That beautiful mountain, that lush green valley, gave me a feeling of déjà vu. Then I placed it: Mount Hood in the land of my birth back on old Earth, as I had first seen it as a young man. But this valley, this snowcapped peak, had never before been seen by men.

  I called out to Buck to halt the march. “Dorable, we’re home; in sight of it, somewhere down in that valley.”

  ‘Home,’” she repeated. “Oh, my darling!”

  “Don’t sniffle.”

  “I wasn’t sniffling!” she answered, smiling. “But I’ve got an awful good cry saved up and when I get time to, I’m going to use it.”

  “All right, dear,” I agreed, “when you have time. Let’s name that mountain ‘Dora Mountain.’”

  She looked thoughtful. “No, that’s not its name. That’s Mount Hope. And all this below is Happy Valley.”

  “Durable Dora, you’re incurably sentimental.”

  “You should talk!” She patted her belly, swollen almost to term. “That’s Happy. Valley because it’s where I’m going to have this hungry little beast…and that’s Mount Hope because it is.”

  Buck had come back to the first wagon and was waiting to find out why we had stopped. “Buck,” I said, pointing, “that’s home out there. We made it. Home, boy. Farm.”

  Buck looked out over the valley. “Ogay.”

  —in his sleep, Minerva. Not lopers, there wasn’t a mark on Buck. Massive coronary, I think, although I didn’t cut him open to find out. He was simply old and tired. Before we left, I had tried to put him to pasture with John Magee. But Buck didn’t want that. We were his family, Dora and Beulah and I, and he wanted to come along. So I made him mule boss and didn’t work him—I mean I never rode him and never had him in harness. He did work, as mule boss, and his patient good judgment got us safely to Happy Valley.

  We would not have made it without him.

  Maybe he could have lived a few years longer turned out to pasture. Or he might have pined away from loneliness soon after we left. Who’s to judge?

  I didn’t even consider butchering him; I think Dora would have miscarried it I had so much as broached the idea. But it is foolish to bury a mule when lopers and weather will soon take care of his carcass. So I buried him.

  It takes an hellacious big hole to bury a mule; If it hadn’t been soft river-bottom loam, I’d be there yet.

  But first I had to deal with personnel problems. Ken was just junior to Beulah in the water queue and was a steady, strong mule who talked fairly well. On the other hand, Beulah had been Buck’s straw boss the whole trek—but I could not recall a gang of mules bossed by a mare.

  Minerva, with H. sapiens this would not matter, at least not today on Secundus. But with some sorts of animals it does matter. A boss elephant is female. A boss chicken is, a cock, not a hen. A boss dog can be either sex. In a breed where sex controls the matter a man had better by a damn sight go along with their ways.

  I decided to see if Beulah could swing it, so I told her to line ‘em up for harness, both as a test and because I wanted to move the mules out of sight while I buried Buck—they were nervy and restless; the boss mule’s death had upset them.

  I don’t ‘know what mules think about death, but they are not indifferent to it.

  She promptly got busy, and I kept an eye on Kenny. He ac­cepted it, took his usual place by Daisy. Once I had them harnessed, Beulah was the only one left over, three mules dead now.

  I told Dora that I Wanted them moved a few hundred meters away. Would she handle it, with Beulah as march boss? Or would she feel safer if I did it?—and ran into a second problem: Dora wanted to be present when I buried Buck. More than that—”Woodrow, I can help dig. Buck was my friend, too, you know.”

  I said, “Dora, I’ll put up with anything at all from a preg­nant woman except allowing her to do something that would hurt her.”

  “But, dearest, I feel okay, physically—it’s just that I’m dreadfully upset over Buck. So I want to help.”

  “I think you are in good shape, too, and I want you to stay that way. You can help best by staying in the wagon. Dora, I haven’t any’ way to take care of a premature baby, and I don’t want to have to bury a baby as well as Buck.”

  Her eyes widened. “You think that would happen?”

