Still Forms On Foxfield Read online

  “Are the Meeting accounts in order yet?” Allison asked, to head off questions. “I hope that grain shipment finally made it to Lanesbridge.”

  “To be sure,” Clifford said. “Nothing escapes her, you know; she’s got the eye of a commensal.”

  A trace of a smile crossed Martha’s broad face, which looked careworn beneath her streaked hair. “Supplies are in balance,” she said, “no shortages, but we’ve few surpluses, either.”

  Allison winced. She herself favored larger stockpiles of grain and minerals. “How’s the school?” she asked her brother. “That takes a sharp eye, too, eh?”

  “Oh, we keep them in line. The young folks are really going strong this year; I just wish we had wider horizons for them. Your boy, now, he really keeps us hopping!”

  He grinned broadly, and Allison laughed to hide her confusion.

  Martha smiled. “Allison,” she said, “you’re the one with news for us, so I hear. Perhaps, Lord willing, new vistas will open soon. Yet I’m glad I’m not in Lowell’s shoes this evening, for all that.”

  “Why not?” Clifford asked. “You managed Meeting pretty well two years back.”

  “The Meeting managed well.”

  They stepped aside as Anne and Edward Crain guided their lively brood through the doorway. Allison followed after their youngest daughter, who already toddled stoutly in her gold-checked smock.

  Commotion filled the main Hall. Adults conversed, and children raced among the bench rows until the appointed overseer bundled them away…The community was growing, all right. It had to, to insure survival. This hall would hold about a thousand; soon, that would be too small for Yearly Meeting.

  A palm touched her shoulder—not really a palm, but a fold of photosynthetic flesh.

  “Ghareshl!” Allison exclaimed as she turned, and she hand-signaled, though this Fraction had a limited ability to read human speech.

  “One enjoys full sunshine.” The fronds of Ghareshl’s half-open corona waved gracefully. Beneath the radial fronds her fist-sized compound eye peered iridescently from between vertical folds. The fissure closed below like a seam which reached down to the base of the body stalk, where pseudopods extended for locomotion and scavenging.

  “New sky-object observed,” Allison signaled.

  “Star nova?”

  “Much more interesting. Do you conjoin soon?” Allison asked, noting her swelling folds. It was the season, after all.

  “Soon,” Ghareshl replied. “One seeks mates now. Seth has returned here,” she added, “from Coral Vale.”

  “Seth? Where?” Allison scanned the hall. Seth Connaught usually came to her as soon as he was in town, but he could be moody at times.

  There he was, across the bench rows, staring at her.

  “Seth! How long have you been up here?” She dodged the chatting Friends and embraced him.

  “Not long. I’ve come to report,” he said.

  Allison searched his square features, framed by thick dark waves. She pressed his dimpled chin. “I look forward to hearing it. How are things in Coral Vale?”

  “Well. And my niece?”

  Noreen Connaught, Allison’s right-hand assistant at the Tech Center, was Seth’s niece. “She’s on swing shift tonight, so stop by later. How’s your father?”

  “He’ll outlive us all.”

  “Even the Dwelling?”

  Seth smiled faintly. “No. The One is active, as always,” he said, using the most accurate rendition of the commensals’ concept of their own kind. “Transmissions have run very smoothly this year,” he added. “We appreciate it.”

  Allison laughed. “I’m glad to hear about something that works right, for a change. Usually the only feedback I get is complaints, until Yearly Meeting when the Service Committee tells me how indispensable I am and begs me to stay on another year.” She contemplated his fierce eyes. “I’m so glad you made it back in time for…”

  “I’m always glad to see you, Sonnie.”

  Most people were quietly seated by now, closed sunshades resting against the hard benches. The bench rows were arranged in four trapezoidal domains which all faced inward to a central space. Lowell Braithwaite sat near the center, with the Fullers and the Crains, and the venerable Celia Crain Blyden. Grandma Celia’s spare build made her appear deceptively frail; vitality shone through her eyes. Her skin was an intricate lattice of wrinkles which sparkled, almost, Allison imagined, like the compound eye of a commensal.

