i said, "look, ranson. it's like this. i know you're right. i've had a look around, and i've thought about it some. the figures are with you: too many men and not enough food. only thing is, even from your point of view, i'm not fit for wfi. i have to be on my own. there ought to be somewhere, someplace for a man, instead of a food clerk—–" i trailed off unhappily.

"i'm afraid you have no alternative, george. you are a criminal in the eyes of the wfi. either you will work for wfi or you will be punished." he paused.

"i won't work for them."

carter, the ecologist, burst in at the door, slammed his gloves down in the middle of the kitchen table. "ranson, you never saw anything like it. fifty in the flock, two roosters, all in fine shape. lice of course, some bone malformation in the legs. but healthy."

he began to ask me dozens of questions, but ranson interrupted.

"i need your help, carter, and time's wasting. among other depredations, george henry, here, has been robbing government oyster beds, trapping government crabs, netting government fish, presumably at night. i needn't add that he has a ready and lucrative market. in effect, he refuses to cease his depredations, he refuses to join the wfi, and he is generally uncooperative."

carter said, "uncooperative," in an absent way. he dragged his mind away from a flock of fifty fowl living in a most unusual ecology, narrowed his eyes, and asked a shrewd question.

"how did he get there?"

"what?"

"to the beds."

ranson said, "where did you get the gas, george?"

"i didn't. took the engine out, put in a well and center-board, shipped a mast, and rigged her for sail. she's tucked away up in marshwater creek."

they were astounded. nobody had sailed pleasure craft for a generation: no leisure and no money for such a waste of time; and sail craft were too inefficient for food collecting.

"my god, george," ranson said, "you're a living anachronism!"

carter nodded. he adjusted his glasses, looked at me, and said quietly, "he is also an able man."

"his abilities will be largely wasted in a penal food processing plant," ranson said grimly.

"oh, i agree, i agree." carter nodded his head emphatically. "the wrong environment entirely. no scope. no initiative." he gave me a glance of understanding that warmed me right through and also had the unfortunate effect of taking some of the starch out of me. i had been prepared for hostility and indifference. i stood up and walked to the sink for a glass of water i didn't want.

"now," carter said, talking to ranson, "you take the way he walks. notice how he swings his arms, with his hands a little forward, as if ready to grip, and the tilt of his head, alert, watchful. you don't see that often. different attitude, different environment."

ranson sighed. "get down to business."

"yes. there's always this terrible lack of manpower, machine power, everything, all swallowed up in food. and besides, the men can't stand those bird stations. too lonely. can't meet an emergency. four of them died on rollins island three winters ago when the power plant failed. just sat there and froze. terrible thing. had to install emergency two-way radios; need the equipment elsewhere."

"they died of loneliness, if you ask me," ranson said.

carter nodded. "and no gas available for boat inspection. helicopter too wasteful for a single station. put george out there with one or two others. could you sail out? seaworthy? big enough?"

i said yes.

"good. food processing all done by machines. just feed birds in. take up to half the colony of young birds when bred, half the old ones when coming to nest. regular inspection of tern colonies by sail, your boat. helicopter lands june twenty, small freighter in july to load processed birds in rollins harbor. just the thing."

he took off his glasses to show that the problem had been solved.

"look," ranson said. "i don't have anything against george personally. i want him to be useful and contented. if he can't be contented, then at least i want him to be useful, instead of wasteful. robbing government food resources is a grave offense, but even that doesn't justify putting him down in the middle of a pile of excrement where no ordinary man can breathe for more than a few minutes without stifling."

"healthy," carter said. "healthy. it does stink. that's one reason we have such trouble keeping the stations manned."

"boys," i said. "what is this pile of dung i'm supposed to sit on? and what birds? and why?"

carter explained. in the desperate search for food, the sea birds were now being subjected to an annual harvest. from various nesting places along all the ocean coasts in the world, birds were harvested, to say nothing of their eggs, in large numbers. it was simply a matter of catching and killing the birds, gathering their eggs, and feeding the processing hoppers with same. these foods were later shipped to food processing plants to be added to other harvests and packaged for consumption. in some cases, more specialized processing was necessary, as with the fulmars on rollins island. the fulmars were much prized because their alimentary system contained an especially stinking oil rich in fat and vitamin a. in their case, no eggs were collected, since they bred only once in a season, and the birds were separately processed to retrieve the oil.

literally millions of sea birds and their eggs were cropped yearly from nesting sites on the east coast of north america alone. it was a regular and assured source of food on an enormous scale the world over. the thousands of tons of excrement were also gathered every five years to be used in food processing and in agriculture. it was the policy of the wfi to waste nothing and to use everything.

the cropping of the young birds took place in the spring and early summer, depending on the species. the adult birds were trapped by various devices when they returned to their nests. over-cropping was carefully avoided to insure a steady annual production.

"if it's the island or a penal food plant, i'll take the island. i'm a waterman, not a bird collector. at least i'll get a chance to use the boat once in a while."

both the wfi men looked relieved. then ranson put a question.

"do you know of anyone else around here who might be fitted for such work? i'm not asking you to inform. i know there's been a good deal of discontent in this sound region, which is one reason why i'm here. the island may be a solution for other misfits as well."

i thought it over. "the jackson boys aren't very happy. they were the best men with drift nets this sound has ever seen. now they sit on stools all day long and watch a row of bottles pass in front of lights. once in a while they lift a bottle out of the line and put it aside. they get very drunk every night on some stuff they make out of berries and dandelions from the marsh."

ranson sighed. carter again passed a warming look of complete understanding, and nodded encouragement.

"then there's pete younger. he was a trapper before wfi closed the muskrat areas. he turns a valve several hundred times a day in the small fish processor. he oils his traps and talks to himself. he may be too far gone. i think he is."

"anyone else?"

"others. but the wfi has a bight on them for good, i guess. they were men, once."

"are the jackson men married?"

i smiled. "no. we're dying out."

carter chuckled.

it was a twenty-five mile sail to rollins island. the jackson boys and i loaded the boat with clothing mostly. food was stored on the island. i took along four pairs of oyster rakes, i didn't have the heart to leave them behind. and bill and joy took a huge ball of linen twine, ropes, corks, rings, all the makings for a drift net.

unexpectedly, carter showed up at the last minute by helicopter to see us off. he jumped up on the wharf smiling.

"about those chickens," he said, "they're condemned stock of course. better take them along. and keep an eye on them. want to know how they make out in a new environment."

then he took me aside and handed me a small book.