Jean had not received any journals about lead, but she knew the look and feel of silica. And she knew that the surface of her star was mostly like that of her island—very hard stuff to make a garden of.

She had been wondering if Horatio’s descendants would have got enough to eat. By August, 1917, she had come to the conclusion that they wouldn’t. She had decided that an annual net increase of fifteen million human mouths is sure to happen, and that each year the earth will have to produce twenty billion more pounds of food to feed them.

It couldn’t be done. She was sure it couldn’t. There wasn’t enough acreage.

In an old magazine she ran across a statement made in 1898, the year of her birth, by somebody named Crookes, a great chemist, to the effect that by 1931 folks would either have to stop eating wheat or increase the crop by taking nitrogen out of the air. That set her to studying wheat, rice, millet, maize, barley, oats, and rye. Though the farm paper often spoke about the possibilities of plant breeding, she investigated the new Marquis wheat and saw that even that marvel would not go far toward supplying twenty billion pounds.

No, instead of being the last war, it was just the beginning of a desperate struggle for food. She was glad in her heart that Horatio had died childless.

All the world was beginning to feel the pinch of hunger—all except America, which had forgotten how cheap food used to be. She had heard her father tell of his first trip on a Long Island Sound steamer, back in 1856. He declared upon honor that for half a dollar a gluttonous passenger might eat of beef, lamb, pig, turkey, chicken, duck, goose, wild turkey, prairie chicken, mallard, teal, canvas-back, wild goose, brook trout, bluefish, butterfish, mackerel, oysters, turtle, terrapin, breads, vegetables, jellies, fruits, creams, and ices. No money could buy such a meal in 1917. And after the next war, America would be glad to get what Austria was getting—less than enough to prevent rickets in half the children.

Even near her the game was virtually gone, and she rarely saw deer except in her father’s woods. If mankind really put its mind to the task, it could kill off all the remaining wild food in a single year. Just now it was too busy killing off its choicest youths.

From every side the cities were shutting in upon her. Every half hour she saw a steamer pass her island on its way after iron ore to make guns and shells. That was why the patrol boat was so busy. If the enemy could block this channel, the enemy could win the war and then citify every foot of earth. Of course Captain Jack Gillies would not let the Germans block the channel, but he could not prevent Americans from crowding it with steamers. After the war there would be a steady procession of them, steaming daily and nightly toward the pole.

And some day these straits would be fought for just as the Dardanelles had always been fought for. All this pious chatter about a lasting peace was rubbish, as anybody who had studied geography ought to see.

How much of this pessimism was due to Jean’s own poverty is hard to say, but she was in no sense penurious. The little pauper was so friendly with the millions of miles in her star-sown nightly sky that she rarely counted money in less than millions. Some day a steel man would come along and try to buy her island to use for a coaling station. Well, he couldn’t have it, not for a million dollars.