Three hundred years after the Plague had devastated the Earth, setting a brash star-spanning civilization back more than a millennium and leaving the handful of survivors without the technological base and energy which had supported it, most of the planet was still sparsely populated. Small communities clustered here and there, where life could be supported and some degree of human culture maintained. But there were always those who found it easier to take than to build, and the remains of the lost glories of their race supplied them with the power to enforce their demands. In this part of the world they were called rats.

  So the rats had come from the east. How long had Morovia been able to support them? And what had finally run out? Only someone’s patience? Morovia was —had been—half the size of Sereno; without a spring, they had been dependent for water on Wilson’s snows. It had been a dry winter. Did the rats demand more water than the reservoir held? Or did they pollute it and then destroy the village in their blind anger? Jak had heard stories like that.

  But wherever they had come from, and whoever had fallen before them in the past, they were here now. They’d looted in the ruins which covered ten thousand square miles to find the streetsuits which would protect them from the crude weapons available here; they had probably found old energy weapons for themselves. If Sereno refused their demands, he would be killed first and his sons next. If the villagers fought back, they would all be destroyed. The people would have to decide tonight what to do—but there seemed to be no choice.

  The big room was filled, and torches along the walls smoked and flared as the breeze wandered above the shaking heads.

  “I’ll bet there aren’t more than a dozen of them,” someone said. “They’d all have gone together to the ‘tenna this afternoon. We can chase them away.”

  “With what? And what’s to keep them from waiting up in the hills and killing anybody they catch alone? Or coming down here at night and setting our houses on fire?

  “Who would volunteer to drive them away?” Rajer added. “Remember—if you fail, they’ll kill us all.”

  “Well,” said Jak after a pause, “I think it’s obvious we’ll have to agree to their demands tomorrow—keep them happy and maybe off their guard while we think of something to do. We ought to find out what happened in Morovia.”

  “Dad—”

  “Malcolm?”

  “I could get there and back in a day or so. It’s straight out Hunnington Trail and north a couple of miles. If you’re going to give the rats what they want anyway tomorrow and take time to think of something else, I could be back tomorrow night. There might be some people left alive in Morovia, and I could bring them back.”

  “Plan to take a day each way. That’ll give you more time there. And if you find anyone to bring back, you’ll travel slower. You might want to take a burro. Is everyone in agreement, then? We’ll all meet here second night and discuss the rats’ demands and what happened in Morovia, and then decide what to do.”

  “Semmity Radio is on tonight, isn’t it?” Mona said. “Maybe we ought to call the Scouts.”

  “Same objection,” said Jak. “What if the rats beat them off? Besides, just hiring them to come here could cost more than we have.”

  “It could cost us our lives,” said Rajer, “even if there are only a dozen rats. They want only food and water. We can live with them, and they won’t hurt us if we give them what they want.”

  “Even if we did, we’d live under their threat until something else happened. Let’s adjourn for the night. It’s been dark about an hour, and Rajer shouldn’t miss recording any more of the Semmity cast than possible. Is everything set up?”

  Together they dragged out the large speaker and a table with the precious big tuner and Rajer’s cubi-corder. All but a dozen or so of the meeting wandered out, content to wait for a daytime playback of anything they might be interested in. Rajer switched on the tuner and adjusted its knobs with a musician’s touch. Across the endless frying of the ionosphere, he focused on light, haunting music, then started the coupled cubicorder and went to sit with the others. At length the music ended and a voice spoke.

  “You have been listening to Mallowin’s ‘Progressions from a Theme,’ by Thomas Dibgy. This is Semmity Radio, casting five thousand watts on frequencies of two-point-five megahertz, five, ten, twenty and thirty megahertz. This is the first of three consecutive nightly broadcasts, beginning with the second night of each new moon. Today was Thursday the eighth of August, 2638. The time is 2058, Pacific Coast Time.

