Steelheart by William C. Dietz Page A

encouragingly. "Please comment on the significance of such noises."
    The question was a setup, and Mother Orlono's answer was ready. "The rotes command that we listen for the hammers, shapers, and grinders. 'For they work the Devil's will, and once loosed to their evil tasks, enslave those who would take them up.' For reasons unknown to me, Solly Raswa has chosen to violate our tenets. Those who doubt my claim can examine his plow."
    Mother Orlono stopped at that point, as if confident that the necessary information had been imparted and punishment could now be rendered. And, had Solly's grandfather not been present and in possession of certain facts regarding the supposedly celibate monk, her accusation might have been accepted as proof.
    Parly, who felt the full weight of the oldster's stare, cleared his throat. "Yes, well, thank you. These are serious allegations indeed. Lever, pick, shovel, hoe, plow, hammer, saw, axe, chisel, awl, drill, trowel, knife, and broom. These, plus a few more granted by special dispensation, are the tools of God. To invent others, or to change the ones we have, constitutes a crime against God. However, every tale has at least two sides. I sent for the instrument in question—and suggest that the elders have a look."
    The elders were excited by the prospect of viewing the Devil's work firsthand—and even went so far as to wake Father Tobo for the outing. Solly, the second lowest-ranking individual present, was one of the last to exit the building. The clouds had parted for once, and rays of sunshine broke through. An omen, perhaps? There was no way to tell.
    The plow stood on blocks. Like all Zid plows, it was what xenoanthropologists referred to as a "walking plow," meaning that it was designed to be pulled by a nonsentient organism, and guided by its owner.
    While the handles and other gear associated with walking plows varied according to individual physiology, the "bottoms,' ' or working parts, tended to be somewhat similar. The Zid plow, with its chisel-shaped blade, was very common to Class I nonindustrialized worlds.
    Of course, Parly, who had been raised on a farm, and the elders, who had farmed their entire lives, didn't know that. They knew what Zid plows were supposed to look like, though, and were quick to spot the changes Solly had made. The traditional chisel-shaped bottom had been replaced by a carefully sculpted wedge. Their consternation was evident.
    "Look at that thing! What's it for?"
    "It's the Devil's work—sure enough!"
    "The lad's crazy—that's what I say."
    Solly was mortified by the negative comments and welcomed the sound of his grandfather's familiar voice.
    "Crazy? I don't think so. Let's consider the facts. The previous design lifted the soil and didn't turn it. An excellent strategy, since the surface material protected the soil from erosion." This was safe territory—so the elders nodded in unison.
    "Hear, hear."
    "Raswa speaks the truth."
    "Thank you," Grandfather Raswa said gently. "I'm glad we're in agreement. That being the case, let's see if we can agree on something else. The great one sent us the cold. Why? Because by reducing the quality of our harvests he could illustrate the benefits of husbandry."
    There was much head-nodding and "hear-near" ing as the other elders agreed. After all, Brother Parly had said as much during his most recent sermon, and that made it true. Grandfather Raswa understood the importance of consensus—and waited for the ensuing silence.
    "Your female folk feed leftovers into their vegetable gardens and till them by hand. Tell me, which are more productive, their gardens or your fields?"
    The fertility of one's fields was a matter of familial pride and the subject of much debate. That being the case, none of the elders was willing to cede the point. Still, they knew full well that the vegetable gardens were more productive, and wondered where the old geezer was headed. The communal fields were far too large