Power Lines

Aisling's mouth made a perfect O. "Oh, books would be marvelous, and schools for the children."

"They learn what they need to learn from their parents about how to live here," Sinead said bluntly.

"There is such a wide world out there," Marmion put in. Surely knowing more about the inhabited galaxy wouldn't really harm the children; it would merely give them other interests than the limited ones of this planet, however beautiful and diverse.

"Which they see soon enough if they join the company," Sinead finished blightingly.

"But, Sinead, there's more in books about how to do our things differently. And more stories… "

"And old songs from many ethnic traditions," Marmion put in. "And different instruments to play on…"

"We could sure use a few more decent fiddles," Aigur remarked, and then continued hesitantly, "and I'd like to know how to read and write. That way I'd be able to figure out some of the old patterns my great-great brought with her."

"Schools, teachers, reading, writing, arithmetic," Torkel said emphatically. "We've not paid sufficient attention to your needs." And he bowed smilingly at Aigur, whose eyes still shone with the prospect of being able to read.

Aisling leaned across the table and appealingly touched her partner's arm. "That would be good to know, Sinead dear. For everyone, and not having to join the company to get the learning."

"You must ask Clodagh," Marmion said firmly. She ignored the look Torkel shot her.

Sinead gave Marmion a long searching look. "We all admire and respect Clodagh, make no mistake, but something like this is decided by all the shanachies, not just one."

It was Marmion's turn to lean with an air of gentle petition to Sinead. "It is, however, a way of spreading this news to all the other villages for them to make up their minds, isn't it?" Marmion didn't smile at Sinead, but let her eyes dance with challenge.

To her surprise, Sinead threw back her head and laughed out loud, shaking her head and refusing to explain.

"Schools and elementary education, and power stations, too," Torkel went on, slowly building his case.

"Power stations?" Sinead was immediately antagonistic. "What for? To break down in a blizzard, to crash down on our homes in the high winds?"

"We've more sophisticated power sources than pylons, my dear," Torkel began.

"I'm not your dear, and we'd have no use for such power."

Torkel gave back as good as she gave, with raised eye-brows and a mocking expression. "No use for lighting that doesn't stink like sour milk? No use for power tools that cut your work load, could drive the harnesses of that big loom and save Aigur hours, heat your houses, water, so you could have a hot bath in your own home without having to trudge two miles to the volcanic springs?"

A silence fell in the room-even the cats on the roof ceased to move about-for one long moment while Sinead, face utterly expressionless, regarded Torkel. Marmion took good note of the shock, surprise, and consternation on the other two faces. Then suddenly Sinead shrugged, grinned, and made a good attempt to toss off her reaction.

"The hot springs are sort of social, Captain, and we don't have the need for power tools as you do at SpaceBase. Too expensive for us to buy, even with what trade items we have, but the matter is something for the villages to decide for themselves, the way we always decide what is good for us, and for our planet."

The sound of an air shuttle over flying the village distracted everyone.

"What the…" Torkel was on his feet and to the nearest window, craning his neck to get a view of what he knew had to be an unauthorized flight. Sounded like a light shuttle, too, and there shouldn't have been any of that type vehicle down here.

"'Scuse me," he called over his shoulder and was out the door before he heard a response.

He caught a good glimpse of the battered rear end, of the craft and its trajectory. Frag it! The loon was landing just outside Shannonmouth. As he plowed a direct course across the mud road, ignoring the boardwalks, he also caught just a flick or two of orange tails. Turning to look back over his shoulder, he saw that there wasn't a single cat on any of the roofs. The next thing he knew, he had tripped over a rock in the mud and measured his length in the thick gooey mud.

This did nothing to improve his humor. He got to his feet, scraping off as much as he could with his bare hands, then with a branch he savagely broke from a shrub, and finally with handfuls of moss from the trunks of trees. In a way, he realized, the accident had just helped him frame what he would say to the misbegotten ass hole fly boy who had illegal possession of an illegal-size vehicle and-He stopped dead at the clearing where the craft had landed, and at the man sauntering across the bracken toward him, unshaven, despite the clean guard uniform he wore and the badge that identified him as SpaceBase personnel.

"Captain Torkel Fiske?" the man asked, and the voice somehow set off a memory in Torkel's mind: the voice, the stance, the swaggering insolence of a man in a common soldier's uniform.