Chapter 309

The Prison Planet

Unknown to Morales, one of the near-invisible probes shifted for a better view of him.

He had been busy. Desperately trying to save as much of his new kill as he could, he had sliced the meat into thin strips. One of his books had given several ways to make jerky. One article said the meat had to remain at 145 degrees Fahrenheit for a minimum of ten minutes, then the temperature should be reduced and the meat must be allowed to dry completely. Another article said the temperature should be 160 degrees for at least fifteen minutes, and ... there were a lot of cautions with each article. At any rate, the meat had to be kept hot long enough to kill the bacteria and other microorganisms, then the temperature should be reduced and the meat had to hang over the fire until the jerky was thoroughly dried.

"Well, fuck it," he thought aloud. "I don't have a thermometer, anyway. They've sent me to this planet with all kinds of shit – some of it that I don't even know how to use – but they didn't put in a fucking thermometer, or a clock, and ... they took my fucking watch. What the hell did they do that for? Now I have to guess at the temperature as well as the fucking time as I try to learn how to preserve meat. I guess I'll back up and punt," he snarled.

There was a washed-out gully roughly three feet deep that ran down the hill just to the left as he exited the cave. He put a thin layer of branches in the bottom for twenty feet or so, then lit a small fire. Having already cut a number of slightly thicker branches, he stripped them free of limbs and leaves. Using the thin "S" hooks from his case – and wishing he had Robertson's case so he would have enough of the hooks – he hung the strips of meat on the limbs and laid them across the narrow gully. The heat from the fire, concentrated by the ditch, would dry the meat and the smoke would tend to keep the flies away – or so he hoped.

There was a problem with drying the meat in the ditch, though. Due to the bushes and the big boulder at the entrance, the meat was out of sight unless he was several feet outside his cave. He hesitated to cut the bushes, though. They told me there were other prisoners on this planet. Unless I've been lied to, the others didn't get sent here because they were upstanding people. Having to fight animals is bad enough. I don't want to advertise my presence to whoever else is here.

Thinking about the other prisoners brought another thought. Hmmm, building a cabin might not be the best idea after all. It for damn sure would stand out like a sore thumb, and building it might just get my ass killed in the process. My cave is dark, true, but it's dry, water is near and the entrance is defensible. If the area will sustain me, I would be a fool to advertise myself. If the area will sustain me, he repeated mentally. I need to explore some more. I got a couple of glimpses through the trees of an open valley. That's one of the things the books say I should look for, because that's where I will generally find the type of animals I'll need – grass eaters. I probably lucked up finding that antelope or whatever it was, in the woods – game trail or no game trail.

With everything he did, his crossbow and compound bow were in his hands or close by, the cat attack never far from his mind.

Inside the cave, he utilized another method of drying the remainder of the meat. He didn't want to have to dig a deep trench in the hard-packed floor of the cave, so utilizing the plentiful supply of rocks farther in, he labored to construct two rows of big rocks, then blocked the ends of the area with a few more of them. The area was about three feet wide and approximately two feet high stretching partway across the side of the cave entrance that was already partially blocked by the big boulder.

After putting up forked branches on either end, he placed larger poles a foot or so above the rocks for long spits, parallel to the length of his fire. The result was an area to concentrate the fire similar to what the ditch did outside. With strips of meat hanging on spits suspended over the area, he began a small fire to enable him to dry meat inside the cave, too. If something got the meat that was suspended in the gully outside, he would still have what he was drying inside the cave. Whether the meat would last or not was still a matter of conjecture.

He ran out of "S" hooks, and cut sections of the fishing line to use instead. After slicing a hole near one end of the strip of meat, he pushed the fishing line through the hole, then tied the strip of meat to the spit. I need to use a knot that I can untie easily. I have to preserve the line for use again later. If I'm to live here, I'll have to dry meat many times.

Finally, the meat was all hung. Tired and fighting depression at the thought of having to dry meat for the rest of his life, he reviewed the articles that gave instructions on how to tell when jerky had dried enough. One described how it could be reconstituted by soaking it in boiling water. Now if he had something to go with it, he could produce a stew come winter – if his meat was actually preserved, and if he could find some vegetables to go in the pot with it.

He cautiously went down to the stream to wash his hands and arms, never letting his drying meat out of his sight. Damn, I can smell it way down here, he thought as he looked back up the hill. No telling how far the animals can detect it.

Each time the fire blazed up too much, he covered it with green branches and leaves to smother it back. The article said to dry the meat, not cook it. He had used wood that the book indicated was a close cousin to hickory back on Earth. He had no idea whether it would enhance the taste of the meat or not.

Shit, this either works or it doesn't. Sooner or later I'll get it right. The books say that drying meat to preserve it has been going on for ages. If they could do it three thousand years ago, I can learn to do it, too.

Back inside the cave, he took a shovel and the mattock with its poorly-shaped handle that he had constructed by using something called a drawknife, and began on his shelves. Digging the shelves into the walls of the cave was hot and exhausting work for someone unused to hard physical labor, particularly when that someone already had sore muscles from staggering a mile several times carrying a heavy load of meat. The digging had produced more blisters that he hoped would eventually be replaced with tougher skin.

