that now.” He added eagerly, “You know, I was thinking that, with my equipment, I could work these fields into pretty good shape for you. There's plenty of time for clearing before fall. And you need to bring these fields back as soon as you can.'
Birrel had forgotten all about Vinson's promise, but he remembered now and he hastily tried to squirm out of this.
'Thanks,” he said. “Thanks a lot. But you see, I'm liable to be going back to Lyra any time now. I'm afraid I won't have time to do anything with this place.'
'Don't worry, I can do it all for you,” Vinson said. “My machinery stands idle half the time, anyway. Then, when you come back, you'll have a lot better property here.'
Birrel gave up. The man was obviously so anxious to do him a favor, that it would be churlish to object further.
'All right,” he said, getting up. “We'll look it over.'
They went out into the bright, hot day and Vinson started to talk about the old barn and how it needed roofing, and how the orchard should be pruned, and other things so remote from Birrel's experience that he did not understand them at all. He pretended to listen and he nodded intelligently as they went along, but his thoughts were very far from Vinson's talk of auto-tractors and weather-control taxes and the like.
He kept wondering how soon Ferdias’ orders would come. He didn't see why they had just not been given him in that coded message. Yet codes had been broken before, and if Ferdias’ orders were a potentially explosive secret, he might not have wanted to risk that…
His mind was brought back to the immediate present by Vinson stopping. They had walked along the edge of one of the fields, an edge that was a tangle of encroaching saplings and briars.
'You have to keep fighting back stuff like this,” Vinson was saying. “First thing, I'll program an auto-dozer to clear off all this brush.'
Some of the briars had dark berries on them, oddly faceted like the eye of an insect. Birrel asked what they were.
'Just wild blackberries. They're a pest — right now they're ripe, though.” And Vinson picked a handful and handed them to him.
The berries stained Birrel's band, but he found them sun warmed and pleasant-tasting, not sweet, but with a sharp tang.
'They're good,” he said. “Thanks.'
Vinson stared. “For what? They're your blackberries.'
His blackberries. His field, that Vinson led him across, talking of atomic-synthesized fertilizers and the necessities of draining. It made Birrel smile, a little. A star captain in the service of Lyra had a lot of use for an old farm on Earth.
But he continued to nod intelligently as Vinson led the way around the fields. The sun was hot now, swinging overhead in the blue sky. Great clouds sailed like majestic ships, and the warm air had a drowsy feeling to it and yet, at the same time, had a peculiar, tingling quality that seemed to touch something deep inside you with every breath you drew.
They circled around the edge of the fields and then went along the fringe of the woods. Birrel asked the names of the trees that were unfamiliar to him, and Vinson told him.
'Just scrub stuff, not good for much of anything,” he said. “Can't clear it away and farm it, for the creek backs up through here at high water.'
He added, a little farther along, “This is where the line goes through — woods on this side are yours. That old path leads to a pretty good fishing-place on the creek.'
It grew hotter, and Birrel mopped his brow, as they went on along the rustling, green fringe of woods. Birds flashed away in front of them, and once Vinson pointed up at a slowly circling speck in the blue sky and said that it was a hawk. They passed a small stream, a delightful thing with a series of tiny waterfalls and little curves of pebbly beach under miniature rock ledges covered with a feathery green growth that he learned were ferns.
Walking back across the fields toward the house, Vinson swept his arm this way and that to emphasize his points.
'All this should be turned over this fall and the sod left to rot down. In the spring I can really start getting it into shape.'
Aloud he said, “That sounds good. Of course, I don't know the first thing about it.'
'You'll learn,” Vinson said.
Birrel suddenly stopped as they approached the house. A car was pulling up in front of it. Then he saw a woman getting out of it. She was a tall, bony woman of middle age, who proceeded to help a very old woman out of the car.
'Oh, Lord,” said Vinson. “That's old Mrs. Sawyer. Good old soul, but she'll talk your leg off.” He added, with a grin, “I'm deserting, I've heard her too many times. See you later.'
He strode off hastily in the direction of his own home. Birrel went forward a bit uncertainly, as Lyllin came out of the house. The old woman was now, in a shrill voice, superintending the removal from the car of what appeared to be a bundle of big, thick and clumsy-looking books.
The bony woman took the books to the porch and then smiled at Birrel and Lyllin and held out her hand.
'I'm Netta Sawyer,” she said. “Mother simply had to come and see you. I hope it's not an inconvenient time.'
Birrel, noting her anxious look, assured her that it was not. The old woman came toward them, making a great show of fussing and tottering. She said, “You look like one of the Birrels. You've got the same ugly chin.” She turned and peered at Lyllin. “And you're his wife? I hope he doesn't beat you like Nicholas did.'
'Mother—” began the younger woman unhappily, but was completely ignored.
'Nicholas?” said Birrel.
'Nicholas Birrel,” said the old woman. “They always said he beat his wife. I was only a child then, but I remember the talk. Why don't we go inside where a person can sit down?'
Birrel started to lead the way to the door, but was stopped by a sharp command from the old woman.
'Pick up those albums and bring them. Why do you think I came here?'
Birrel was wondering that, but resignedly picked up the bulky, old books. When they were seated in the living room, the daughter explained anxiously, “Mother has all the old, family pictures — your family — and thought you would like to see them.'
'Why… that's very nice,” said Birrel. “Then it was your family, too, I take it?'
'Not mine. Not a drop of Birrel blood in me,” said the old woman, as though triumphantly refuting an accusation. “But Sawyer's mother was a Birrel, and I've always saved his old, family pictures, though I don't know why I did it. They were all a cross-grained lot.'
She turned and said to Lyllin, with a sort of deeply sympathetic understanding, “I expect you've had your troubles with this one. I know what they're like, Sawyer took after his mother.'
'It hasn't really been so bad,” Lyllin murmured, without a trace of a smile, but was ignored as the bright, old eyes turned back on Birrel.
'Yes, you've got that sulky, Birrel look. They all had it. Here, I'll show you.'
She had disposed herself in the center of the sofa and she now proceeded to hold a small court there, turning the leaves of the old albums and uttering her sharp comments while Birrel and Lyllin sat uncomfortably on either side of her and stretched their necks to see. From the absolute seriousness of Lyllin's face, Birrel knew that she was rather enjoying his entrapment, and he steamed.
'Here's Nicholas,” said the old woman. “I don't remember him too well myself, but I don't doubt that he did beat his wife, as people said. Here's his father. Let's see, that was John Birrel — no, James—'
The commentary continued, and the time-yellowed photographs flipped past, entirely meaningless to Birrel until one name drew him out of his polite inattention.
'— Cleve Birrel, that went off to Sirius or somewhere. That would be your great-grandfather—'
Birrel was a little startled that the picture was of a young man, not an old one, though he realized that his