  “Our transmission tonight will be in three parts. Until 2330, the Principles of Effective Irrigation, Topic Four: Drainage Control. From 2330 to 2400, the Gershwin ‘Concerto in F’. From 2400 to 0030, the Midnight News of the World for the past month. From 0030 to 0215 we will rebroadcast Computer Theory, part twelve, which was interrupted last month by power failure. From 0215 to approximately 0500, Richard Burton’s classic performance as King Lear. Tomorrow night, ‘King Lear’ will open our schedule at 2100, followed by Irrigation, followed by Computer.

  “All the services of Semmity Radio are brought to you by the Western Scouts. If you can use our advice or assistance, we monitor one-twenty-one point five megahertz and five hundred kilohertz twenty-four hours a day. Or we can now be reached by vidiphone through Frisco Island, Salt Lake, Denver, New Vegas or Drango. If you receive our broadcast east of the Mountain, call the MisipiPack, in Kayro Park. Outside the North American continent, confirm and report on our signal quality in your area. West of longitude one-oh-five in North America, call us with any problems you might have. No charge for advice or job estimates. The time in fifteen seconds, exactly 2100 hours, Pacific Coast Time…. Five, four, three, two, one, mark.”

  Then a different voice introduced “The Principles of Effective Irrigation, Topic Four.”

  Jak went with Rajer to the ‘tenna the following afternoon, and five rats came out of the bushes to present their terms. All five were dressed in the bulky, archaic styles of streetsuits, the nearly impenetrable nyloid body armor which had been common public wear in the Old Days when any floor of any single residential dome had held more people in worse conditions than any town now west of the great mountains, and a single block held as many people as there now were in a million square miles.

  The five advanced in a group, and the largest one snarled at Jak. “Keep away from me, mud! All you’re good for is digging and planting—and pretty soon you’ll be ready to plant yourself. Are you the Block?”

  “Yes.”

  “O.K.—here’s a list. We’ve got three charged blasters right on your beam, by the way, in case you were thinking about arguing. We’ll want this much delivered to that big pile at the west end of the hills. We’ll be living around there somewhere, and we don’t want to have to walk too far. You’ll deliver this much every week, and if you’re late we’ll remind you. Oh—sometimes, one of us might come into town for something special. Whatever he wants, you’ll see that he gets it. Because if he has any complaints about the service, we’ll come back to make sure it gets straightened out. You got all that, mud?”

  “Yes. What if we don’t have something you want?”

  “Well, mud, it’s up to you to find a substitute that will satisfy us. Just remember, we’re pretty choosy. You got any more questions?”

  “No.”

  The rat slapped him suddenly. “That’s wrong. You want to know when we get our first delivery. You can take two days this time because we want to start off like good neighbors. You’re going to like having us around— or else.” He looked at Rajer, his ear bandaged, and laughed.

  The five turned like landlords who dismissed their tenants and swaggered back the way they had come. Jak looked at the sheet of paper in his hand, and Rajer read over his shoulder.

  “Two sheep every week?” Jak read. “A hundred gallons of water. Ten gallons of berries every week until the first big storm and two gallons after that. Fifty ears of corn until we harvest, then two gallons of flour every week—” His eye ran on down the list, and his jaw quivered.

  “—Two pounds of pot and half a pound of salt every week.” The people of Sereno sat in silence on the rows of benches in the smoky hall as Jak finished reading the list, and looked up. “Tomorrow night Malcolm will be back from Morovia. But next day we must have all these things ready to take out to Citivist.”

  “They’ve moved into Citivist?” George gasped, looking at Mona, and a gentle chuckle rippled around the room. Citivist was the end of the -low range of hills which enfolded Sereno in one maternal canyon, where the stub of an ancient apartment tower rose nearly three floors, looking out over the wide flat Ellay Plain past the white-pillared ruins two hours’ walk from Sereno towards where the distant ocean touched the horizon on a clear day. The Ruins might be the goal of rare holiday excursions, but had been picked clean by generations of everything but archaeological interest. The view from the tower was romantic by moonlight, and the spot was favored by young couples of the village, contracted or free.

