Don't bother rubbing sticks for fire; I'll use
the lighter."
He got it from a pouch on his belt--a small, gold-plated, atomic
lighter, bearing the crest of his old regiment of the Frontier Guards.
It was the last one they had, in working order. Piling a handful of dry
splinters under the firewood, he held the lighter to it, pressed the
activator, and watched the fire eat into the wood.
The greatest achievement of man's civilization, the mastery of the
basic, cosmic, power of the atom--being used to kindle a fire of natural
fuel, to cook unseasoned meat killed with stone-tipped spears. Dard
looked sadly at the twinkling little gadget, then slipped it back into
its pouch. Soon it would be worn out, like the other two, and then they
would gain fire only by rubbing dry sticks, or hacking sparks from bits
of flint or pyrites. Soon, too, the last cartridge would be fired, and
then they would perforce depend for protection, as they were already
doing for food, upon their spears.
And they were so helpless. Six adults, burdened with seven little
children, all of them requiring momently care and watchfulness. If the
cartridges could be made to last until they were old enough to fend for
themselves..
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