  “Sweetheart, I don’t know. I’ve known women to hang onto babies under unbelievable hardships. I’ve seen others lose babies for no reason that I could see. The only rule I have about it is: Don’t take unnecessary chances. This one is not necessary.”

  So once again we replanned things to suit both of us, though it took an extra hour. I unshackled the second wagon and set up the fence again, put the four goats inside the fence, and left Dora in that wagon. Then I drove the first wagon three or four hundred meters away, unharnessed the mules, and told Beulah to keep them together—and told Ken to help her, and left Fritz to help her, too, and took Lady MacBeth with me to watch for lopers or whatever. The visibility was good—no brush, no high grass; the place looked like a tended park. But I was going to be down in a hole; I didn’t want something sneaking up on me or on the wagon. “Lady Mac­beth. High sentry. Up!”

  By agreement Dora stayed in the wagon.

  It took all that day to take care of our old friend, with a stop for lunch and a few short breaks for water and to catch my breath in the shade of the wagon—breaks I shared with Lady Mac, letting her get down each time I came up. Plus one interruption—It was rnidafternoon and I had dug almost enough hole when Lady Mac barked for me. I was up out of that hole fast, blaster in hand, expecting lopers.

  Just a dragon— I wasn’t especially surprised, Minerva; the well-cropped state of the turf, almost like a lawn, seemed to indicate dragon rather than prairie goat. Those dragons are not dangerous unless one happens to fall on you. They are slow, stupid, and strictly vegetarian. Oh, they’re ugly enough to be frightening; they look like six-legged triceratops. But that’s all. Lopers left them alone because biting armor is unreward­ing.

  I joined Dora at the wagon. “Ever seen one, hon?”

  “Not up close. Goodness, it’s huge.”

  “It’s a big one, all right. But it will probably turn away. I won’t waste a charge on it if I don’t have to.”

  But the durned thing did not turn away. Minerva, I think it was so stupid that it mistook the wagon for a lady dragon.

  Or the other way around, it is hard to tell male from female. But they are definitely bisexual; two dragons humping is a remarkable sight.

  When it got within a hundred meters, I let myself out the fence and took Lady Mac along, as she was quiveringly eager. I doubt if she had ever seen one; they were cleaned out around Top Dollar long before she was whelped. She danced up to it, barking but wary.

  I hoped that Lady would cause it to turn aside, but this misshapen rhinoceros paid no attention; it lumbered slowly along, straight for the wagon. So I tickled it with my needle gun between where it should have had lips, to get its at­tention. It stopped, astounded I think, and opened its mouth wide. That was what I needed, as I did not want to waste maximum power blasting through that armored hide. So—Blaster at minimum, right into its mouth: Scratch one dragon.

  It stood there a moment, then slowly collapsed. I called Lady and went back to the fence. Dora was waiting. “May I go look at it?” ­I glanced at the Sun. “Sweetheart, I’m going to be pushed to take care of Buck before dark, then fetch the mules back and move us on a way. Unless you are willing to bivouac, with the grave on one side and a dead dragon on the other?”

  She did not insist, and I got back to work. In another hour I had it deep enough and wide enough—got out block-and-tackle, a triple purchase, secured it to the rear axle, tied Buck’s hind feet together, hooked over the tie and took up the slack.

  Dora had come out with me. “Just a moment, dear.” She stopped to pat Buck’s neck, then leaned down and kissed his forehead. “All right, Woodrow. Now.”

  I heaved on the line. For a moment I thought the wagon would move despite the brakes being locked. Then, Buck started to slide, and fell into his grave. I shook the hook loose, then backfilled fast, closing in twenty minutes a hole it had taken me most of the day to dig. Dora waited.

  I finished. “Up into the wagon, Dorable; that’s it.”

  “Lazarus, I wish I knew something to say. Do you?”

  I thought about it. I had heard a thousand burial services; most of them I did not like. So I made up one. “Whatever God there be, please take care of this fine person. He always did his best. Amen.”

  (Omitted)

  —even those first years weren’t too hard, as Happy Valley would grow anything, two and three crops a year. But we should have named it “Dragon Valley.”

