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year. Many other nations were constructing similar facilities, and
instituting similar bonus programs; there were riots in those that did
not. The roster of planetary colonies was becoming too long to
remember. Yet despite this exodus, both unemployment and inflation
were out of control. The most educated and capable were the first, not
the last, to leave, and businesses were closing down, forcing those
other businesses dependent on them to close also. There was such a
terrible drain on the world's supply of gasoline that cars were priced
out of existence, and at one stroke something like a quarter of the
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nation's workers became jobless. Thus an irresistible pressure
continued for more, not less, emigration, intensifying the effect.
People were starving. But still the world's resources poured into the
maw of MT. That was the way the world wanted it.
"Compost's due for turning," Wanda announced one morning,
checking her calendar. She was very good at keeping track of
necessary tasks; she always knew what to do when, and what the
priorities were.
"I'll dp it," Lucy said. She seemed to have a compulsion to volunteer
for things.
"You've got baking to do," Wanda reminded her. One of the stores
they had discovered contained many hundreds of pounds of grain:
wheat, oats and corn, the rats ripping open the bags and soiling ten
times as much as they consumed. Now those bags were in the farm's
pantry, in the lone mouse- and ratproof room of the house, guarded
by assorted traps. Bread, pancakes, cereal it was, Scot had to admit
with no affront to Brother Paul, a godsend. Much of the grain he had
planted, and some of it was sprouting. "By the time you get done with
grinding, heating the oven and all, it'll be too late for the compost.
And we don't want you kneading the dough when you have compost
on your hands."
Scot had to laugh at that image. "She's right, Luce! Please don't
compost!"
"And I've got the week's laundry to do," Wanda said. "It has to be
today, or we'll have clouds and rain and lose all our hot water and
have to suffer another week. If you men get the compost turned in
time, I'll dump your stinking clothes in the last batch." With the solar
heater and the working pump, they had plenty of hot water, and they
tended to be cleaner now that Brother Paul was with them, though he
had never suggested that anything was amiss. Perhaps it was because
he scrupulously washed his own clothes every week, and himself.
"We'll strip down to work," Scot said.
"Okay. I'll dump your stinking bodies in the wash."
Brother Paul shook his head in simulated wonder. "What a Mother
Superior she would make at the order!"
"A real slave driver," Scot agreed.
"No, the Mother Superior does not compel. But she does organize.
Very efficiently. Some might say I would never suggest such a thing
myself, of course just a mite too efficiently..." He smiled.
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"Somebody has to organize," Wanda said, a trifle defensively.
"No question about it," Brother Paul agreed.85
They carried spading forks to the main compost heap behind the
barn. The barn was actually a former neighbor's house adapted to the
purpose, since the neighbor had deserted it for MT. The heap had
swelled to an enormous proportion, owing to the voluminous brush
and refuse dumped there. It was head-high and twenty feet in
diameter.
"I should turn it more often," Scot said. "But I've been so busy "
"Quite understandable," Brother Paul agreed, removing his shirt. He
was a stoutish man, with a fair amount of muscular development: the
kind, Scot thought, who might have been good at physical combat. Or
was that an unkind thought, considering that this was a man of peace?
"I figure we should move the whole pile to one side," Scot said,
removing his own shirt and donning heavy work gloves. His hands
now had good calluses, but he had learned to take precautions against
blistering. "That way we'll be sure we haven't missed any. And the
oldest stuff will wind up on top."
"Yes. I suggest we also form the new pile into the shape of a cup."
"Cup?"
"So that it will tend to collect water and carry it through the center,
instead of allowing it to run off. Water is essential to the composting
process."
"Beautiful!" Scot said. "I never thought of that! I'll bet you have a
compost pile at the Order."
"Several," Brother Paul agreed. "We dislike waste, physical or
spiritual."
"Okay. I'll tackle this side, and you start on that side, so we don't get
in each other's way."
"We," Brother Paul said. "Pitch in." And he did so, literally.
They labored for half an hour. Scot had not made the pile well.
Undigested brush was mixed with garbage from their meals so that he
could not get a decent forkful without entanglement and dribbling
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