  Lowell half rose from the seat. “Friends…” His eyebrows bobbed questioningly.

  Murmurs died for a customary moment of silence to await the Light within.

  The clerk rose again. “We are gathered for the Ninth Monthly Meeting for Business of the Georgeville Friends. Our usual agenda stands, but an urgent item has just appeared which, with the leave of Meeting, I propose we take up first.”

  Heads nodded in acquiescence.

  “We’ll hear from Allison Thorne, Technical Services Coordinator.”

  The programmer’s pulse quickened as she stood, brushing back her hair. “Ninety Foxfield years ago our people arrived here from Earth to settle this planet. We have always assumed that Earth was destroyed by then, or even if not, that the light-speed factor and the projected odds against our survival would discourage any future visitation from Earth. Today, however, at fourteen twenty east, the Tech Center picked up a signal from someone in a ship orbiting Foxfield—someone who claims authority of the United Nations.”

  People gasped. “Louder please?” a voice called several rows to the left.

  “I said, we’ve got a message from Earth people, or so they claim. Whoever they are, they’ve got a ship in orbit right now,” she added flatly.

  Martha rose to speak. “Allison, are you certain it’s genuine?”

  “Well, the ship’s up there; I have a close-up videocap for anyone who cares to look. The design is unfamiliar to me, as you’d expect from folks who—hopefully—have advanced a bit since our latest records.”

  “Well what did they have to say, for heaven’s sake?” called someone else.

  Allison read from the bland printout slip. “‘To Allison Thorne and all Friends of Foxfield: Greetings from Adjustor Silva Maio of the ship UNIS-11. We citizens of United Nations Interplanetary rejoice in the successful settlement of your people. We hope to resume contact according to UN Charter 61A. We await your reply.’ That’s it,” she finished.

  “You didn’t reply?” asked Clifford.

  “No; I await the sense of the Meeting.”

  “Then surely we must get back to them to find out on what basis they invoke that statute.”

  The clerk leaned back to catch a whisper. “Query just raised, Cliff,” he called, “as to content of Charter 61A.”

  “Dear me, back to the classroom.” The schoolmaster shook his head. “In the year of our Lord 2000, the UN agency UNESCO released a study which predicted a ninety percent chance of global nuclear war, on Earth, that is, within the following two decades. Nations responded to the report by forging ahead on colonization of Sol’s less desirable planets in order to insure that somebody would survive. Of course they also sent missiles along to protect the colonists, so some nations then developed the Ramscoop relativistic drive to send settlers to planet-bearing stars—Barnard’s, Centauri, others.

  “But the year 2020 came and went with nothing more than conventional carnage here and there, and so folks began to think they were ‘safe’ again. Many would-be star voyagers lost interest and one UN-sponsored mission disbanded altogether.

  “Then a group of Pennsylvanian Friends offered to take over the project, and the ship, and set off for Wheelwright’s Star. They got the ship, which they renamed the Plowshare, on one condition—that they accept the political charter originally drafted by the UN. Charter 61A says in effect that the Plowshare crew and their descendants acknowledge full sovereignty of the UN or of any succeeding panterrestrial government.”

  “Thanks, Clifford.” Lowell mo
tioned to an impatient woman in back.

  “But they broke off,” she objected. “What kind of sovereignty is that? We all know the H-bombs plowed them under—that ‘message’ still sounds like a hoax to me. And suppose they have come back. Do we really want them? I mean, rules and regulations are one thing; Quakers learned well enough over the centuries how to deal with that. But suppose it’s missiles they want to throw at us; what’ll we do then?”

  Several people stood at once.

  “Patience, please,” said the clerk. “Frances?”

  Frances Poyser was the best trained “doctor” on the planet. Her bone structure was unusually fine, for a Foxfielder, but her voice carried a sense of conviction which gave weight to her presence. Now she rose across from Allison and addressed the Meeting. “It would seem to me,” she began, “highly unlikely that anyone, even from our incorrigibly godless ancestral planet, would go to the trouble of sending us such a communication were it their intent to incinerate us. As for other dire intentions—we’re hardly likely to prevail by ignoring them, are we?” She glared challengingly about the room and adjusted her glasses. “Their technology is advanced, as Allison pointed out. And who knows, they may have learned some other things as well, since they did survive.

