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bushes, fornicating, grabbing the best meat pieces.”
        
    “Get up,” said Jonnie. “You are going to give a funeral.”
        
    “A funeral? ‘ moaned Staffor.
        
    “With meat and sermons and dancing.”
        
    “Who is dead?”
        
    “You know quite well who’s dead. You were there at the end.”
        
    “Oh, yes. Your father. A good man. Yes, a good man. Well, maybe he was your father.”
        
    Jonnie suddenly looked a little dangerous. He was standing there at ease, but he was wearing the skin of a puma that he himself had slain and he had his kill-club on a wrist thong. The club seemed to jump of its own volition into his palm.
        
    Parson Staffor abruptly sat up. “Now don’t take it wrong, Jonnie. It ’s just that things are a little mixed up these days, you know. Your mother had three husbands one time and another, and there being no real ceremonies these days-’
        
    “You better get up,” said Jonnie.
        
    Staffor clawed for the corner of an ancient, scarred bench and pulled himself upright. He began to tie the deerskin he usually wore, and obviously had worn far too long, using a frayed wovengrass rope. “My memory isn’t so good these days, Jonnie. One time I could remember all kinds of things. Legends, marriage ceremonies, hunt blessings, even family quarrels.” He was looking around for some fresh locoweed.
        
    “When the sun is straight up,” said Jonnie, “you’re going to call the whole village together at the old graveyard and you’re-”
        
    “Who’s going to dig the hole? There has to be a hole, you know, for a proper funeral.”
        
    “I’ll dig the hole,” said Jonnie.
     
       
    Staffor had found some fresh locoweed and began to gum it. He looked relieved. “Well, I’m glad the town doesn’t have to dig the hole. Horns, but this stuff is green. You said meat. Who is going to kill and cook it?”
        
    “That’s all taken care of.”
      
      
    Staffor nodded and then abruptly saw more work ahead. “Who’s going to assemble the people?” “I’ll ask Pattie to tell them.”
        
    Staffor looked at him reproachfully. “Then there’s nothing for me to do until straight-up. Why’d you wake me up?” He threw himself back down on the dirty grass and sourly watched Jonnie walk out of the ancient room.
        

Battlefield Earth
         Chapter 4
        
         Jonnie Goodboy sat with his knees to his chest, his arms wrapped around them, staring into the remains of the dance fire.
        
    Chrissie lay on her stomach beside him, idly shredding the seeds from a large sunflower between her very white teeth. She looked up at Jonnie from time to time, a little puzzled but not unduly so. She had never seen him cry before, even as a little boy. She knew he had loved his father. But Jonnie was usually so tall and grand, even cold. Could it be that under that goodlooking, almost pretty face he felt emotions for her, too? It was something to speculate about. She knew very well how she felt about Jonnie. If anything happened to Jonnie she would throw herself off the cliff where they sometimes herded wild cattle to their death, an easy way to kill them. Life without Jonnie Goodboy would not only not be worth living, it would be completely unbearable. Maybe Jonnie did care about her. The tears showed something.
        
    Pattie had no such troubles. She had not only stuffed herself with roast meat, she had also stuffed herself with the wild strawberries that had been served by the heap. And then during the dancing she had run and run and run with two or three little boys and then come back to eat some more. She was sleeping so heavily she looked like a mound of rags.
        
    Jonnie blamed himself. He had tried to tell his father, not just when he was seven, but many times thereafter, that something was wrong with this place. Places were not all the same. Jonnie had been- was- sure