SPDX-License-Identifier
CC-BY-SA-4.0

Departure

Six months later, gray stratus clouds drizzled, and a brisk northwest wind lifted the rain-heavy flag and chilled anyone ill-dressed. Bob was not cold, despite his bare legs, for he was wearing his twelfth birthday present: a red nylon parka that covered him from hooded head to well below the waist. This day the project was receiving its initial fuel load, and was then departing to its uncertain future. There was so much last-minute work to be done. Bob, the Thompson teenagers and three other young people were out in the rain, frantically moving supplies and equipment from the walkway of the cement plant to their proper places in the chaos under the mirrors. Two full pallets remained, and seven more bitterly heavy electric motors on a third, and the boat was already coming in sight again. Bob knew that his father had tried to get everything delivered early, and the past week had been very busy. But somehow delays are inevitable, which was why everyone was out in the rain trying to do in one morning what they would usually take two full days to do. Bob was bone-weary and carefully husbanded his strength.

Raul Alcala, the teenage son of a new Mexican engineer forced to leave his country because of the political problems, stood a moment with hands on hips and complained, Le botcu na genza kamla .ida motsu kukra .i duo ie mu berti levi ctifu lede nusitfa

Bob agreed; how could the boat come back so quick? But as for how they were going to put away all the stuff, the answer was clear: Mu nerji turka. Bob struggled to lift a motor weighing more than half as much as he did, no small feat for a child, with back straight, thighs and butt straining, and the force erasing discouraging thoughts of gravity. He got it up and waddled off. Raul and Ted Thompson took the next two, with considerably less strain, while Susan cut the bands off the next pallet.

Bob was panting and hot when he returned to see the boat just below him. Hey, Bob, shouted its pilot, run over to the dock. Bob was glad for an excuse to take a break, even if brief, and he walked quickly onto the residential area. The boat was just arriving as he came down the stairs to the dock, and he saw it was filled with eight more pallets, which would be lifted to the cement plant walkway by a small crane and which he and the others would have to unload, and three passengers — a lady, a male teenager perhaps fifteen years old, and a girl about Bob's age, all with Oriental faces like Bob's. They were dressed for travel, with suitcases and yellow umbrellas. They appeared wet, cold, not too happy in the stomach, and apprehensive.

Hi, I'm Bob. Pass your suitcases over the gunwale and I'll grab them. The teenager's was heaviest; Bob was glad he was not going to carry it too, after those damn motors. The people followed the suitcases and the boat roared off. Who are you?

I'm Barbara Mori, and this is Kenji, and this is Tamiko.

Mori! What are you doing here? Nobody told me about a visit. Now is a rather poor time.

We're not visiting, said Barbara. We're coming here to live.

What? Mr. Mori said he absolutely would not allow his family here. What changed his mind? And he should have told us earlier. This is going to be a mess.

Whatever he might like to think, Hiroshi Mori doesn't make all the decisions in this family. We came secretly. That's why we couldn't tell you ahead. We're sorry for the trouble it will cause you.

My father promised Mr. Mori and you a place with us. I will find you a room, and I will feed you, such as I have, which isn't much, until you get set up. This is a good place, and I wouldn't leave it for anything, but it's hard work and very dangerous. Coming here is not something you do just as a joke.

The pirates, said Kenji. Father told us about them. We decided we would take the risk.

Look, it's not my place to judge you — that's my father's job, and he gave his word. Also, we're in kind of a rush, so I'm going to stick you in a room right now and then get back to my work. Follow me.

Bob led them up the stairs and along the walkway. Memorize where you are. See, on the right side facing the reactor, the farthest corner. Come up the end stairs. They came out on the newly completed second floor, where the apartments had doors. Do you like a view of the sea or of the courtyard?

Kenji and Tamiko looked at their mother. The sea, I think.

They continued on the walkway that ran in front of the seaward apartments. OK, This one's too small. This one's occupied. Here!

The apartment was generous in size, for an apartment, about eighty square meters. It had the gray, wet odor of young concrete. The floor was primed white, to receive the color coat of the occupant's choice (or, more commonly, a rug or tatami mats), but the walls were bare concrete for they still had to breathe carbon dioxide from the air. The stark, unfinished look made the room seem cavernous. Ooh, it's huge!, exclaimed Tamiko.

Kenji went to the enclosed bathroom in the back and looked in. With puzzlement on his face he asked, Where's the toilet and the shower? And where are the bedrooms?

Didn't Mr. Mori tell you?

You mean bathing in the ocean and, um, that pipe? But he said that was temporary.

We took a vote; you wash in the ocean. We didn't vote on the toilets. There was a strike at the factory and we never got a single one. We have to do something because the pipes stink, but I don't know what.

No toilets?, wailed Tamiko. But, but, I've got to go!

