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heavily loaded Marine was just coming up behind her. She grabbed a couple of bags. “Drop the rest here. Go get more.”
    The private did.
    “What kind of load?” came again from the pilot.
    “Jack, can we distribute just one platoon among the next four shuttle loads and leave room for more food?”
    Kris’s security chief was busy distributing food at her elbow. “That’s acceptable,” he said, “just so long as we keep one shuttle on the deck to get you out of here.”
    “We’ll have two,” Kris pointed out.
    “Better.”
    Kris handed over a full bag to a man pleading for his family, who were too weak to walk. Maybe he was lying, but he looked barely able to stand. “Shuttle 3 and 4, launch for orbit. Return as fast as you can. Bring down one squad of Marine reinforcements each and as much food as you can carry.”
    “Aye, ayes,” came back at Kris, and the two empty shuttles moved from where they bobbed in the lake to takeoff position.
    A second squad of Marines returned from wherever they’d been posted for defense, slung their rifles, and joined in the food-distribution work. Around Kris, things were no less hectic and desperate, but order had taken hold, and the hungry throng sensed that there really was enough food for everyone. Now they waited patiently for their turn.
    Kris stepped aside for a Marine to take her place, then tapped Jack, Penny, and Mr. Annam. “Can we talk now?”
    “Yes. Yes, now would be a very good time. May I invite you to my home?” the farmer suggested.
    Kris suspected that was a formal invitation. “Yes, I would be grateful for your hospitality,” she answered, using the words Nelly suggested. The plantation owner smiled with satisfaction, folded his hands, and gave Kris a little bow.
    The crowd parted for them as Mr. Annam led them to the big house. That was a clearer sign of respect than Kris could have asked for. She hoped it cut both ways.
    In the cool shade of the house’s veranda, Mr. Annam slipped out of his sandals. Kris removed her shoes, and her team followed suit. Inside, they were offered seats in wicker chairs, and a woman quickly offered cups filled with a thin tea.
    “This is my wife, Pinga. Without her careful husbandry of our meager resources, few would have lived to eat your gifts.”
    “My husband is too kind,” said the short woman, wrapped in a colorful cloth. But she settled into a chair at his right and smiled at Kris. “If my husband has not thanked you for your generosity, then let me assure you that you and your men will have an eternal place in our hearts and in our prayers,” she said, folding her hands and bowing her head.
    “Thank you,” Kris said, and found herself folding her hands and bowing in like fashion.
    For a moment.
    “How bad is it?” she asked, head coming up.
    “My grandfather told me tales of famine on Earth and when he fled the Iteeche. He prayed that my young eyes would never see what his old eyes had seen. Now I know all too well what he saw. Maybe worse.”
    “What is your crop situation?” Penny asked.
    “Our land is rich,” Pinga said. “We can get three crops in. Rice, barley, millet, wheat all grow here fast enough for a spring, summer, and fall crop.”
    “But that is not enough to feed all those who flee to us,” the husband added.
    “We have switched most of our land to potatoes. Before, we only grew them for vodka, which sold well on New St. Petersburg. You know of that planet?”
    Kris did. It was one of Greenfeld’s most populous industrial centers. They liked their vodka there. She nodded.
    “Sadly, New St. Petersburg knew all too well of us. People from there doubled, then redoubled our population. Then doubled it again and maybe again,” Annam said.
    “At first, those who came here tore at our heartstrings,” Pinga said. “They had nothing but were willing to work. We were glad to take them in. Thank heavens we did. Those early arrivals expanded our crops and made it possible for us to