50 in 50

"Come to homestead. Figure to open me a pig ranch. It'll be the only pig ranch for more'n fifty light-years in any direction — and not meanin' to boast, that's savin' a lot." He wiped his right hand on his jacket, then slowly extended it again. "Name's Wurber, — most folk call me Bron because that's my first name. I'm afraid I didn't catch yours?"

"Haydin.” the Governor said, reluctantly extending his hand. "I'm the Governor here." He looked down abstractedly at the rounded, squealing forms that milled about them in a churning circle.

"Why, I'm that pleased to meet you, Governor. It's sure a big job you got here," Bron said, happily pumping the other's hand up and down.

The rest of the spectators were already leaving; and when one of the pigs — a great, rounded sow — came too close to them, a man turned and lashed out an ironshod boot. Her shrill screams sliced the air like a buzzsaw run wild as she fled.

"Here, none of that," Bron shouted over the backs of his charges. The angry man just shook his fist backward and went away with the rest of the crowd.

"Clear the area," an amplified voice bellowed from the tender. "Blastoff in one minute. Repeat, sixty seconds to blastoff."

Bron whistled again and pointed to a grove of trees at the edge of the field. The pigs squealed in answer and began moving in that direction. The trucks and cars were pulling out, and when the churning herd — with Bron and the Governor at its center — reached the edge of the field, only the Governor's car was left. Bron started to say something, but his words were drowned out by the tender's rockets and the deafening squealing and grunting of fright that followed it. When it died away, he spoke again.

"If you're drivin' into the city, sir, I wonder if you'd let me drive along with you. I have to file my land claims and all that kind of paperwork."

"You wouldn't want to do that," the Governor said, groping around for an excuse to get rid of the rustic clod. "This herd is valuable property; you wouldn't want to leave all these pigs here alone."

"Do you mean there're criminals and thieves in your town?"

"I didn't say that," Haydin snapped. "The people here are as decent and law-abiding as any you can find. It's just that, well, we're a little short of meat animals and the sight of all that fresh pork on the hoof…"

"Why, that notion is plumb criminal, Governor. This is the finest breedin' stock that money can buy, and none of them are for slaughterin'. Do you realize that every critter here will eventually be the ancestor of entire herds of—"

"Just spare me the lecture on animal husbandry. I'm needed in the city."

"Can't keep the good folks waitin'," Bron said with a wide and simple smile. "I'll drive in with you and make my own way back. I'm sure these swine will be safe enough here. They can root around in this patch of woods and take care of themselves for a bit."

"Well it's your funeral — or maybe theirs," Haydin mumbled, getting into the electric car and slamming the door behind him. He looked up with a sudden thought as Bron climbed in the other side. "Say — where's your luggage? Did you forget it in the tender?"

"Now, that's shore nice of you to worry about me like that." Bron pointed out at the herd, which had separated a bit now that the swine were rooting happily in the forest humus. A large boar had two long cases strapped to his back, and a smaller pig nearby had a battered suitcase tied on at a precarious angle.

"People don't appreciate how all-around valuable pigs are. On Earth they been beasts of burden for umpteen thousands of years, yessir. Why there's nothing as all-around as a pig. The old Egyptians used them for plantin' seeds. You know, their bitty little sharp hooves just trod those seeds down to the right depth in the soft soil."

Governor Haydin jammed the rheostat full on and drove numbly into town with a bucolic discourse on swinology echoing about his head.

"Is that your municipal buildin'?" Bron asked. "It shore is pretty."

The Governor braked the electric car to a sliding stop in front of the structure, and the dust from the unpaved street rose in a swirling cloud around them. He frowned suspiciously at Bron.

"You're in no position to make fun," he snapped. "It so happens that this was one of the first buildings we put up, and it serves its function^yen if it is… well. . getting old."

It was more than just old, he realized, really looking at it for the first time in years. It was absolutely hairy. The outer walls were made of panels of compressed, shredded wood. These had been plastic-dipped for strength, then cured. But'the curing hadn't always taken in the old days. The surface plastic had peeled away, and brown wood shavings were curling out from the surface.