"Helen-"
She brushed her lips against his. "The answer is; No, Mr. Gibbons. Tonight I'll be busy reassuring a baby girl."
"I was about to say, Don't give her that bath I know you intend to until I get hold of Doc Krausmeyer and have him examine her. She seems all right-but she may have anything from broken ribs to a skull concussion. Oh, get her clothes off and sponge her a little for the worst of the dirt; that won't hurt her and it will make it easier for Doc to examine her."
"Yes, dear. Get your lecherous hands off my bottom and I'll get to work. You find Doc."
"Right away, Mrs. Mayberry."
"Until later, Mr. Gibbons. Au 'voir."
Gibbons told Buck to wait, walked over to the Waldorf, found (as he expected), Dr. Krausmeyer in the bar. The physician looked up from his drink. "Ernest! What's this I hear about the Harper place?'
'Well, what do you hear about it? Put down that glass and grab your hat. Emergency."
"Now, now! Haven't seen the emergency yet that wouldn't leave time to finish a drink. Clyde Learner was just in and bought us a round of drinks-bought this one you urged me to abandon-and told us that the Harper place had burned and killed the whole Brandon family. Says he tried to rescue them, but it was too late."
Gibbons briefly considered the desirability of a fatal accident happening to both Clyde Learner and Doe Krausmeyer some dark night-but, damn it, while Clyde would be no loss, if Doc died, Gibbons would be forced to hang out his own shingle-and his diplomas did not read "Ernest Gibbons." Besides, Doc was a good doctor when sober-and, anyhow, it's your own fault, old son; twenty years ago you interviewed him and okayed the subsidy. All you saw was a bright young intern and failed to spot the incipient lush.
"Now that you mention it, Doc, I did see Clyde hurrying toward the Harper place. If he says he was too late to save them I would have to back his story. However, it was not the whole family; their little girl, Dora, was saved."
"Well, yes, Clyde did say that. He said it was her parents he couldn't save."
"That's right. It's the little girl I want you to attend. She's suffering from multiple abrasions and contusions, possibly broken bones, possible internal injuries, a strong possibility of smoke poisoning-and a certainty of extreme emotional shock; very serious in a child that age. She's across the street at Mrs. Mayberry's place." He added softly, "I think you ought to hurry, Doctor, I really do. Don't you?"
Dr. Krausmeyer looked unhappily at his drink, then straightened up and said, "Mine host, if you will be so kind as to put this on the back of the bar, I shall return." He picked up his bag.
Dr. Krausmeyer found nothing wrong with the child, gave her a sedative. Gibbons waited until Dora was asleep, then went to arrange temporary board for his mule. He went to Jones Brothers ("Fine Stock-Mules Bought, Sold, Traded, Auctioned-Registered Stallions Standing at Stud") because his bank held a mortgage on their place.
Minerva, it wasn't planned; it just grew. I expected Dora to be adopted in a few days, a few weeks, some such. Pioneers don't feel about kids the way city people do. If they didn't like kids, they wouldn't have the temperament to pioneer. And as soon as pioneer kids stop being babies, the investment starts paying off. Kids are an asset in pioneer country.
I certainly did not plan to raise an ephemeral, or hold any fear that it would be necessary-nor was it necessary. I was beginning to simplify my affairs, expecting to leave soon, as my son Zaccur should show up any year.
Zack was my partner then, in a loose arrangement based on mutual trust. He was young, a century and a half or such, but steady and smart-out of Phyllis Briggs-Sperling by my last marriage but two. A fine woman, Phyllis, as well as a number-one mathematician. We made seven children together and every one of them smarter than I am. She married several times-I was her fourth* (* Fifth, James Matthew Libby was her fourth. J.F. 45th) and, as I recall, the first woman to win the Ira Howard Memorial Century Medal for contributing one hundred registered offspring to the Families. Took her less than two centuries but Phyllis was a girl of simple tastes, the other being pencil and paper and time to think about geometry.
