Chapter 383

The Prison Planet

At the stream, Morales fished the watermelon out and wiped it dry with a piece of hide. Hefting the big, fifty plus pound melon to his shoulder, he thought, This thing is at least twice as big as any of the watermelons I’ve seen in the grocery store in the last several years. Odd how watermelons in the stores used to be big, but now they’re much smaller and still cost just as much – maybe more. I guess the smaller ones are easier to handle, ship and store.

At the cave, he put the slightly oblong melon down on a flat rock. Gotta keep some seed from this guy, he thought as he stared at the dark green, almost black melon. The thought brought other similar ones to the fore. I guess I need to keep seeds from everything. Shit. I don’t know anything about farming, but even I know that the weeds, vines and bushes are going to choke out the vegetables sooner or later. How in the fuck do I keep seeds? When do I plant them? How do I plant them? Shit. How do I keep the vegetables from being choked out? There was the head of a hoe clamped to the outside of my case, and another on Robinson’s, and I think that one of the other things I didn’t recognize was a bush axe. Both of which I’ll have to make handles for, but what good is a hoe or a bush axe against all those weeds and bushes in the mile-long valley?

He sank the blade of his largest knife into the melon. The knife glided easily through it, and a little more than half way around, Morales put pressure on the sides of the split. With a wet crack, the two sides separated, the sweet smell accosting his nostrils almost immediately. Apparently, Lobo noticed it too, because he came to his feet to move nearer. Morales found himself staring at the deep red of the melon’s interior. What had been the center of the halves was without seeds, but the sides showed large black ones that he knew he should save if this thing tasted as good as it looked.

Cutting a fist-sized chunk, he took a big bite, juice running onto his chin and a grin spreading about his face. In their turn, his taste buds were assaulted by the most intensely sweet watermelon he had ever put into his mouth.

“Here, My Friend,” he said, holding out a piece for the wolf, who first sniffed it, then tentatively took the piece into his mouth. When his mouth closed, juice seeped past his lips before his tongue flashed out to catch the errant drops. Seconds later, he grinned his toothy grin at his partner while moving closer.

There had been sealed containers of chocolate bars in the resupply case. Morales assumed that they had been destined for a female scientist, but he had put them aside for the future, along with the sugar and powdered creamer. He took his coffee black and couldn’t imagine anything he would need sugar for. He certainly had no way to bake anything, and had only a limited amount of baking supplies that had come in the resupply case. Not having eaten anything sweet since arriving on 2214 only intensified the sweet taste of the melon and it also made him think about baking something sweet. Unfortunately, he had no way to do that.

As Morales alternated pieces of melon between the wolf and himself, Gertrude came as near as she dared with Lobo there, squawking at the human, obviously recognizing the watermelon. Knowing firsthand how formidable her beak was, he had no doubt that the chickens could peck their way through the rinds of the watermelons to get at the goodies within.

The chick wasn’t restrained by any fear of the wolf and came running over, cheeping for its part.

Morales cut out two large sections where most of the seeds were, and put them aside. Cutting a big piece of the melon, rind and all, he put it where Gertrude could get to it. Clucking to her chicks, she attacked the melon with fervor. Soon, the chicks were mimicking her. Junior didn’t bother to go to his mother, but stayed near Morales to eat from his hand.

Morales and Lobo ate until they couldn’t. Junior quit several minutes before, as did the hen and the other chicks, but half the original melon remained untouched other than having the chunks removed for the seeds. Gertrude gathered her other chicks about her, went to her nest and was soon fast asleep. Lobo let out a long belch before curling up to nap. Morales, his stomach fuller than he could remember in a long while, leaned against the wall to nap with Junior sleeping on his lap.

A half hour later, Morales opened his eyes as Junior fluttered to the ground and hurried over to the manure pile, where it made a deposit. Morales just sat staring. “No fucking way,” he said over and over. “Got to be a coincidence.”

After stopping by the beer/water can to get a drink, the chick ran over to associate with his peers, all of them soon scratching in the vegetable pile as the hen watched.

Yawning from his nap, Morales booted the laptop, his curiosity piqued. After searching through a number of watermelon pictures, he decided that the melons had to be a type called Black Diamond, which was an heirloom variety, (Morales thought he knew what the word meant, but looked it up to be sure) and he would be able to plant the seeds and expect a good harvest, all other things being equal.

But how in the hell do I plant anything in that jungle? he wondered. Of course, there are areas without so many weeds like the place where the carrots and other root vegetables are, but ... Shit, some way, I’m going to have to prepare a place for a big garden. I have shovels and digging forks, at least the heads, but I’ll have to make handles for everything. But what about carrots and tomatoes? How do I save their seeds – if they even have any?

A quick check on the computer and he sat back. Biennial. Carrots are fucking biennial, whatever that means. Back to the vegetable dictionary, and after that he read an article on saving carrot seeds. “Carrots grow their greenery and long tender roots this year, but won’t flower until next year,” the article said.