  Lopers were bad enough, especially the small lopers that hunted in packs which we found on that side of Raxnpa Range. ‘But those damned dragons! They almost drove me out of my skull. When you’ve lost the same potato patch four times running, it begins to wear.

  Lopers I could poison and did. I could trap them, too, if I changed style every time. Or I could put out bait at night and sit quietly and get most of a pack, silently, with a needle gun. I could do lots of things and did, and the mules learned to cope with them, too, sleeping closer together at night an always with one on watch, like quail or baboon. Whenever I beard the bellow that meant “Loper!” ‘I always came awake fast and tried to join the fun—but the mules rarely left me any; they not only could stomp them, but they could outrun them and get some or all of a pack that tried to escape. We lost three mules and six goats to lopers, but the lopers got the news and started giving us a wide berth.

  But those dragons! Too big to trap and would not take poison; salad was all they were after. But what one dragon can do to a cornfield in one night shouldn’t happen to Sodom and Gomorrah. Bow-and-arrow was futile against them, and a needle gun just tickled them. I could kill one with a blaster at full power right through the armor, or minimum power the way I got that first one if I could get my target to open its mouth. But unlike lopers, they were too stupid to stay away when they were losing.

  The first summer I was able to farm I killed more than hundred dragons in trying to save my crops…which was defeat for me and a victory for the dragons. Not only was the stench terrible (what can you do with a carcass that big?) but, far worse, I was running out of charges and they didn’t seem to be running out of dragons.

  No power. Buck’s River did not have enough head on it where we settled to think about trying to build a water wheel even if I cannibalized one wagon to build it. The windmill had fetched was in fact nothing but gears and other hardware the mill itself I would have to build, from sails to tower. Bu until I had power I had no way to recharge power packs.

  Dora solved it. We were still living in that first compound nothing but a high adobe wall just big enough to surround the wagons and to bring the goats inside at night, while we slept in the first wagon along with baby Zack and cooked in a clay Dutch oven—and between smoke, and goats and chick­ens and the sour smells babies can’t help making and the cesspit that bad to be inside the wall—well, the stench of dead dragons wasn’t too noticeable.

  We were finishing supper, Dora dressed in her rubies as always for supper, and were watching the moons and the stars coming out—best time of day, always, except that when I should have been admiring our firstborn at suck and enjoy­ing the sky, I was grousing about power and what in hell I could do about those pesky dragons.

  I had ticked off several simple ways to produce power— simple if you are on a civilized planet or even at a place like New Pittsburgh with its coal and its infant metals industry— when I happened to use a very old-fashioned term. Instead of talking about kilowatts or megadynecentimeters per second or such, I had remarked that I would settle for ten horse­power any way I could get it.

  Dora had never seen a horse, but she knew what one was. She said, “Beloved, wouldn’t ten mules do instead?”

  (Omitted)

  We had been in our valley seven years when the first wagon showed up. Young Zack was nearly seven and beginning to be some help to me—or thought he was and I encouraged him to try. Andy was five, and Helen not yet four. We had lost Persephone, and Dora was pregnant again, and that was why—Dora had insisted on starting another baby at once, not wait one day, one hour—and she was right. Once we knew she had caught, our morale picked up overnight. We missed Persephone; she had been a darling baby. But we stopped grieving and looked forward instead. I hoped for another girl but was willing to settle for any baby—no way to control the sex of a child, then and there.

  All in all, we were in fine shape, with a prosperous farm, a healthy, happy family, plenty of livestock, a much larger compound with a house built right into it against the back wall, a windmill that drove a saw, or ground grain, or sup­plied power for my blaster.

  When I spotted that wagon, my first thought was that it was going to be nice to have neighbors. But my second thought was that I was going to be proud, very proud, to show off my fine family and our farm to these newcomers.

  Dora climbed up to the roof and watched the wagon with me; it was still over fifteen kilometers away, could not arrive before evening. I put my arm around her. “Excited, hon?”