I digress. To engage in the pioneering business profitably takes a minimax of a suitable ship and two partners, both shipmasters, both qualified to mount a migration and lead it-otherwise you are taking a shipload of city folks and abandoning them in wilderness...which often- happened in the early days of the Diaspora.
Zack and I did it properly, each fully qualified as captain in space, or as leader on a strange planet-taking turns. The one who stays behind when the ship leaves really does pioneer; he can't fake it, he can't just wave the baton. He may not be political head of the colony-I preferred not to be; talk is so time consuming. What he does have to be is a survivor, a man who can force that planet to feed him, and by his example show others how-and advise them if they want it.
The first wave is a break-even; the captain unloads and goes back for more migrants; the planet offers nothing for export that soon. The trip has been paid for by fares charged the migrants; profit, if any, will come from the partner on the ground selling what else the ship has carried-mules, hardware, swine, fertile chicken eggs-to the pioneers, on credit at first. Which means the partner on the ground has to look sharp and mind his rear; it doesn't take much to convince migrants who are having a tough time that this bloke is profiteering and should be lynched.
Minerva, the six times I did this-let myself be left behind with the first wave of a colony-I never once plowed a field without weapons at hand and I was always far more cautious with my own breed than I was with any dangerous animals that planet held.
But on New Beginnings we were past most such hazards. The first wave had made it, though just barely that terrible first winter-Helen Mayberry was not the only widow who had married a widower as a result of a weather cycle that Andy Libby and I had not anticipated; the star there-called "the Sun' as always, but you can check your memories for catalog designation-New Beginnings' Sun was a variable star by about the amount that old Sol is, just enough to give "unusual" wheather-and when we arrived we hit the bad weather jackpot.
But those who made it through that winter were tough enough to stand anything; the second wave had a much easier time.
I had disposed of my farm to migrants of the second wave and was putting my attention on business and trade to build up a cargo for the Andy J. to take back after Zack unloaded the third wave-and I would go back, too. Go somewhere, that is. What and where and how would be settled after I saw Zack.
In the meantime I was bored, getting ready to wind up my on-planet affairs, and found this waif an interesting diversion.
Delightful, I should say. Dora was a baby who was born grown-up. Utterly innocent, ignorant in the fashion that a small child necessarily is but most intelligent and delighted to learn anything. There was no meanness in her anywhere, Minerva, and I found her naïve conversation more entertaining than most talk of adults-usually trivial and rarely new.
Helen Mayberry took as much interest in Dora, and we two found ourselves in loco parentis without planning it.
We consulted each other and kept the baby girl away from the burial-some charred bones, including tiny ones of the baby that had never been born-and kept her away from the memorial service, too. Some weeks later, when Dora seemed to be in good shape and after I had had time to have a gravestone cut and erected, I took her out there and let her see it. She could read, and did-names and dates of her parents, and the single date for the baby,
She looked it over solemnly, then said, "That means Mama and Daddy won't ever be coming back. Doesn't it?"
"Yes, Dora."
"That's what the kids at school said. I wasn't sure."
"I know, dear. Aunt Helen told me. So I thought you had better see for yourself."
She looked again at the headstone, then said gravely, "I see. I guess I do. Thank you, Uncle Gibbie."
She didn't cry, so I didn't have any excuse to pick her up and console her. All I could think of to say was; "Do you want to go now, dear?"
"Yes."
We had ridden out on Buck, but I had left him at the foot of the hill, there being an unwritten rule against letting mules or tamed lopers walk on graves. I asked if she wanted mc to carry her-piggyback, perhaps. She decided to walk.
Halfway down-she stopped. "Uncle Gibbie?"
"Yes, Dora?"
"Let's not tell Buck about this."
"All right, Dora."
"He might cry."
"We won't tell him, Dora."
She did not say any more until we were back at Mrs. Mayberry's school. Then she was very quiet for about two weeks, and never mentioned it again to me, nor-I think-to anyone. She never asked to go back there, although we went riding almost every afternoon and often within sight of graveyard hill.