull against each other,” Damon suggested.
Hmm? Tim tried that. It felt good, natural. The fisher tree was some distance behind him now, but he set his feet, held his aim on the tip of the tree, BLAM! it was flying dust.
He hadn't fired, the gun hadn't kicked.
“That Boardman yutz,” Damon said, “on Lyons wagon. He didn't throw you off, did he? That's the first mistake you'll make. Something distracts you, you pull, shoot a hole in something. Here-” Damon took the gun. He set himself. The fisher tree was far behind them now. Damon fired and the chewed tip jumped. “Like that.” He gave the gun back. “Pick something closer.”
The Road swerved gradually inland and the land was drying out. Tim chose a lone thick-holed Destiny teapot, aimed for the bole, braced his feet, his arms, BLAM. Dust and splinters sprayed from the edge. He aimed above the bole, at a smaller target, the spout. He scored another hit.
“Good! and enough,” Damon said. “Come sunset you can shoot sharks.” He bent and lifted. A square patch of roof came up. “All the wagons have attic storage. If a predator ever got this far, here's refuge. We'll stow your pack here. And-“ He reached into the hatch and brought out a transparent speckles pouch. “Here.” Tim took the pouch.
Damon dropped a handful of bullets into it. “Close it like this. Keeps water out.”
The space below the trapdoor might hold four or five friendly people, but it was packed with bedding, pillows, clothing, tarpaulins, and a big square box. Tim had to push to get his pack in. “Refuge? Damon, do I throw stuff out to make room for persons?”
Damon laughed. “It's never happened. We got used to using it for storage, but it's supposed to be a hidey-hole. All right, yes. Throw it to the sharks if they get this far.” He thumped the box. “Don't throw away the bullets.”
Damon showed Tim how to manipulate ropes on the wagon's roof to open the sides. Tim took it through the full routine while Damon watched.
“What's next?”
“Cooking. What do you do best?”
“Omelets. Stir-fry vegetables.”
'Takes eggs?' Damon looked down the Road. Ground cover had grown sparse.
Tim asked, “Would there be nests around here?'
The old woman spoke unexpectedly. “Oooh, I'd think so!”
Why was that funny? But Damon smiled. “We'll send out some yutzes.”
In midafternoon the wagons rolled drunkenly across wide, fiat stones in a shallow stream. When the seventh wagon was across, they all stopped. Tim watched the women release the chugs.