Don't panic, said Bob. I'll show you what to do. Watch me and then copy.

No!, she answered, horrified. Mrs. Mori and Kenji weren't too happy, either.

Bob looked puzzled for a moment, then understood their discomfiture. Oh, big deal. Boy, I'd like to see what happens the first time you take a bath. You're welcome to figure it out for yourself but if you miss the hole I'm not helping to clean it up.

I'll take my chances, she said with determination, and marched into the bathroom. Ecch, they heard her say.

Is it all one room?, asked Mrs. Mori Right, answered Bob. Some people put up regular walls to make bedrooms. One lady has a real Japanese house: she went to J-town and bought a load of tatami for the floor and shoji screens to give her daughter some privacy. In my house we have a rug and that's it. We like the open feeling, and everyone can see all the wall decorations.

Tamiko emerged after washing her hands in the sink. Without benefit of a towel they were wet with seawater, which Tamiko did not find appealing, but she could blame nobody but herself for not having a towel. Your turn, jungle boy, she said.

Mom, asked Tamiko, this is a lot different from what I expected. Are we doing the right thing?

Kenji gave his opinion. Father told us everything would be different, and hard, and dangerous. But there are so many good things — the force, the chance to learn, the adventure that nobody else in the world is doing. And there's a chance for Father. We all agreed, right?

But to pee in a sewer pipe!

Bob popped out of the toilet. You're crazy to come here, you know, particularly unprepared.

Mrs. Mori finally got her words in. We will stay. Hiroshi would just wither away if this project left without him, but he would not break up the family to save himself. We have to live here, however hard it is.

Bob wasn't done. There's something else. You have to take an oath to defend the fuel. Could you go through with it? I don't think I'm allowed to supervise the oath right now, but it would be very bad if you left with us and then lost your nerve.

We thought of that, said Barbara. We tested ourselves at home.

With needles, added Tamiko. Father would have been suspicious if we all cut ourselves at the same time.

That's really smart. I wouldn't have thought of that.

We're not dummies, you know, replied Tamiko.

OK, you're not just here for laughs. I'm glad. Look, I have a favor to ask. You can't do anything but sit around today, because of all the uproar. Maybe after the fuel is delivered and we're under sail, I can help you find a piece of carpet to sleep on, but until then I'm going to be very busy. Mr. Mori can't even be with you; he'll be tied up all day with the fuel transfer and loading. Now I have ten pallets of cargo to stow and more on the way this minute. Would you help out? Change to work clothes like mine — hooded jacket or a hat, not those umbrellas — and help carry cargo? More people would help so much.

They agreed. I'll change if you wait outside, reminded Tamiko.

Bob led them back to the cement plant, where the Thompsons and the other kids had cleared away the two pallets from the previous load. Bob introduced them to the Moris.

Raul claimed Kenji. Eo tu selba mi le po berti levi dampa

No, uh, Espanol, answered Kenji, ignorantly missing the 'y' sound after the 'n'.

Yo no hablo Ingles, replied Raul. Tea la Bob duo ie mi takna ti

What's he saying?, asked Kenji.

He asked you to help him with that pump, then he asked how he was going to talk to you. He knows Spanish and Loglan, and you know only English, so I guess you don't talk. Point and wave your hands, and be careful not to drop the pump on your toes. Bob repeated the message to Raul, Djesandzo .e siltu letu condu -i sedkru le po tua ferlte le dampa letua djoto Both Raul's bare feet and Kenji's regular shoes were highly vulnerable to falling objects; steel-toed bare feet would have been ideal but hadn't been invented yet.

Bob said, Tamiko and I will carry the tubes. How many can you carry? I can hold four. Bob lifted and pushed some toward Tamiko. Pick up the ends.

They're heavy. Maybe I could do two. They compromised at three — Bob in front and Tamiko bringing up the rear, with complaints.

Mrs. Mori, those buckets of lubricant go in the aisle next to the tubes, said Bob. Follow us and I'll show you where.

An hour and a half later they had all the cargo stowed from that load and another — fourteen pallets in all; the last load did not completely fill the boat. Miracle of miracles, all the supplies and equipment that had been ordered and was ever going to be delivered was on board, on time, and safely secured. All the people were dead tired and ready to drop, and Kenji and Tamiko had several blisters on their hands; Tamiko also had them on her feet where her new shoes pinched. Ted groaned, Oh, God, it's over. I've got to have food! Come on; I'll kill the cook if he didn't save some for us. They staggered over to the residence float and caught fishburgers, about the last to be cooked. Under the balcony of the courtyard they sheltered from the rain and wind.

Wow, said Kenji, do you work like this every day?

We work hard, replied Bob, but today is too much. We've been bringing cargo over since last week, but somehow half of it got left to this morning. At least it seemed that way. Thanks a lot. Without your help I don't think I could have finished my share. I'm so tired my legs are shaking.