  “May I suggest we give them the benefit of the doubt for now? I confess I’m curious about them, and about what they know of us already. They know who Allison is, for one thing.” She sat down.

  “They were thoughtful enough,” Clifford muttered dryly, “to choose a Monthly Meeting date to say hello.”

  “Allison,” Martha asked, “have you any idea why the visitors would single you out?”

  Allison suddenly wished she were somewhere else. “Well, I think—” She struggled to her feet. “It’s obvious that they are familiar with our communication system. They know which band to use for telex, and they would recognize my name from its frequent appearances.” But that wasn’t all, quite.

  “Just how do they know all this?” Lowell asked.

  “Well, any settlement acts like a giant radio transmitter. Our broadcasts aren’t strong, but they do leak out into space…” She paused. Seth was sitting right there, and he knew; she would have to say it.

  “There is another thing. Occasionally I used to fool around with deep-space signals—just for fun, you know—sending out something like, ‘Hello, I’m Allison Thorne; is anybody there?’”

  This revelation drew mixed reactions. Clifford slapped his thighs, saying, “So that’s how you spend your extraplanetary budget, eh, sister?” Others were distinctly not amused.

  But Allison saw mainly Anne and Edward Crain, who gazed back at her, not in reproof, though perhaps with a touch of concern. Why, she imagined them asking, why have you not called thus in worship, rather than in the void of space? When did the Meeting for Worship last hear your ministry?

  “When did you last send such a signal?” Lowell asked.

  Allison started, then collected her thoughts. “About six months ago,” she said in a small voice.

  The clerk’s eyebrow lifted. “Ed, what do you make of all this?”

  Edward Crain stroked his beard. “Indeed, I share the apprehensions voiced by some. Nonetheless, I ask, if our heart opens not to the stranger, how shall it open to the Spirit?”

  Anne nodded. “It’s the Lord’s will; fear not the truth, but seek it out, wherever it may be.”

  The Agricultural Resource Coordinator rose and crossed his arms. “I understand all that, but—I still can’t help feeling we ought to be ready to defend ourselves, somehow. Think of all that we’ve built up here over the years: the farms, with tremendous help from the commensals; five growing townships, God willing; and freedom to live by the Light, above all.

  “Yet all of this could dissolve tomorrow—in more ways than one…I wish that I knew some positive way to address that fear, but—” He shrugged and sat down.

  A few heads nodded in sympathy. Then ancient Celia Blyden lifted herself with care, supporting her arm on granddaughter Anne’s shoulder. “Friends,” Celia began in a hoarse voice. “I was only seven…when my family, all six of us, entered the portal of the Plowshare for the last time. The youngest of us was then eight months old.” She paused for breath, “I was only seven, but I was old enough to know that it was not fear which made Friends journey to the stars, but the calling of God. Had it been fear, the voyage would have been fruitless. For though all weapons may be left behind, the instinct to create them can never be wholly shed from human hearts.

  “What defense do we have ever? ‘The Lord is my shepherd’; that is our defense. If we but fear the Lord, then we need never fear evil.”

  Silence reigned for some time after Celia had sat down.

  “I’d like to get a sense of the Meeting,” said Lowell at last. “Do we respond to the overture of these visitors?”

  “It is our duty and privilege,” said Martha, “to welcome the message and to reply to it in the same spirit in which it appears to have been sent.”

  Most of the Friends seemed to agree. A machinist from the Tech Center rose to say, “I think it’s marvelous that these folks have come and all. I mean, think of everything we’ve been missing out here—a fantastic world, with billions of people in it. And there must be lots of ways they could help us out, too. So let’s welcome them to come on down and see us. Like Celia says, we don’t need to be scared of anybody.”

  Allison winced. She had shared that dream, once—when it had been just a dream.

  Then Seth rose beside her. “It is on my mind,” he stated, “that the view of the One should be noted before we proceed.”