  “At least they won’t be watching us from hiding all the time,” said one of the herdsmen. “I don’t think any of them would want to sit out in the open air all day, or walk a couple miles back and forth. And they won’t be likely to drop in for something they might need.”

  “But when they do come, it won’t just be on a casual impulse, and they’ll be harder to deal with,” Jak said. “Now, we’ll all share the cost of supporting them, but this time I’ll put up the two sheep and the big watersack. We can work out something equitable before next week. Everything else in his list we can chip in on. Bring your shares tomorrow night and we’ll see what Malcolm has found out. If anybody can’t remember what we need, see me tonight or tomorrow. When you’ve looked over the list and we get the shares worked out, Rajer will play last night’s Midnight News for anybody who’s interested. Yes, Mona?”

  “Uh, have you thought about the Scouts?”

  Jak looked around the room. “Has anyone else thought about the Scouts? We’d have to feed them in addition to all the rats for a while, and they’ll have to be paid.”

  “And if they only succeed in making the rats angry, we’ll all be killed,” said Rajer.

  “But if we don’t call them,” Mona said, “the rats will starve us all. Two sheep a week—in a year that’s a tenth of our flock. And what about the breadfruit? We haven’t had enough of that in the last three years. They couldn’t have got this much from Morovia.”

  “Apparently they didn’t,” said the same herder. “I agree. We can’t keep up anything like this for very long. I say we should call the Scouts—price and advice given free.”

  “We can’t use the radio—the rats’ll be listening. But we could try to phone through Malibu. The Valley line was open last week when the stage came; the driver told me about it.”

  “I’d been thinking of trying the phone,” Jak said. “Malibu has a good radio and a directional ‘tenna. They could cast north and a Troop might be here in a month.”

  “This time of year they could make it in two weeks.”

  “They’d take a while getting ready. We can feed the rats for a month if we know they’ll be gone the month after that. Is everybody agreed?”

  “I’d like to wait for Malcolm to come back, Dad. He might be able to tell us how many there are and what kind of weapons they have.”

  “Right, Martin. We’ll postpone action on this until after tomorrow night. Convince them we’re willing to cooperate. Then if we can’t get Malibu on the phone, somebody will have to go there with the message.”

  All this while the list was handed among the benches, people leaning together over it. Muttered comments grew as it passed from hand to hand, resentment condensing around it until every voice in the village was ready to agree this toll could not be borne. Then shares were worked out, leaving everyone angrier and feeling more helpless against these parasites who had descended to loot them of their food. Few of them cared to stay to hear the news.

  Two days later, a direct vidiphone contact was established through Malibu up the coast to Frisco Island and thence east through an automatic relay station at Sacto into Semmity. The sound was clear from the little speaker of the handphone, though the picture was faint and rolled constantly. Jak saw a lean, white-haired man as brown as a tree, who wore a green sash across his Chest decorated with ranks of obscure symbols.

  “Rats, eh?” he said. “We can probably help. How many are there?”

  “They claim fifty, but they’ve ordered enough food for thirty.”

  “Then there are probably fifteen. How are they armed?”

  “They have some energy weapons. My boy went to Morovia, where they came from, to see if there were any survivors. There weren’t. And there was evidence of a blaster having been used. Maybe more than one.”

  The Master of Semmity Troop nodded, a file of ghostly images. “We can send a patrol down for twenty dollars a man. Under the circumstances I wouldn’t send you fewer than four. You will be expected to board them and their mules and re-equip them for the trip back. Also, any pay earned by a Scout who is killed in your service goes to the leader, and the leader will bring it back to us. I would suggest you hire five. Sereno should be worth a hundred dollars. We can also discount the value of anything the rats might leave. If they have energy weapons in good condition, for instance. A blaster might be worth twenty dollars.”