Yes, thank you so much, echoed Susan Thompson.

From the seaward side a bullhorn growled, in George's voice. Please clear the area. Spectators, please go up to the second floor balcony. And would somebody get that chicken out of here?

It's dad! The fuel must be here. Let's watch! Bob and the Thompsons dashed for the stairs, but Bob turned back when he saw that the Moris were not following. What's the matter?

We have to talk to Hiroshi, said Barbara.

Why? Oh, idiot, you said you came secretly. Doesn't he know yet?

No, that's what we have to tell him.

I'll bet he gets mad.

I'm sure of it. We have to convince him.

Bob groaned. How did you dream this one up? Bob thought a minute. Go up on the balcony. I'll talk to Dad, and tell you what he says to do. You people are crazy, you know.

The bullhorn sounded again. Weapons teams in place, please. Alvin, you're too exposed. Get the recoilless rifle under cover. Let's at least look combat-effective. The Moris looked at each other; they had not emotionally appreciated some of the nasty features they were getting in for. Hiroshi had graphically described the possibility of combat, but their understanding had been merely intellectual.

Bob worked his way onto the east deck. He spied a Coast Guard cutter about five minutes away. Dad!

Bob, what are you doing here? Get back up on the balcony!

I have to talk to you — business.

What?

Mr. Mori's family is on board. They have to talk him into coming with us.

Oh, crap. They can't do this. They'll have to go back on the cutter.

You promised they could come.

But not without telling me! They have no training. They don't even have a place to stay. Do they know what they're in for? This isn't any joyride!

I, um, sort of assigned them a room. They're good workers — I had them stowing cargo since they showed up. They still want to go. You want Mr. Mori to be here. And you promised.

OK, I promised. When we get the fuel in the safe, I will lower the American flag, then go on board the Coast Guard vessel to de-register us. They have five minutes then to convince Hiroshi. When I come back, they go where he goes. OK? Now scram.

Bob scrammed.

The Coast Guard cutter, white with a dashing red stripe across the bow, slid smoothly up to the station. It was almost as long as the residential float, and its deck was not much higher. Sailors with rifles guarded the deck. Its loud-hailer spoke, Anacortes requests permission to tie up. Granted, hailed George. The crew heaved lines, and station staff, automatic rifles across backs, made them fast. The guns were not toys this time. As a concession to the rain, the guns' muzzles were turned downward.

George went aboard, where he shook hands with the captain, a Commander Barrett. Hiroshi, on the cutter, hugged George. Emotion? They got the show going, signing various papers evidencing that George accepted custody of the fuel, that Barrett had delivered it, and so on. Then the ship's crane lifted a chest from the deck and carefully, carefully swung it over. The chest was small, the size, actually, of a human baby, but it was made all of iron so it weighed as much as a man. Workers on the station guided it onto a four-wheeled cart. George and Hiroshi returned to the station.

John Thompson pushed the cart, with them following watchfully, around the residences, over the bridge and into the reactor building. They took the elevator up one level to the fuel handling area. John and George each used one key to open the door. John dialled the combination of a safe, which was empty, but George interjected, Let's look in the box, just to be sure.

There was another combination lock set into the top of the chest. George consulted a paper from his pocket, and turned the dial. The multiple bolts scraped back, and John and George each pulled on a lifting ring attached to the top. The hinge, un-oiled, creaked as they swung back the massive lid, seven centimeters thick. Revealed there was a treasure more precious than gold: two hundred thousand dollars worth of plutonium tetrafluoride. 250 vials of borosilicate glass each in a foam-lined nest in a matrix of gadolinium-loaded iron, each containing twenty grams of light brown needle-shaped crystals. Enough energy to sustain five thousand people for a year. Enough destructive power to blow those five thousand people to kingdom come.

They closed the chest and manhandled it into the safe. John gently closed the door and spun the dial. Then, closing the outer door behind them, they returned to the Coast Guard ship.

This procedure was repeated six more times. The weapons crews on the ship and on the station watched intently for any threat, but there was none. The drizzle stopped.

Finally, all the fuel was secured and George returned to the deck. He turned to see if everybody was watching — they were — and he picked up his bullhorn from where he had left it. Present arms!, he ordered. A well-rehearsed chorus, including Bob and the Thompson teenagers, burst into song: Oh, say can you see, by the dawn's early light … The Coast Guard crew belatedly presented arms too. A teenager, who had sat unnoticed atop the reactor containment the whole time, slowly lowered Old Glory, folded it in a triangle with the stars out, and climbed down the ladder. Barrett looked puzzled. The teenager presented the flag to George, then ambled back to the reactor building to await his next cue.

George said to Hiroshi, OK, that's over. Now I have to get Barrett to take back our registry papers. You wait here — Bob wants to show you something.

