discomfort. We landed in a valley by a quiet river. Our side of the river was gentle with great trees rising from a springy floor, but the other side of the river was a sixty-foot bluff, rough-edged, marked by protrusions of rock, ledges, and occasional bits of greenery.
I grabbed up my pack by the straps, slung it over my shoulder, and went trooping outside with everybody else, down the ramp and into the sun and the cool air. In my pack were a change of clothes, a change of shoes, manual toothbrush, hairbrush, bedroll, and some odds and ends. We had bubble tents, but we had been told not to bring them. I had a heavy shirt and a light shirt underneath, and since the pocket in the outer shirt was small and the shirt was beginning to be tight through the shoulders and across the breast, I dropped my notebook down my shirtfront. It would stay as long as I stayed buttoned and tucked. I squinted as I came into the sun.
The trees stretched serenely upwards as though nothing could ever ruffle their composure, the river moved silently past and then curved away, and the light made patches of light and dark as it cut through the trees, alleys in which dust motes could be seen swimming. The chatter of a bird was the only counterpoint to the noise we made. Most of the kids had never been on a planet before and this was a gentle, pleasant introduction. The wind blew lightly, toying with my hair and sleeve, and died again. The horses were led out after us along with harnesses, ropes, and chains.
Mr. Marechal called for us to gather around.
“The first fifteen of you will be with Mr. Pizarro,” he said. “That’s through Mathur. From Morlock on you’ll be with me. We’re going to build cabins today, and tomorrow, too, if it takes that long. Mr. Pizarro thinks that his group can build a cabin faster than my group can. We’re going to see about that.”
That was an obvious sort of appeal, but it sounded like fun, so I didn’t even giggle. Jimmy, Riggy, Robert Briney, that Farmer boy, and the Herskovitz boy were all in my group. Venie and Helen and Att were in Mr. Marechal’s group. Jimmy yanked at my sleeve and we followed Mr. Pizarro away from Mr. Marechal to a place of our own. He sat down on a rock and motioned us to take places on the springy ground around him. Mr. Pizarro was a young man with a narrow face and a brushy red moustache.
“All right,” he said. “What we are going to build is a log cabin, fifteen by twenty feet. We’re going to need about sixty logs. I want all of you kids to get some experience in felling trees, but the boys will do most of it. This is what the cabin will look like.”
He sketched in the dirt with a stick. “This is going to be as good a cabin as we can make in this short a time. We’re going to have floors, and doors, and windows. But this isn’t going to be as good a cabin as it might be—any guesses why?”
Somebody raised his hand and Mr. Pizarro called on him. “Well, if we cut them down, the logs are going to be green. They won’t dry evenly, and the walls will let air in.”
“Right,” Mr. Pizarro said. “We’ll chink the walls as best we can now.”
After we had discussed the cabin for a few more minutes, Mr. Pizarro led the way down the hill to a level place near the river. Here the cabin outlines had already been marked, and two saw pits had been dug in the ground. Mr. Marechal’s group was already down here.
Mr. Pizarro said, “Mr. Marechal and I came down here last Saturday to mark our spots, blaze our trees, and make the saw pits. This is just to make the work faster. When you cut a tree, try to decide why we picked it rather than some of the others around.”
Then he assigned us to jobs: tree-felling, horse-handling and log-hauling, log-peeling, and so on. Jack Fernandez-Fragoso and I were put on sill-laying and lunch. Mr. Pizarro gave us a quick sketch of what we were to do and then took the rest of the people off to get them started on their jobs. Mr. Marechal left two people like us behind on the other cabin, and we took a