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thread-thin canals were full, and the minute dams came into good use. Another basin was dug, and then another.
    Some of the human food took and grew, and some of the local foods took and grew. The People prospered. Pearson explained the idea of building permanent structures. The People had never considered it because they could not imagine an artificial construct which would shed rain. Pearson told them about A-frames.
    There came the day when the concentrates ran out. Pearson had been anticipating it and was not dismayed by the news. He’d done far, far more than he’d dreamed of being able to do those first empty days alone on the sand, after the crash. He’d helped, and been rewarded with the first real friendship of his life.
    “It doesn’t matter, Yirn. I’m just glad I was able to be of some use to you and your people.”
    “Yirn is dead,” said the bug. “I am Yurn, one of his offspring, given the honor of talking to you.”
    “Yirn’s dead? It hadn’t been that long… has it?” Pearson’s sense of time was hazy. But then, the lifespan of the People was far shorter than man’s. “No matter. At least the tribe has enough to eat now.”
    “It does matter, to us,” replied Yurn. “Open your mouth, Pearson.”
    Something was crawling up his cheek. It moved at a fairly rapid pace. Tiny wooden pulleys helped it along, and over the pulleys were slung long cables made from Pearson’s hair. A path for it was cut through his beard by dozens of the People using their sharp jaws.
    It fell into his mouth. It was leafy and vaguely familiar. A piece of spinach.
    “Eat, Pearson. The remnants of your ancient ‘sandwich’ have given birth…”
    Soon after the third harvest, a trio of elders visited Pearson. They sat carefully on the tip of his nose and regarded him somberly.
    “The crops are not doing well,” said one.
    “Describe them to me.” They did so, and he strained the hidden places of his brain for long-unused schoolboy knowledge. “If they’re getting enough water, then it can only be one thing, if they’re all being affected. The soil here is getting worn out. You’ll have to plant elsewhere.”
    “Many are the leagues between here and the farthest farm,” one of the elders told him. “There have been raids. Other tribes are grown jealous of us. Our People are afraid to plant too far from you. Your presence gives them confidence.”
    “Then there’s one other possibility.” He licked his lips. The People had found salt for him. “What have you been doing with the wastes from my body?”
    “They have been steadily removed and buried, as you directed,” said one, “and fresh earth and sand brought constantly to replace the region beneath you, where you dampen the ground.”
    “The soil here is growing tired,” he told them. “It requires the addition of something we call fertilizer. Here is what the People must do…”
    Many years later, a new council came to visit Pearson. This was after the great battle. Several large, powerful tribes had combined to attack the People. They’d driven them back to the fortress mountain of Pearson. As the battle raged around him, the leaders of the three attacking tribes had led a forceful charge to take possession of the living god-mountain, as Pearson had come to be known to the other tribes.
    Straining every remaining functional nerve in his body, Pearson had raised his one good arm and in one blow slain the leaders of the onslaught and all their general staff, and hundreds of others besides. Taking advantage of the confusion this engendered in the enemy’s ranks, the People had counterattacked. The invaders were repulsed with heavy losses, and the land of the People was not troubled after that.
    Many crops were destroyed. But with liberal doses of fertilizer supplied by Pearson, the next crop matured healthier than ever.
    Now the new council sat in the place of honor atop Pearson’s nose and gazed into fathomless, immense eyes. Yeen, eighth