  The clerk considered this. “We’ll send word to the Dwelling, of course. Also we are glad to hear from any Fractions now present.” His fingers sent a stream of Transac symbols to a commensal who stood in the left aisle. Allison recognized her as Rashernu, a frequent attender.

  The commensal unfolded pale filaments. “One welcomes more blood-sharers on this world.”

  A sense of unease tinged the silence.

  Lowell stroked his chin, then signaled again. “Visitors from sky, though human, may differ from us.”

  The concept of “difference”—Allison doubted whether this simple idea could convey to the One the tangled concerns at issue here.

  Rashernu responded, “All blood-sharing waveforms, though distinguishable, contain the same substance.”

  There seemed to be nothing left to say. At last Clifford spoke up. “Just what kind of reply did you have in mind, Low? Something like, ‘Hi, there; do join us for our next potluck supper,’ maybe?”

  Laughter rippled through the Hall. It was a welcome release of tension.

  “The other towns’ll want a say, too, you know,” someone pointed out.

  “Exactly,” said Frances, with an impatient wave of the hand. “Let Allison immediately send a signal to the effect that, ‘The Monthly Meeting of Georgeville has received your message and welcomes further contact with you.’ In the meantime we’ll get in touch with the other Meetings. Remember, we still have a long agenda tonight.”

  This suggestion struck a responsive chord. “Approved,” murmured voices.

  With consensus achieved, Allison slipped out by a side door to find the phone next to the schoolroom. The Deltron program was preset for the same band she had received, but she took care to avoid any chance of error.

  The resource report was in progress when Allison returned to the Hall. She heard talk of the latest crops of NuSoy and Wheat-31, strains which the commensals had helped to develop for Foxfield viability. There was also an unusual mineral request.

  “I’m not entirely clear on why the One needs cobalt,” the Resource Coordinator said. “The request comes from the Dwelling, though; Friend Seth may tell us more.”

  Why cobalt, wondered Allison as she took a back seat to avoid disturbance. Commensals usually needed more iron than anything else.

  “Unfortunately,” said Lowell, “our own cobalt supply is
minimal this year; am I right, Martha?”

  Seth rose again. “The mineral is needed for growth in new directions. The Meeting knows that the One puts our resources to good use.”

  Allison’s curiosity sharpened. She would be sure to worm the truth out of him later.

  A rugged Lanesbridge woman stood up several rows over to the right. “Friends, I know we’ve got a fair cobaltite reserve at Lanesbridge Mine, and I believe Meeting will approve a transfer. We should have kept you up to date but—at times it’s hard enough to keep body and soul together, and the records straight, too.”

  When the agricultural report was done, Anne Crain spoke for Ministry and Counsel. Nell Daniels’ baby boy was recorded; a nephew and a second cousin of Allison’s received marriage sanction; a farm border misunderstanding was discussed at length…

  A distant telephone rang. Someone hurried out to catch it and returned to hand the clerk a slip of paper.

  Lowell rose quickly. “Noreen Connaught sends word that the Tech Center has just picked up another signal from the spaceship. It reads, ‘From Adjustor Silva Maio of United Nations Interplanetary to the Friends of Foxfield: Your response is received, and we look forward to meeting you. Please stand by for representatives to arrive on the Georgeville landing strip at local time ten hours, day two, month Nine. For your information, UNI is an egalitarian government founded in 2051, Westerran, to encompass all human beings in the galaxy…’”

  There were gasps and sharp whispers. Lowell’s eyebrows went wild as he made a rarely needed appeal for attention.

  “But that’s tomorrow, Low,” someone called out.

  “Precisely. May I suggest, therefore, that we appoint a reception committee…”

  It would make little difference, Allison thought. Every Friend whose work could be set aside would be there on the landing strip tomorrow.

  III. Those Who Survived

  Rhythmic tapping sounded from the far end of the computer room, where Noreen observed the stuttering decwriter. The west-morning sun sent rays through cracks in the window shades to stream across Allison’s desk. Allison paced back and forth by the desk, phone in hand.