Free Volk by Piers Anthony Page B

out and check. This one was intact. So they had lost time—but the caution was necessary. Too much hurry could wreck them.
    Then the motor started grinding. The driver pulled to a stop. He checked under the hood. He shook his head. “I can not fix it. I must get a mechanic. There will be a phone in the nearest village.” He hesitated.
    â€œI can watch the truck,” Quality said. “I assure you, I will not steal anything.” She smiled, to show it was a joke.
    But the driver did not smile. “It is not safe for a truck with food to be left alone. Also a young woman.”
    Quality realized that he was serious, and that he was probably correct. This was not contemporary America, this was a war-torn nation. “Perhaps I could go to make the call?”
    He shook his head. “Even less safe. I will hurry. It should be all right.”
    â€œYes, of course.”
    He set out on foot, walking rapidly. Quality sat in the truck, abruptly nervous. She almost wished that the driver hadn’t warned her, but of course it would have been foolish not to be aware of the danger.
    She was in luck. No one approached the truck. In due course the driver returned. “It will be several hours,” he reported. “We must wait.” He did not seem easy.
    â€œThere is another problem?” Quality inquired.
    â€œNow it is known that we must remain here, with food. There are many hungry people. They will come.”
    And they would not necessarily be reasonable. If denied, they might turn to violence. Even had Quality not been a pacifist, that would be a problem. How could they protect the truck and themselves until the mechanic came?
    Then she had an idea. “If we feed some, and enlist their support, we will use some food but may save the truck,” she suggested.
    â€œBut it is supposed to be done by the local authorities. There are not facilities, here on the road.”
    â€œThen we must enlist the local authorities,” she said. “And make do as we can.”
    He considered, and she was afraid he would reject the notion. Then he smiled. “You are resourceful. I will go back and tell them.” He got out and walked back toward the unseen village.
    Quality didn’t wait. She thought it best to make an immediate selection of the supplies to be expended, so as to keep the rest out of sight. She let down the tailgate and shoved things to it. She soon grew sweaty handling the boxes, and her good clothing became stained. It could not be helped. She was learning, again.
    In due course the driver and a local volunteer arrived, by foot. The other was an old woman.
    They waited, resting, for the woman was evidently frail from hunger. Also, the driver murmured, to be sure that proper procedure was being followed. Hurry was unseemly. He was educating Quality to what she would have to be alert to when she was on her own. “There is never enough food to feed everyone in need,” he explained. “We feed some infirm adults, and aged persons—if there is enough. There usually isn’t. We must turn the men away. We require them to drink the milk at the station, to be sure the right ones have it. So the canteens are referred to as
Gota de Leche
, or Drop of Milk. When things are really tight, we have to do height/ weight measurements to determine the most malnourished children, and feed them first.”
    Quality’s horror was growing as she learned the realities of the situation. She had somehow fancied that bringing food to the needy would be a positive thing. Now she saw the ugly side of it. Grim decisions had to be made, and the good she was doing had to be cynically rationed. Indeed, there were men and women appearing, and the driver was waving them away, so that they kept their distance. “They know there will be trouble, if they take the children’s food,” he said gruffly. “The woman is the wife of the leading man of the village; she has