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A developing world torn from wilderness.
The triumph of a people.
Heaps of slain 'Reen piled beyond the revetments of a fort constructed from ice blocks.
Morgan stared at the towering starships. "That's not right," she said bemusedly. "The big ships
stayed in orbit. The shuttles brought the passengers and supplies down. Then the larger vessels
were disassembled and ferried down to be used as raw materials. I learned all that when I was
three."
"It's artistic license," Holt answered, his own gaze still fixed on the scene of the slaughtered
'Reen. "Historical accuracy is not the virtue most prized in North Terrea." In the fresco in front
of him, the attackers had outnumbered the beleaguered humans by at least ten to one.
"It's not that good, just as art," said Morgan. The mayor's circular dining room was lined with
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the sequence of historical frescoes. "And it really doesn't trigger my appetite."
Other dinner guests were filtering into the room and beginning to sit at the semi-circular tables.
The mayor was off in the kitchen on some unspecified errand. Holt said, "The good people of North
Terrea are pragmatists. When the community decided to pay lip service to culture and proclaim a
painter laureate, the choice of frescoes in here rather than any other medium was because the
plaster would lend an additional layer of insulation."
"Laying it on with a trowel, eh, boy?" said Mayor MacDonald, coming up behind them. "I hope you
both are hungry." Without his long fur coat, the mayor looked almost as bulky, dark signs of
hirsuteness curling from sleeve-ends and at his collar. The blue-black beard curled down to mid-
sternum. "Skelk steaks, snow oysters, my wife's preserves from last green season, shrake liver
paté, barley gruel; let me tell you, it's one extravagant meal."
"We're grateful," said Morgan. "Can we start soon?"
"In a blink, my dear." Both Morgan and Holt felt a heavy, mayoral hand descend on a shoulder.
Mayor MacDonald raised his voice and said, "All right, friends, citizens, guild-mates. On behalf
of all of us who make up the populace of North Terrea, I want to welcome formally our guests;
Holt, here, wise I know you all remember fondly" his hand clamped down, long, powerful fingers
paternally crashing Holt's clavicle "and Morgan Kai-Anila, the splendid contract pilot so many of
us have watched and admired on late-night battlecasts." Warned by the look on Holt's face, Morgan
had tensed her shoulder muscles. It was still difficult not to wince.
The scattering of applause around the dining room did not seem over-enthusiastic.
"Our boy here," continued the mayor, "and his friend, are just passing through. As best I can
figure, they're heading off on some solemn but secret mission for our kin down in Wolverton.
Naturally we here in North Terrea are delighted to lend whatever aid we can in this mysterious
activity."
Neither Holt nor Morgan decided to pick up the cue.
"Now I have a theory," said Mayor MacDonald, "that all this has something to do with the rumors
about someone attacking our neighbor world toward the sun. If that's so, then we all can wish only
the best fortune to these two, Pilots Calder and Kai-Anila."
The applause was a bit more prolonged this time.
Servers had started to carry in platters of steaming food. The mayor motioned them toward him.
"Let our guests eat first." The food looked and smelled good. Morgan and Holt showed no reluctance
to dish themselves respectable portions of steaks, biscuits and vegetables.
"As we share this food today" Mayor MacDonald lifted his arms to gesture around the circle of
frescoes "I hope you'll all reflect for just a moment on our four centuries of hard-fought
progress on this world. Our ancestors left their friends, sometimes their families, certainly
their worlds and indeed their entire human civilization to seek out this planetary system. Our new
worlds were remote from the interference and paternalism of the old order." The mayor looked far
above them all, focusing on something invisible. "I think we've done well with our self-generated
opportunities." He looked back at them then, meeting eyes and smiling. The smile widened to a
grin. "Let's eat."
The applause seemed generated with unabashed sincerity.
"Not the election rhetoric I'd have expected," said Holt in a low voice to Morgan. "He must be
waiting to sink in the hook later."
"I'm not hungry!" The voice was loud and angry enough to rise above the dinner hubbub. The speaker
was a young woman about Morgan's age. Her dark hair was piled atop her bead. Her high collar
displayed a delicate spray of lace, but her expression belied her appearance.
By now the mayor had sat down to Morgan's right. Holt sat to her left, "Is something amiss, Meg?"
said Mayor MacDonaid. He held a piece of meat only slightly smaller than a skelk haunch in one
hand.
"Only the company at this meal," said the woman called Meg. Other conversation around the died
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