Finally, he had four long shelves dug into the hard-packed dirt wall on one side of his cave. After positioning a number of short, forked sticks at intervals along the shelves to support his spits of meat, he collapsed to his rock seat to take a long drink from his canteen. It tasted wonderful going down his throat. Funny how I almost always drank beer or a soft drink rather than water. Now there's only water, but ... it's beginning to taste really good, especially when it's fresh out of the stream and cold – and ... I'm hot and sweaty.

Outside, he took a piece of meat from one of the hooks. Flexing the strip to test it, he decided it wasn't quite ready, at least according to the books. Pulling a chunk apart, he put some into his mouth. It was already quite tough, but the taste seemed to be concentrated and damn good. I can live on this if that's all I have to eat, but it's going to stress my teeth. At least those assholes sent several tubes of toothpaste and a couple of brushes. Hmmm, I seem to remember seeing something in one of the books about cleaning teeth without commercial toothpaste. Fuck, I have to do something. I hate to even think about chewing this stuff with an abscess.

He took another bite of the almost-jerky. When it was finally chewed up and he had swallowed the last bite of the strip, he griped aloud, "I'll bet this would taste even better with a little salt. Surely there has to be salt somewhere on this fucking planet. With my luck, it'll be on the other side of it, though." Grimacing, he added, "Shit." Talking to myself, again. "But, who the fuck cares. I'm the only one here, and those assholes back on Earth don't give a fuck whether I talk to myself or not." A snigger slipped out – the first time on the planet. "Guess I'm finally the best conversationalist around."

A barely heard scream in the distance made him tense up. He was almost certain it was the cat – or one of them, he thought grimly. "Come get me motherfucker. I'll shoot your ass full of arrows. See how you like that," he yelled out.

Whether it was the cat or not, the sun was going down, and the hair had stood up on the back of his neck when he heard that scream. The meat is either jerky or it's not. Either way, it's coming inside the cave. I'm not about to leave it outside for that fucker to eat. I'll do the test on it again in the morning when it's totally cool. If it isn't dry enough, I'll put it over the fire again to dry the rest of the way.

When the spits from outside were all hung along his shelves, he went down for a fresh bucket of water. Back in the cave, he replaced his crude barrier, made sure the crossbow was cocked and the bolt was in place.

I still have time to work on the hide before time to sack out. He had already scraped it, now he was going to try the brain/piss to see if he could cure what he hoped would eventually be something to sleep under. Oh, fuck, that stinks, he thought as he took the lid off the bucket. Steeling himself, he stuck a hand into the mess.

St. Louis

There was a complication when they arrived at the hotel. Just before they came to a full stop, Kathy told the limo driver that he wouldn't be needed any longer.

"I have instructions to see that the lady is returned safely home," he quietly responded.

"It won't be necessary. Jill and I will see that she's safely in a cab when she leaves."

He informed her that he would wait.

Mentally sighing, Kathy explained that neither of them had to get up early in the morning and they were going to be engaged in some girl talk that might run late.

He would wait.

But it might be hours.

Mrs. Wainwright had instructed him to see that the young lady got home safely. He would wait.

It would interfere with their enjoyment of the evening if they thought he had to wait while they were having fun.

That, at least, produced a small hesitation, but he quickly responded that he had his iPad with him and plenty to read – was accustomed to waiting, and loved his job. He received his full salary even when the Wainwrights were gone for weeks. He would wait.

The conversation was going in circles. As they pulled to a stop in front of the hotel, in desperation, Kathy called Margaret. After Kathy, exasperated, explained the situation, a chuckling Margaret responded. "Kathy, that's his job. Much of his day is spent waiting. Check out the front of that limo. It has everything. Plus he can sleep if he wants or needs to. Now, considering our conversation here at the Retreat, I assumed that you would try to extend your evening with Eileen, but I also asked Raymond to make certain she arrived home safely, no matter how late. He's just following my instructions, and ... Kathy, as far as that's concerned, he's very well compensated. In addition, Frank and I consider him, not just an employee, but a friend – and he knows it. Let him do his job. He'll make certain she's returned to her apartment safely, no matter how late. Now you three go have fun." With that, Margaret hung up.

Kathy sat staring at her phone before looking back at Jill, then returned her gaze to Raymond's image in his mirror. "Uh, we'll give you a call when Eileen is ready to leave."

"Very good, Ma'am," he responded as he hurried to open the door for them. He didn't even grin as they walked past, but Kathy knew he wanted to.

As the three women walked into the suite, Jill took Eileen's coat as the young woman tried to discreetly check out her surroundings, but Kathy noticed.

"Margaret reserved the suite for us..."

"'Margaret?'"

Kathy motioned toward a couch. "Yes, Mrs. Wainwright."

As Eileen sat, "Everyone in this city knows who Frank Wainwright is. You're such good friends with multi-billionaires that his wife reserves a suite like this just for the two of you to come and visit with me? And the limo ... Admittedly, I've never been in a limo before, but even I know that vehicle is unusual. I guess it would have to be to be owned by Mr. Wainwright..."

Eileen's little speech died even as Jill sat next to her and Kathy pushed a chair closer to sit on the other side of the coffee table.

Eileen looked first at one, then the other. "This is way beyond an apology, ladies. I'm beginning to be a little concerned. Oh, I really enjoyed our visit at the restaurant, and yeah, I wanted to continue our talk, but why should the Wainwrights insist on their driver making certain a total stranger gets home safely, no matter how late? Things just aren't adding up. I need to know what's going on, or I'm out of here."