Hiroshi forced levity into his voice. Let me guess: he finished dissecting that damn frog.

George smiled, then turned and went on board the Anacortes He pushed the flag to Barrett's chest, so the Commander instinctively grabbed it, then took a paper from a folder and slid it under a fold of the flag. Gerald P. Weiss Unit One is now officially de-registered as a U. S. vessel, he declared.

What? You can't do that! It's illegal!

It is not. Marine law section 322 states that when the build of a vessel is changed… They loudly quoted chapter and verse at each other. The Coast Guard crew found it amusing, but they did not realize how important the outcome was.

Meanwhile, similar tones were turning heads on the residential float. What?! You're supposed to be at Disneyland! What are you doing here?

Barbara said, We're joining the crew of this station. Wouldn't you like to, also?

That's ridiculous.

It is not. You've been mooning for six months about your career and this station. You want it and you sold us on it. Now is our chance. Come on!

You have no training. They didn't hire you. You're nothing but stowaways. Now stop interfering with work.

We finished our work assignments, said Kenji, and he and Tamiko held up their hands to proudly display the blisters. Tamiko added, Do come to our room. It's real big. But no toilet.

This place is dangerous, and it will get a lot worse very soon. I will not subject my family to that. Now get on that ship. March!

They didn't move. Barbara replied, Hiroshi, dear, we discussed the danger at length. It isn't a matter of you subjecting us to it. It's, are you going to come with us, or stay behind when we leave?

Father, said Kenji, that Coast Guard guy hasn't said anything for a while. I think Mr. Chou is finishing whatever he was arguing about. You have to decide soon.

Don't tell me what I have to do! I'm head of the family! I tell you, this is no place for women and children. We — that means you — are leaving. Now!

I won't!, shouted Tamiko.

You, brat, are going to be standing up for a week!

Spank me all you want — in our new home.

Kenji added, At home it will be the same old crap from the same old fossils …

Don't talk that way about your teachers!

… but here I can learn more; I can be somebody; I can get that maturity you're always talking about. This is the best place for us, and you too.

If you survive it, which I doubt.

Commander Barrett called over, Dr. Mori, are you coming back or not? We're leaving. George was already back on the station, a smile on his face, having won his freedom from U. S. jurisdiction, and also amused by Hiroshi's predicament.

Hiroshi answered, Yes!. But he was drowned out by a chorus of No! from Barbara, Kenji, Tamiko, George, and assorted bystanders. He tried to grab his daughter and drag her with him, but she eluded him. The gangplank came up, the mooring lines were thrown back and the Coast Guard vessel pulled rapidly away from the station. Hiroshi jumped up and down in frustration. Shanghaied!

He was winding himself up to let his family feel his full wrath when Bob strode determinedly up to him. We're about to have the flag-raising ceremony, so please hold down the noise. Bob touched him just below the navel and locked eyes with him, holding him with the force until, amazingly, his mind stopped screaming silent imprecations. Then Bob gave a warm smile and scurried off to his place in the chorus.

People, said George over his bullhorn, we are now separated from the United States. Silence, no cheers. From now on, we are an independent entity. We will sail where we please. We will take care of ourselves. Our reactor will continue to be called Gerald P. Weiss Unit One, but our community will have a new name and a new flag. The name is Numenor, and here is the flag! All cheered as the purple banner was unfurled, just as Tolkien had invented it, bearing as devices the White Tree and the Seven Stars.

Ted Thompson whistled the pitch and the chorus launched into the new community anthem:

The crowd cheered and several people called out, Sing it again! So they did. The music was by the resident keyboardist and the lyrics were by Ted and Sally Thompson.

George had let them handle the song, keeping tabs through Bob to be sure it was done on time and was reasonably suitable, but he had not been aware of the last-minute abandonment of English. But no time now to ask about that. It was a ritual of leaving, and it was time to leave.

We're on our way! Weigh anchor! Raise all sail! Course two-zero-zero — set a course for the Spanish Main!

George didn't care that the Spanish Main was in a different ocean; he was free; he was in command of his own strange ship and motley crew; his future was bright before him. He exulted in power and glory, and the citizens of Numenor shouted their hope and confidence.

Amid cheers, one of the welders cut the anchor chain. It recoiled into the water with a splash, trailing a salvage buoy. Eleven young men and teenagers and one strong-armed woman scurried down rope ladders to waiting pirogues attached by thick hawsers to the reactor and the residence float. They rowed south fifty meters to the ends of the lines. There they dumped big titanium paravanes into the sea. Then, in a practiced maneuver, each one shook out their sail which was folded in the boat. The wind inflated the canopies: one purple and white, one gray with bright red borders, one like a rainbow, all different colors, delighting the watchers. By judicious use of an auxiliary line the crew got their chutes all airborne, spilling only the corners in the water. Up went the sails, 120 meters up where the wind is swift; then as the twin cables came taut the sails automatically rolled 45 degrees to give a component of force that pulled the station southward. The upward force from the strong winter wind lifted some of the boats completely out of the water, but by quick manipulation of the control lines their pilots made the paravanes bite the water and drag them down again. The station ponderously and imperceptibly accelerated and after a few minutes all the sails were turned over to servo controls: bearing 200, south-southwest, passing between Santa Barbara and Santa Catalina islands. The propulsion crew untied their boats from the sail control units and rowed back to the station.

