Chapter 7: The Pomma Farm

A young man approached them. “This is the farm’s overseer,” Ogan explained. “He will take you to the crops.”

“Follow me.”

They walked toward a field resembling many the bus had passed. Their guide pointed to a row of waist-high plants. “This is pomma,” he said. “Mature plants are in continuous production.” He picked a fruiting body and pointed to it. “These grains have tasseled out and the tassel must be plucked.” He picked off a red, feathery structure growing from the tip of a kernel. “These grains are ready to harvest.” He picked them off and handed them to Nyk. “These grains are immature and must be left to ripen. Every day, each seed head has grains requiring attention of some sort.”

“Hence the intense manual labor required to harvest the crop,” Nyk remarked.

“Exactly. The grains must be picked at the proper moment of maturity. Left alone the seeds become inedible. Once the plant sets seed it dies back and regenerates, and it takes several years for it to once again become productive.”

They approached a novonid man in late middle age. At his waist he wore a pouch into which he placed harvested kernels. Nyk watched his deft fingers de-tasseling some grains and harvesting others. Methodically he worked his way from top to bottom of the plant, then moved on to the next one. “Care to try your hand at it?” Ogan asked.

Nyk approached a pomma plant and plucked red tassels. He picked a few grains. “I would quickly tire of this work.”

“Be careful not to disturb the immature kernels,” Andra said.

“My fingers are getting red.”

Nyk dropped a handful of kernels into the novonid worker’s pouch. “That’s enough,” he said. “Your fieldhands are content to do this work day in and day out?”

“Certainly,” Ogan replied. “They prefer to be busy as they soak up sunshine.” He turned to the overseer. “Show our visitors the demonstration we discussed.”

“Oh, yes...” The overseer called to one of the men. “Seven-five-three. Come over here.” One of the fieldworkers turned and approached them. “Here — put this over your head.” He handed the worker a transparent polymer bag. “Secure it with this.” The worker slipped an elastic band around his neck, headed back to the field and returned to his work.

“How long,” Ogan asked, “would you remain upright with one of those over your head?”

“Not ... not very long,” Nyk stammered.

“He can stand there all day.”

“The bag isn’t even moving,” Andra said.

“It’s because he isn’t breathing. He has no need to.” Ogan held out his arms. “Under these conditions, his metabolism is in perfect balance. The carbon dioxide his muscles create is absorbed by the chloroplasts in his skin. Photosynthesis turns it into fuel and oxygen, which his muscles consume.”

“Should he begin to exert himself,” Nyk asked, “would he start breathing?”

“Yes, and when the sun goes down and his metabolism reverts to an aerobic mode.”

“I imagine he could produce a surplus of oxygen and begin exhaling it.”

“It does happen,” Ogan replied, “but oxygen surplus is uncomfortable for them.”

“Hence the urge to be busy in the sun.” Nyk shook his head. “Remarkable. What amazing aerobic capacity. I would hate to get into a long-distance foot race with him — especially, during daylight.”

“You wouldn’t have a chance,” the overseer said. “Seven-five-three,” he called, “you can take that thing off.”

“Let’s get Andra out of the sun,” Nyk said. “Show us the workers’ quarters.”

He followed Ogan and the guide toward a barracks. They passed a hopper connected to an Archimedes screw leading to the top of a silo. “When a worker’s pouch is full, he comes here to empty it,” the guide said, “and to take water.”

One of the fieldworkers emptied his pouch into the hopper. He picked up a dipper, filled it from a bucket and drank. Nyk watched him head back to the fields.

They reached the barracks. “This is one of the men’s lodges.”

Nyk looked in the barracks door and saw rows of mattresses on the floor. “How many work here?”

“This is a small, family-owned plantation with only a hundred hectares in cultivation. We have two hundred fifty novonid workers — all but twenty are men.”

“So, it requires between two and three fieldhands per hectare,” Nyk observed.

“Yes — Two if they’re good ... There are large industrial farms further out in the countryside with thousands of hectares and thousands of novonids.”

“How much pomma does one hectare yield?” Nyk asked.

“A good crop will yield fifty tonnes per hectare per standard,” the overseer replied.

“It’s quite remarkable,” Nyk said. “On Earth ten tonnes of wheat per hectare is considered exceptional.”

“Remember,” the overseer replied, “pomma is in continuous production. Each day we harvest a couple hundred kilos per hectare.”

“It all adds up,” Nyk remarked and made some mental calculations. “Each fieldhand produces fifty to sixty kilos per day working sunup to sundown — quite do-able and not too onerous a job, at that ... though it’s not one I’d care to do.”

“And that,” the overseer rejoined, “is precisely why we invented novonids.”

“Do you give them rest days?” Andra asked, “or are they expected to work sunup to sundown, day after day ... year after year?”

“Of course we give them rest days,” the overseer replied, “one per ten. We stagger them so the fields are always tended.”

“Just like in the agridomes on Floran,” Nyk interjected.

“Except dome workers get three rest days per seven — like everyone else.”

“Novonids have an aversion to idleness,” Nyk replied. “One out of ten is probably all the rest they require. They prefer to be busy in the sun.”

“So I have heard,” she replied icily. Andra turned to the overseer. “What about the women? You said you had twenty. What sort of work do they do?”

“We breed our own. The infants are cared for here on the farm. Once they’re weaned, they are sent for conditioning and training. Upon reaching maturity, they return here to work. If we have a surplus, we sell some. The women are also used as servants in the family and staff quarters.”

“And those who’ve outlived their usefulness?”

“We have had good luck placing them with the BSS.”

“The Benevolent Shelter Society,” Nyk said.

“Yes — we support the BSS one hundred percent. On this farm, we have a no- termination policy — the landlord spent some time as a terminator and refuses to permit it on the novonids he owns.”

“I take it not all farms have such a policy,” Andra said.

“Unfortunately not. I’ll admit — you do become attached to them. The little children are adorable, and many of the adults are good company. I’d hate to have to kill one.” The overseer led them toward a long, low building. “These are the females’ cabins.”

“The women have private quarters?” Andra asked.

“Yes. We reward the males with conjugal visits. It gives them something to ... strive toward.”

“Just so we understand this...” Andra replied. “A fieldworker can earn the reward of a night with one of...”