Sitting back, he stared at the screen. “Oh, now that’s clear as mud,” he groused. “Surely, saving seeds isn’t always that complicated. I’ll try tomatoes and see how that goes.”

The article said to cut the tomato in half and squeeze the seeds into a container. When it was half full of juice and seeds, the container should be set aside for three to five days or until a whitish mold formed over the seeds. The article cautioned that the seeds would have an odor during this time. I doubt if I’ll notice it with the smell of chicken shit in here, not to mention the tanning hides, he mused.

After the seeds had set for the time specified, the container should be filled with water so the bad seeds would float and the good seeds would sink to the bottom. Then water and bad seeds could be poured out, repeating as necessary until the remaining seeds were clean. The good seeds should then be put onto a paper plate out of the sun, and stirred a couple of times per day until they were dry, before storing them in a sealed container in a dark place.

“I don’t have a sealed container or a paper plate, but a piece of wood will probably do in place of the paper plate, and I doubt if the sealed container is an absolute necessity. Necessity or not, it isn’t going to happen.”

Thinking that now was as good a time as any, he cut a tomato in half and squeezed the seeds and juice into his spare metal cup, then set it on a shelf to wait for the whitish mold to form.

“What about onions?” he said aloud, but as soon as he found the article, his countenance changed. “Bi-fucking-ennial again. You have to save the bulbs and replant them to form seeds the next year. Fuck it. I’ll study later,” he grumped, coming to his feet and going over to get his weapon belts. “Come on, Lobo. Let’s finish our chicken fence.”

As he picked up his axe, he noticed the bush axe head on his tool shelf. “Shit,” he muttered. “I cut bushes with my axe yesterday when I had a tool right here that would do a better job. I guess I need to make a handle for it, and no better time than now,” he muttered.

After measuring to determine the diameter of the pole he would need, he went in search of a hardwood sapling of the correct size. Back inside, he found an article that showed bush axes, and zoomed the picture enough to more clearly see how the handle was designed. Most of it was slightly oblong to fit the hands, but the part that attached to the blade was rectangular.

Well, at least I don’t have to make pegs to secure the handle to the axe. They even put the bolts through the blade for me. All I have to do is make the handle, then bore the four holes to match those in the blade, drop the bolts in and secure them.

Even with his saws and spokeshave, the handle took two hours for him to cut out and fashion. When he was done and he had it sanded and mounted, he was proud of it. The last eight inches or so of the six inch wide by eighteen inch long blade was curved slightly, eventually coming to an offset point. The slight hooking effect made it much easier to cut bushes of the size he had cut yesterday. He had been forced to hold the bush with one hand while swinging the axe with the other, but he found he could cut them with the bush axe without having to hold onto them. Both sides of the blade were sharp, and cutting the brush he needed for the fence went much faster with a tool that was made specifically for cutting bushes.

Without Lobo, he would never have been able to finish before dark, but he trusted the intelligent wolf to warn him of danger, so he was able to keep his full attention on the job at hand. As he stood looking at his handiwork, he knew that the wolf was not the only animal on 2214 that was more intelligent than its counterpart on Earth. He fully expected the chickens to constantly try to figure a way through or over the brush fence, but he had read of a way to crimp their flying abilities.

As he sat eating his dinner and feeding Junior tidbits, he flexed tired shoulder muscles. Parts of two days cutting and dragging bushes had made new muscles sore. Odd how I think I’m past being sore, then when I do something new, here comes the soreness. Oh, well, I spent most of my time back home sitting on my ass, even on my job. I guess one positive thing about 2214 is that I’m already in better shape after only a few weeks here than I ever had been on Earth. Of course, if the fucking planet kills my ass, it won’t matter what shape I’m in.

Again, he wondered what the scientists meant when they theorized that this was an alternate Earth. He had heard comments about dimensions, but he had only a vague concept of what the term meant. Maybe I need to see if I can find anything out about that. Oh, shit. I have plenty to do without worrying about things like that. I’m for damn sure not going anywhere, and ... I’m beginning to like it here, he admitted to himself. If I could just be certain of my food supply during the winter, I would feel better. I don’t even know whether my jerky will last, let alone the potatoes and other vegetables. The salted hams should be okay, but this planet has so many things that are different. What if the things that work on Earth don’t work here? According to what I read, potatoes last the winter in a root cellar, and jerky will last for years, as will salted pork. It also said watermelons will last only a few weeks, but as good as this one tastes, I’m going to try to save some of them, anyway.

I need to check out more of that passage where I’m storing the pork. It seems to spiral downward and is cooler than the rest of the cave. But dammit, it gives me the creeps to go very much past where I put the meat. Where does the cool air come from, and is that tunnel going to drop off into a bottomless pit?