You're moving, said Hiroshi to Bob. I never thought it would happen, and I never thought I would be on board. He had calmed down considerably since his furious discovery that his family had trapped him.

Kenji corrected him. We're moving, Father.

OK, 'we'. I'd better talk to George right away.

Bob cut in. Dad said to me, 'I love you and I want this to be a happy day for you, but I am going to be so busy. I don't want to see your face until dinner.' You know he wants you, and he knows that you and your family are on board. That's enough, don't you think? I wouldn't risk bothering Dad.

What should I do, then?

Get your room ready. Also, I have two small fish in the freezer, and I may sell one to someone who has none. Many people couldn't fish today because of all the extra work. We'll be hungry tonight if we don't catch more. We have to help others by sharing, remember?

Kenji judged, Selling a fish to a hungry person doesn't sound like helping or sharing.

They have the money and I have a right to the customary price. If I go hungry and let my family and guests go hungry because I give up my fish, is it any less sharing because I get a few hundredths of a pengo? Come on, we won't be hungry if we catch more fish.

Kenji thought about that as they walked back to the Chous room and Bob got his pole. I wish I had my fishing tackle here, said Hiroshi.

We brought it!, said Kenji. We snuck it in with our own poles. Come on, let's get them.

Where do we fish from?, asked Barbara.

I think a boat, Mrs. Mori. No, too much weight. We need two boats. I have an idea. Down there at the dock, take any two, and I'll be back right away. You do know how to handle a boat, don't you?

Bob sped off to the cement plant and returned with a coil of nylon rope over his shoulder and a three-meter stick of PVC pipe in his hand. He found Hiroshi and Tamiko in one boat and Barbara and Kenji in the other. He decided he wanted to be with Tamiko. Hand over hand he guided the boat along the rope strung at the waterline through ringbolts set in the concrete. Kenji and Barbara followed. Reaching the corner of the residential float, he tied the rope to the station's ringbolt and passed it through the screw-eyes of both boats, making a big loop. He and Kenji then let go. The station sailed away at a brisk two knots to the limit of the rope. Bob then wedged the pipe between the boats and tied it with string. There they were, close enough for company but far enough that their fishing lines, which they promptly baited and cast, did not tangle.

They caught fish. The Moris also learned more about what they had gotten themselves in for. For example:

Hey, Tamiko, what job do you want?

I don't know.

What can you do?

Um … I don't really know how to do anything.

What do they teach you in school? What about being a stockist?

What's that?

They need someone in the stockroom. I've seen what they do: someone asks for a part or a chemical; you use a microfiche machine to check the stock number; you go get it; you enter the transaction on a computer terminal. It's easy.

I don't know anything about computers. And what's a microfiche machine?

Oh, it's really simple once you get used to it. I think you should take that job.

How long do you have to work?

Kids our age work ten hours a week. That job probably pays 0.08 pengo per hour.

Ten hours? So long? I've never had a job before. I'm nervous.

You'll get over it. This was the total of Bob's reassurance to Tamiko. He had little skill, or inclination, to help people suddenly plunged into a new and threatening situation.

Immediately he went on to work over Kenji. After assessing Kenji's skills he issued his judgment: A teenager ought to be able to do better than that! You can do the job of a nine year old kid, except you can do algebra and most of them can't. Kenji's face burned. You don't seem to be interested in anything, but maybe I'm not wise enough to ask the right questions. You should see Mr. and Mrs. Olson tomorrow, and maybe they can advise you better than I.

Hiroshi chimed in, Right, you never show any interest in your school subjects. You have to study to get a job.

How do you expect anybody to get interested in that crap they spout at you? It's totally boring.

Bob got his mouth open before Hiroshi. I was bored too in the shore schools. It's dumb to sit in those desks and listen to the teacher review stuff you already learned. I bet you'll like our training program, but you have to work real hard to catch up to the other teenagers; you have to get at least one decent skill right away. Ask the Olsons what it should be. Now, Mrs. Mori, what do you do?

Right, Mom, what skills do you have? Kenji had been troubled, then dumped by Bob Chou, amateur counselor. Knowing his mother's answer, he was pleased to recruit company to his predicament.

Hiroshi retorted, I make plenty of money to support this family.

