ECOLOGY ON ROLLINS ISLAND
BY VARLEY LANG
Man's every resource was being stripped
to feed the millions on Earth ... but George
was a throwback, and a poacher, and his
punishment had to fit the crime....
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, August 1955.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
There's a library in a small town near Charles Neck on Murdock Sound.It's so run down and useless that a lot of old books still hang aroundon the shelves, the big kind with stiff backs and all kinds of fancylittle stars or small, curly designs to show the end of one sectionand the beginning of another. Very quaint. After the WFI took over theSound in our remote area, I didn't have much to do in the day time,so I used to walk down the road to town and get a handful of thesestiff backs once in a while. From reading them I got the notion I'ma one man resistance movement, which is pitiful and foolish, and, Igather, always has been a seedy, run-down sort of thing, a backwardstate of mind and feelings. That's me, alright: backward. I tried tobe forward, but it made me hard to live with; and since I live mostlywith myself, I had to quit. Still, I knew I couldn't get away withbackwardness, and that sooner or later the WFI would slap me down,squash this bussing insect, and get on with its work again as usual.
Sure enough, one bleak November morning, when I was half through acouple of eggs and a cup of coffee, I heard the throb of a motor. Iwalked down to the end of my wharf and looked skyward. I was prettysure they wouldn't come by land, because most of the secondary roadswere in bad shape; and they wouldn't travel by water, because that tooktoo much gas and time. In fact, the WFI never wasted anything. Theycouldn't afford to. Everything went for food, its growth, collection,and processing. The big freighters, some of them, had atomic piles,but that power was impossibly clumsy and expensive for smaller boats.So they came by air in the usual inspection helicopter. The pilotdropped her in the cove right alongside the wharf and made fast. Threemen stepped onto the planks. They had the wheat sheaf insignia of theWFI on their overcoat arms and caps, and they looked cold and bored.A small sea sucked at the pilings and the helicopter rose and fell,grating against the wharf. I looked at the pilot and said, "Better putyour chafing gear out if you intend staying a while." We all watchedwhile the pilot put a few kapoks at the tight spots. Then he looked ata notebook and said, "You George Arthur Henry?"
I said, "Call me George."
This inspector was the usual type: tired from long hours, bored fromdoing nothing on a weary round of food inspections. He hunched hisshoulders against the wind.
I said, "It's warmer inside."
They followed me into the kitchen of the house. All three of themstarted to sit down, then stopped, and walked over to the table inperfect step. They looked at the cold remains of my breakfast eggs. TheWFI inspector shoved his hat up and said, "Eggs." The others nodded,wordless with wonder. Then the inspector said, "Chickens?"
"Where," I said, "do you think I got the eggs?"
The little man alongside the inspector came to life. In three dextrous