  “Yes. Though I’ve never been lonely; you haven’t let me be. How many do you think I should expect for supper?”

  “Hmm— Only one wagon. One family. My best guess is a couple, with none, one, or two children. More than that would surprise me.”

  “Me, too, darling, but there’ll be plenty to eat.”

  “And put some clothes on our kids before they get here—wouldn’t want ‘em to guess we’re raising savages, would we?” She answered, deadpan, “Shall I wear clothes, too?”

  “What swank! That’s up to you, Rangy Lil—but who was it said just last month that she had never worn her party dress?”

  “Will you be wearing a kilt, Lazarus?”

  “I might. I might even take a bath. I’ll need one because I’m going to spend the rest of the day cleaning the goat compound and a lot of other things—make this place look as neat as possible. But forget the name ‘Lazarus,’ dear; I’m Bill Smith again.”

  “I’ll remember—Bill. I’ll bathe before they get here, too— because I’m going to have a hot and busy time, cooking, cleaning house, bathing our children, and trying to teach them how to be introduced to strangers. They’ve never seen anyone else, dear; I’m not sure they believe there is anyone else.”

  “They’ll behave.” I was sure they would. Dora and I had the same ideas about raising kids. Praise them, never scream at them, punish as necessary and right now—never a mo­ment’s delay—then it’s over with and forget it. Be as lavish with affection after a spanking as any other time—or a bit extra. Spanking they had to have (Dora usually used a switch) because, without exception over the centuries, my kids have been hell-raisers who would take advantage of the sweetness-and-light routine. Some of my wives had trouble believing what little monsters I spawn—but Dora was right with me on this wild-animal act from scratch. In consequence she raised the most civilized brood I’ve ever fathered.

  When that wagon was maybe a kilometer away, I rode out to meet them—then was surprised and disappointed. A family, yes, if you count a man and two grown sons as a family. No women, no children. I wondered how they thought they were going to pioneer.

  The younger son was not fully grown; his beard was sparse and scraggly. Nevertheless, he was taller and heavier than I was, and he was the smallest of the three. His father and brother were mounted; he was driving—actually driving; they were not using a mule boss. No livestock other than mules that I could see, although I did not attempt to look into their wagon.

  I did not like their looks and reversed my idea about neigh­bors. I hoped they would move on down the valley, at least fifty kilometers.

  The mounted two were carrying guns at their belts—rea­sonable in loper country. I had a needle gun in sight myself, as well as a belt knife—and maybe other things not in sight, as I don’t consider it diplomatic to show much hardware in meeting strangers.

  As I approached, they stopped, the driver reining up his mules. I had Beulah stop about ten paces short of the lead pair. “Howdy,” I said. “Welcome to Happy Valley. I’m Bill Smith.”

  The oldest of the three looked me up and down. It is hard to tell a man’s expression when he wears a full beard, but what little I could see was no expression at all—wariness, perhaps. My own face was smooth—freshly shaved and clean overalls, in honor of visitors. I was keeping my face smooth both because Dora preferred it so and because I was staying “young” to match Dora. I was wearing my best friendly look—but was saying to myself, “You’ve got ten seconds to answer my greeting and say who you are—or you’re going to miss some of the best cooking on New Beginnings.”

  He just slid under the deadline; I had silently counted seven chimpanzees when he suddenly grinned through that face moss. “Why, that’s mighty friendly of you, young man.”

  “Bill Smith,” I repeated, “and I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Probably because I didn’t say,” he answered. “Name’s Montgomery. ‘Monty’ to my friends, and I don’t have any enemies, at least not for long. Right, Darby?”

  “Right Pop,” agreed the other mounted one.

  “And this is my son Darby and that’s Dan driving the jugheads. Say ‘Howdy,’ boys.”

  “Howdy,” they each answered.

  “Howdy, Darby. Howdy, Dan. Monty, is Mrs. Mont­gomery with you?” I nodded at the wagon, still did not at­tempt to see into it—a man’s wagon is as private as his house.

 

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