Bob responded, My dad makes enough money to buy every fish on this station. He doesn't need me to feed him, yet he eats plain rice without any complaint when I don't catch anything. Well, with only a little complaint. He gives me the responsibility because he knows I need it to grow strong. I expect grown-ups are the same way: with no job your mind rots. It's cruel to keep Mrs. Mori from a job.

You've been meddling in my family the whole day! Now just get your nose back where it belongs! Hiroshi wound up to hit Bob. Bob made a snap decision: he didn't deserve to get punished, and it had been Hiroshi who had been out of line the whole day, he felt. But if he defended himself Hiroshi probably wouldn't back down, and probably would end up dumped in the water. This would shame him in front of his family, which apparently he was unreasonably sensitive about, and it would sour their friendship. The force helps a person to do these thoughts in parallel, in milliseconds, before the blow arrives. Not wanting to get slapped in the face — a bad habit he had not expected from Hiroshi — he turned and shrugged up his jacket, and received a stingingly painful whack on the butt. Hiroshi whacked him again for good measure.

Hiroshi Mori, you leave that boy alone! He helps us and you punish him — that's mean. And why are you so upset about me working? It's not dangling dependents that make a man. Last year when I wanted to go back to school you wouldn't let me and you wouldn't give me a coherent reason why. I want an answer this time — now!

You have a job: taking care of the house and the kids.

Bob, undaunted, replied, Kids take care of themselves, and Mom and I only need … Hiroshi snarled at Bob, displaying his sharp teeth.

Bob is right: These two aren't babies, and you don't expect me to be a full-time maid, do you? You want to keep me under your thumb, don't you? Here, people are expected to work, and I intend to. Now, Bob, what jobs need doing?

I swear I'm not trying to keep you dependent, said Hiroshi. But you don't know what you're getting in for. You too, kids; this place is too much for you. They work you too hard.

I seem to have survived the first day, said Kenji, displaying his blisters again. He hadn't enjoyed getting them, but he was getting plenty of mileage out of them once developed.

You're putting me down, said Barbara. I'm able to do more than you think. Now, are you ready to let Bob and me talk about jobs? Hiroshi grumbled but kept quiet.

What kind of things can you do?, asked Bob.

Well, I majored in German literature in college.

You mean writing stories in German? I don't think many people here speak it, but if you could write in English or Spanish…

No, we learned about the great German authors: Goethe, Hesse, Mann. We studied their style, the themes in their works, and so on.

Oh. What else do you do? Like, maybe you could say what you do during one day.

Well …. I make breakfast, get the kids off to school, then I do whatever cleaning is needed. Then I do some shopping, then read or work on my fabric sculptures …

What's that?

Art of assembled cloth.

Like a wall hanging?

Yes, you hang it on the wall.

Is it any good? No, I mean, could you sell it? Like, see this here. Bob pulled up his outsized jacket and indicated the decorated cloth that he wore tucked into his belt, with the ends hanging down in front and back, instead of pants. It was green, decorated with yellow and red geometric figures likely selected from a book on Indians without much regard for tribal consistency. The pattern was pleasing, but the style and particularly the coloration was clearly juvenile. It's good-looking and I'm proud of it, but I know nobody would pay money for it. How about your stuff?

I don't know. People might buy it.

Each month there's a craft sale. You could make a lot of people happy by selling your work. Bare concrete walls get pretty dull, and most people stick up tacky posters. Anything is better than a picture of Rocky Valachi devouring his microphone.

Hiroshi asked, Where did the tapestry things on your walls come from?

My mom made them. She sells them occasionally, but she can't put too much time on art because she works full time welding.

Barbara, yours are… (tactfully) …just as good as hers. You could certainly do that as your job.

A moment ago you wanted to keep me barefoot and pregnant. Why the sudden enthusiasm?

I had visions of you working your fingers to the bone cleaning up radwaste in some chem lab. A touching scene of reconciliation followed, made more comic because the parties obviously wanted to kiss but were separated by three meters of water.

But Bob soon grew tired of it. So did Tamiko. Hey, Bob, let me see those pants you're wearing. They're pretty, but sort of weird.

It's not pants. It's called a breechcloth or loincloth. Lots of primitive people wear them because they're simple to make.

Are you playing primitive?

My sewing skill is primitive.

Why not wear pants?

They're a ripoff. My pants wore out, or I outgrew them, anyway the seam on my butt ripped. I patched it together twice, but it still ripped. The next time Mom and I went ashore I went to buy new ones. My God, twenty dollars for good ones, or twelve for junk that you can see would fall apart in six months! I tried to talk Mom into making me some, but she said it was too hard, and a waste because I grow so fast. I told her I wasn't paying any twenty dollars. Then run around with your butt hanging out in the cold winter, she said. But Dad taught me, if you can't afford something, or don't want to afford it, use your brain to make a substitute that's cheaper and better. Voila! It's just a rectangle with notches for the legs, bias tape around the edge, and the decorations. I made legs for it too, just simple tubes that snap over the belt. The whole thing took me two hours to sew. Smart, don't you think, and practical.

