Glory Season

Soon Maia noticed that the trees came arrayed with an illumination all their own. Dim flickerings along the myriad branches made her blink in surprise. At first they looked like decorations, but then she realized they must be glow beetles, setting the orchard's columns and intersections glittering with earnest, insectoid mating displays. Shimmering wavelets coursed down the serried avenues. One could trace those ripples, Maia observed, much as one might briefly track the parallel harmonies of a four-part fugue . . . only by letting go.

It must be a sight later on, she thought, wishing she could stay and swim forever in this pocket galaxy, a swarm of miniature stars.

The road emerged from the forest, leaving the rippling lattice behind. Up ahead, the more stolid light of a lesser moon fell on a cluster of handsome farm buildings, including a two-story house made of adobe or reinforced sod. Antennas aimed toward the sparse array of satellites still functioning in high orbit.

"Jopland Home," Calma Lerner repeated. "Since it's late, they'll put you up in a barn, I figure. Code of hospitality. But if you get on their wrong side, don't worry. Just follow my wheel ruts northwest three kilos, bank right at the big willow, go two more klicks an' follow your nose. People say they can smell Lerner Hold long before they get to it. Never noticed, myself."

"Thanks." Maia nodded. "Oh, is that easy to do? I mean, getting on their wrong side."

Calma shrugged. "Everyone around here comes to Jopland for judgments, sooner or later. You learn to be careful how you say things. That's all."

The wagon pulled by a tall gate in the slotted fence without slowing. Maia swung out and walked alongside for a few meters. "Thanks for the warning, and the lift."

"Nothin' to it. Good luck with your con-sult-ation!" The big woman laughed with an airy wave. Soon the wagon was gone from sight, trailing a low cloud of dust.

Several large carriages filled the drive in front of the main house. A young woman, probably a var servant, curried more horses at a watering trough. This must be the social hub of the county, Maia thought, knocking at the front door. A towering lugar soon answered, dressed in a green-and-yellow-striped vest that had seen better days. The white-furred creature tilted its grizzled head, and an inquiring mew escaped its muzzle.

"A citizen seeks wisdom," Maia pronounced clearly, slowly. "I ask guidance from the mothers of Jopland Hold."

The lugar stared at her for several seconds, then made a low, rumbling sound at the back of its throat. It turned, vaguely motioning for Maia to follow.

While the outside walls were adobe, the interior of the mansion was richly lined with veneered hardwood, foreign to these upland plains. Wall sconces gave off pale electric illumination, highlighting a garish emblem over the main stairway — a plow encircled with sheaves of wheat. At least there are no statues, Maia thought.

The lugar spread two heavy, sliding doors and ushered her into a brighter room, presumably the main hall. A drifting haze stung Maia's eyes. Men, she saw in surprise. There were about a dozen of them, sprawled on somewhat worn sofas and cushions puffing long-stemmed pipes while four young servants hurried from the kitchen carrying steins of brown ale. The male nearest the door was reading quietly under a lamp. Further away, two of them faced a flickering telescreen, watching some faraway sporting competition. Several in the far corner could be seen poring over a miniature Game of Life set, only a meter on a side, its gridlike surface covered with tiny black, white, or purple squares that clicked and throbbed under the players' concentrated gaze, sweeping mysterious, ever-changing patterns across the board. The rest of the men sat quietly, immersed in their own thoughts. Few had even bothered changing out of their work clothes — red, orange, or black one-piece uniforms of the three railroad guilds. Maia guessed every male within forty miles must be in this room tonight. The clans are starting winter wooing early, just like back home, she thought.

Twice in that first sweep of the room, Maia had seen men yawn. No doubt most had put in a long day's work before coming out this way. Still, they didn't appear to be showing fatigue, but ennui.

Looks like I came at a bad time.

No adult women were visible, yet. Except in summer, men generally preferred evenings that started quietly, without pressure. So the chosen Joplands were probably in back somewhere, changing from ranch gear into garments the mail-order catalogs promised would stoke that dormant spark of male desire. Maia glanced at the four serving girls stepping carefully around their guests, trying to be unobtrusive. Two of them, though of different ages, wore identical features — olive of complexion, small-built, but with well-toned muscles. Their proudest adornment was their silky black hair, which they kept long despite the valley's ever-wafting dust.