  “How much would five streetsuits be worth? I’ve seen them, and they look good as new.”

  “Couldn’t guarantee. Four dollars each is reasonable, but some of them might have to be damaged to kill the rats inside. I think you need a five-man patrol. If you’re willing to accept our terms, they may be there around the next full moon. They can find you easily enough—we have excellent maps. Since you’re probably being watched, they’ll come in from the east after dark some night. If they haven’t shown up in a month, call us back. The phone here always works.”

  “I wish we could say the same. Thank you, and we’ll have the money ready.”

  “Fine. Best of luck meanwhile, and try not to make the rats angry. We hate to lose business.”

  As the picture from Semmity faded, Frisco Island came on the line in the person of a cool-looking girl. “Hi, Sereno,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind my cutting in, but we wanted to keep the line open to Malibu. Besides, our Comm Center here wondered how you’d been picking up our recent audiocasts.”

  “Fine, Frisco. Our ‘tenna is in good shape, and those weather predictions have been a lot of help.”

  “They’ll get better. Blue Valley expects to be able to lock onto a weather satellite for this hemisphere with another year’s work. They’ve already got signals that it’s still working, and they hope to be able to read pictures from it. Are you a Tech?”

  “No. You want to talk to Rajer about tuners and things like that. Keep the line open.”

  By the time Rajer came at Jak’s summons, the little vidiphone was silent* and several minutes of signaling failed to raise Malibu.

  “It must have gone out somewhere in the Valley line,” he said at last. “You got Semmity, though?”

  Jak nodded. “The Master said a patrol would be down by the full moon. Five men at twenty dollars each, but they’ll take some of their pay in loot. I think we can manage.”

  “Only five men? Against fifty rats?”

  “He seemed pretty confident. Suggested four could be enough. I’ll tell the meeting tonight.”

  Less than a week later one of the rats came into town. It was late afternoon when he appeared, striding sure-footedly down the steep hillside towards the small corral where the breeding goats were kept. Two children were watching the goats; they stopped playing and stood up as he approached, staring as though they had never seen a stranger before.

  This one was small and slight of build, scarcely larger than either of them. He wore a flowered sleeveless shirt and loose pants. His skin was pale, and looked soft. He smiled at the children as he glanced around for an adult to speak to, but his eyes had a glassy blankness when he finally focused on them.

  “Gimme some milk,” he said.

  Their eyes got big, but neither child moved. He stopped smiling.

  “Gimme some milk!”

  The younger child stuck a grimy fist in her mouth, and seconds passed.

  “All right, gimme a pail,” the rat said, his voice rising. “And I’ll show you how to milk a goat.”

  Suddenly both children giggled. The rat struck violently at the nearer, who slumped limply, to the dirt and lay unmoving and the other screamed and ran away towards the silent houses.

  The rat looked after her and shrugged. There was a small pail hanging on one fence post—he took it down and entered the corral. Ten minutes later, after he had filled the pail with warm foamy milk, he looked up.

  The child still lay where she had fallen, but beyond her, watching silently, stood half the people of Sereno. Wind whispered the long sweet leaves of eucalyptus behind them, but they neither spoke nor stirred.

  He stared at them suspiciously, then laughed. “You mud should teach your get some manners,” he said. “You can pick up the pail next time you bring us food.”

  No one moved as he turned and climbed the trail west, the heavy pail swinging beside him. But as he passed out of sight over the ridge they moved forward as one to cluster about the child. And only then murmurs passed among them. “Scouts. Full moon. God willing—”

  A cloudless sky held a full moon above the eastern horizon, and yellow firelight was visible through curtained and screened windows. Frogs and crickets shouted back and forth in the faded twilight. Silently, up Horn Canyon from Hunnington Trail, wound a file of men and mules. They stayed under the trees in shadow, and even the animals seemed to know how to place their feet amid the dry leaves and twigs on the hard gray earth.