Why aren't you wearing the, what do you call them, the things on your legs?

When the rain soaks the leggings they stick to my knees, and they don't warm me either. I guess the rain has stopped for today, but I can't very well go and get them now.

Do girls wear them?

I'm the only one who wears it, maybe because only a few kids have to buy their own clothes and I'm the chintziest. People teased me the first few days, but I just… Hey, you've got a bite. Set the hook before it gets away.

The afternoon was productive, by getting anxieties and conflicts out in the open and by orienting the Mori family to their new life, as well as by providing fish for a protein-hungry community.

Hey, Bob! A youthful voice floated from above. Your mom wants you.

Oh, boy, it's late. Let's get back to the station.

They were not too late to sell their fish and, in fact, they were able to hold back two fine red snappers and a small mackerel for themselves. Preparing dinner, Bob and Tamiko took the scales off the snappers, while Meiko and Kenji sliced the vegetables, and Barbara (with Hiroshi's inept help) started the rice steaming. Tamiko was pointedly informed that cleaning one of the fish was her assignment, if touching fish guts made her vomit there was a bucket right handy, and if she broke the gall bladder she had to eat it raw.

George staggered in the door and plopped in a chair. Meiko Chou, that smells great. I'm starved — I got about one bite for lunch. You would think we could just raise the sails and split, but there are millions of last-minute details, all need me, and none can wait. Finally I just told everybody to stuff it — more politely, of course. So we're finally on our way! What do you think of that, Hiroshi?

I'm glad. I wasn't sure you would pull it off.

I'm glad you're here with us, even if your advent was a bit unusual. What's the deal?

You know how I feel about terrorist attacks, and I also think you push the kids too hard — show George your blisters, kids. But these three decided they liked the idea, and they stowed away, then trapped me into coming. I don't like to be trapped!

So I gathered. I don't like it either.

Kenji, Tamiko and I were talking about our future, said Barbara, and I saw myself scrubbing floors, Kenji saw himself with a toilet paper degree and no job, and Tamiko saw herself manufacturing babies for some slob. And you, Hiroshi, pining away on unemployment or welfare when the NRC gets cut, bitterly resenting that we held you back from your opportunity. This is an opportunity for us too. Don't you get the impression that Kenji is going to take his schoolwork a lot more seriously here? So we made our plans. I'm sorry we trapped you, but we tried to convince you many times.

So I noticed.

You're a male chauvinist pig, with the personality of a mule, and I love you.

I love you too, and I hope you don't regret coming here.

Bob called, Dinner is ready, people. Everyone carried food to the table, and they spent several minutes in virtual silence just enjoying the feast. It had been a long and active day for everyone, in cold weather, and they needed the food.

Over dessert, George filled in Hiroshi on the startup schedule, as well as Bob who hadn't heard it. We start loading fuel tomorrow, and we'll have 95% critical mass within three days. We start the fourth day by loading up to minus 1% delta K over K with all control rods out. We monitor reactivity with the BF3 counters; alpha-N reactions with the beryllium will give plenty of neutrons for them to count. Then we measure rod worths and the coefficients for voids, fuel and temperatures. That should take three or four days. Next we do a final check of vessel integrity, instruments and control systems. That takes maybe three days. Then we drop rods and add one percent reactivity as calculated. Then we do an approach to critical, and we raise power to one watt for about five minutes, checking the automatic controls. This gives us trace amounts of fission products and protactinium, which we use to debug the reprocessing plant. I've allowed two weeks for that. The radiation level will be low enough that we can dump the salt, cool off and make corrections bare hands, if need be. Then we gradually work up to ten megawatts, checking the steam generators very carefully as we go.

Hiroshi asked, What about the extra plutonium? Wouldn't it be safer to put it all in at the beginning, but with the extra in the reserve tank?

They were interrupted by a knock on the door. Loi la Chou . i uu mi nitru tu .i godzo eo le kankruma .i ba cnida tu

Oh, what now? Driki la Hiroshi Mori .i da djine mu… Hiroshi, this is Soon Hyong Chee, in the turbogenerator division.

Happy you meet, and family.

I'll be back soon, I hope. George left amid a shower of explanation in a language the Moris couldn't understand.

Who's that?, asked Kenji. And what is that language he and the Mexican kid spoke?

Soon Hyong Chee is a very sharp young man from North Korea, said Meiko. He got started fixing boat engines as a kid. He's self-taught, from books he stole, I hear; schools wouldn't take him because he has dyslexia and he sounds stupid. He stowed away on ships to get to the U. S., and crossing the Pacific he turned himself in and was assigned to the engine room as a laborer. That's where he learned about steam turbines and generators. If it weren't for his speech he would be very successful.

