Free Third World by Louis Shalako Page A

supposed. He figured
the men could care less, for the most part. It made the womenfolk
happy, and those were some good parties.
    That’s what they said,
anyways.
    “ Hi!”
    Hank was aware of being sized up, much
as how a side of beef might be sized up by a half a dozen
households pitching in, to cut it up themselves and maybe save a
bit of money. He took off his hat and nodded, and the other
gentleman, a brown-bearded young man of about thirty, nodded and
did the same.
    They put their hats back on.
    The gentleman had an unpleasant habit
of spitting off to one side, which he did often and well, but he
seemed a cheerful sort and quiet too, as he sat back, reins
drooping, and let the womenfolk have their fun.
    “ Hi!”
    “ Hi, Emily.”
    Suitable greetings being exchanged, the
ladies set to.
    Turning their backs on the males, heads
down, they went up a small rise ostensibly to pick some flowers.
The wildflowers were one of the few compensations of the place
thought Hank, not that he would have ever chosen the planet based
on such attributes. They were just there, and yes, they were
nice.
    Ted looked sort of familiar but Hank
didn’t think they’d met before. He’d bet ten dollars he knew the
fellow’s dad from somewhere.
    “ Nice weather—for a
change.”
    The young man grinned and
spat.
    “ Sure is. Say, you got any
work up around there?” It was just another conventional remark, but
one that got him to thinking.
    Ted had figured out who he was and yet
Hank wondered sometimes himself.
    “ Ah. Not right now, not as I
can say.” Hank stewed on his own thoughts. “You never know,
though.”
    Ted nodded thoughtfully as
well.
    A word of explanation often set things
right.
    “ I don’t harvest for another
three, maybe four months. Last time, the prices were maybe not so
good, and I don’t really know if it’s worth my while to go for a
big crop this time around.”
    A big crop meant more money, but the
brokers knew exactly how much they needed, whereas no one around
here did. Unsold bracken was almost worthless and you wanted to
control your costs.
    Hank regarded the fellow. He had to be
Ginley’s son, or nephew, or cousin, a real young one, or something.
He just had the look about him of a Ginley. Ginley had worked for
him, years ago, basically a hard worker but needing to be told
everything, when there were times when Hank would have been glad to
leave the man to it and go off and do something else.
    “ What’s your dad’s name? If
you don’t mind my asking?”
    “ Jeb Wilcox, over in Four
Corners.”
    “ Ah.” Hank had never heard
of him.
    But he was almost sure there was some
relation.
    “ I’m Hank Beveridge, by the
way.” The two men shook hands. “Tell you what, if I need help I’ll
ask for you or leave word at Peltham’s.”
    Ted agreed that was fine and they
turned to await the ladies, strolling a short distance away as some
infernal feminine plot was hatched to ensnare good men everywhere
with their charm and their wiles.
    Hank had his head tipped back slightly
to observe some black specks flying past at a fairly high altitude,
hundreds of metres anyways, going from the northwest to the
southeast. His mind was still on women, and marriage, and love and
all the lust and sensuality that he had once known about, in the
way that kids do, in another life, another time and place. It was
all bound up in one big old ball of wax inside of his head. When he
was very young television and the news-feeds were everything. These
kids had never played a video game.
    “ They’re going
somewhere.”
    Ted looked up dismissively and then
agreed.
    “ Yeah—they must smell
something down there.”
    Hank glanced over. That might be it.
The avian creatures, all leathery in the body and naked in the
wings, were definitely meat-eaters and probably scavengers. He’d
never seen one take a dive after prey. They seemed clumsy and
awkward on the ground, where there would invariably be a
carcass.
    In the air, they