He's really nice, added Bob, and he'll help with homework problems, except that his English is awful. He says he speaks three languages, Korean, Russian and English, all equally badly. But his Loglan isn't too bad, maybe because it's super-simple.

Just what is Loglan?, asked Barbara. Bob and Meiko gave the Moris a lesson, and they were intrigued enough to ask to come to the next Loglan club meeting.

Bob told Kenji, Raul speaks Loglan because he has to. He doesn't know English, and if he had to learn it before he could start being a part of our community he would still be thrashing around. But usually we can have someone start speaking Loglan in three days, and really communicating in a week of solid work, and then they can start doing jobs where the work crew members have taken up Loglan. Dad encourages us because many of the new people are foreign, and we can't start training them until we can talk to them.

How many people know Loglan?, asked Barbara.

Forty or fifty, I think, and it seems to be spreading.

George walked in the door, scowling. Meiko asked, What's the matter?

Nothing, I hope. We spotted a ship maneuvering very carefully so it would intersect our course at sunrise tomorrow. They cut their engines and drifted, then moved a bit, several times. Then they shut off their radar. We talked with the Coast Guard and they will check it out, but just to be safe we changed course to 170 degrees until midnight, which should let us pass six kilometers east of them. It may be just a coincidence, but I suspect they want to fake distress and then attack us when we rescue them.

I told you so, said Hiroshi.

That's right, you told us. That's why we spent two hundred thousand dollars for new sensors and for weapons.

What radar did you get? Pretty long range?

It's synthetic aperture passive illumination, with an optional transmitter if nobody else is illuminating. We can see other radars forty kilometers away, that is, limited by the Earth's curvature. We can illuminate out to twenty kilometers. It's a great system, and it doesn't give away our position. We have a similar sonar system, but the range is less.

Remember, detection is one area I told you needed improvement? I'm glad you took my advice.

We aren't too dumb, you know.

Kenji had a question. Father, before Mr. Chou left you were talking about plutonium. I thought this reactor uses U-233.

Right, son, but U-233 isn't available and plutonium is. You can't breed plutonium in a thermal reactor because failed fissions eat up too many neutrons, but you can use it to start up. Over a two-year period the plutonium burns off and you have to keep adding fuel in small amounts, but then the U-233 builds up to the point where you breed as much fuel as you burn.

Isn't the plutonium hazardous?

Actually, U-233 is worse. The decay products are what get you.

Tamiko changed the subject. Mr. Chou, you said something when you raised the purple flag about Gerald White, or something. Who is that?

Gerald P. Weiss was the man who refinanced Three Mile Island. He felt guilty about making a huge profit essentially all at taxpayers' expense, and he got intrigued with the salt breeder concept — My Ph.D. thesis was on the salt breeder, and soon after that I gave a talk on it at the American Nuclear Society meeting, which he attended. So he created the Weiss Foundation. Essentially, he gave $24 million to build a totally new concept in nuclear use facilities: salt breeder, integrated power users, a worker community designed for human needs, and a floating site. I think he would be proud of what we accomplished.

Hey, people, said Bob, you didn't get any carpet, and your floor will be cold and hard. Do you want to sleep on our tatami tonight?

Oops, replied Hiroshi.

Barbara wasn't too dumb either. We brought all four sleeping bags, and new air mattresses that don't leak. Thanks, Bob, but I think we should sleep in our own place tonight.

We also brought your clothes, Father, added Tamiko.

And our best books, said Kenji. Remember I was asking you which books you used most? I packed all of those. They weigh a ton.

You three planned your conspiracy well. How did you know what to bring?

You're not the only one who can plan, answered Kenji. We talked about life here so much. It was easy to tell what we would need — mostly we copied what you said the Chous did.

Barbara added, You said you saw Mrs. Chou making a wall tapestry, so I brought Wind One and Two for our walls.

Please call me Meiko. Are those your fabric sculptures? I'd like to see them.

Sure, tomorrow I'll hang them up. Your wall art is beautiful.

Thank you. Tomorrow I'll show you how to check out an AJ gun from the tool crib.

What's that?

A machine for putting anchors in the concrete wall.

Bob interjected, People, I brought up sleeping as a hint. It's my bedtime.

I don't see you getting in bed, said Meiko.

So Bob took off his clothes, straightened the blanket and sheet on his hammock, and hopped in, wrapping himself snug and warm without even his nose sticking out Did you see that?, exclaimed an outraged Tamiko. That's indecent exposure! George and Meiko snickered, but the Moris were not so amused.

Bob popped his head out. I do it my way in my house, and if you don't like it you can bug off. Now please be quiet so I can get some sleep. See you tomorrow. He flicked the blanket, which covered up his head again.