as if their mere proximity—and he was to experience this effect during all the hours they spent with him—as if their mere proximity both stimulated and soothed his intellect, so that cares and pettinesses dropped away from him, and he moved in a larger air. He seemed to apprehend whatever they said directly, in a deeper way than words are usually apprehended and with a wonderful naturalness.
“Hello,” the girl repeated. “We’ve come from”—somehow the word escaped Joe’s hearing—“to see the vines.”
“Well, now,” said Joe, pleased, “have you seen enough of them? This planting is Zinfandel. If you have, we might go through the winery. And then we might sample a little wine.”
Yes, they would like to. They would all like that.
They moved beside him in a group, walking lightly and not picking up any of the wet earth on their feet. As they walked along they told him about themselves. They were winegrowers themselves, the four of them, though they seemed so young, in a sort of loose partnership, and they were making a winegrowers’ tour of—of—Again Joe’s hearing failed him. but he had the fancy that there would never be any conflict of will among the four of them. Their tastes and wishes would blend like four harmonious voices, the women’s high and clear, the men’s richer and more deep. Yet it seemed to him that the copper-haired girl was regarded with a certain deference by her companions, and he thought, wisely, that he knew the reason. It was what he had so often told his wife—that when a lady really likes wine, when she really has a palate for it, nobody can be at her judgment, so the others respected her.
He showed them through the winery without shame, without pride. If there were bigger wineries than his in the Napa valley, there were smaller ones too. And he knew he made good wine.
Back in the house he got out a bottle of his vintaged Zinfandel, the best Zinfandel he had ever made, for them. It wasn’t only that they were fellow growers, he also wanted to please them. It was the ’51.
As he poured the dark, fragrant stuff into their glasses he said, “What did you say the name of your firm was? Where did you say you were from?”
“It isn’t exactly a firm,” the dark-haired girl said, laughing. “And you wouldn’t know the name of our home star.”
Star? Star? Joe da Valora’s hand shook so that he dribbled wine outside the glass. But what else had he expected? Hadn’t he known from the moment he had seen them standing on the hillside? Of course they were from another star.
“And you’re making a tour…?” he asked, putting down the bottle carefully.
“Of the nearer galaxy. We have only a few hours to devote to Earth.”
They drank. Joe da Valora wasn’t surprised when only one of the men, the darker blond, praised the wine with much vigor. No doubt they’d tasted better. He wasn’t hurt; they’d never want to hurt him—or at least not much hurt.
Yet as he looked at the four of them sitting around his dining table—so young, so wise, so kind—he was fired with a sudden honorable ambition. If they were only going to be here a few hours, then it was up to him, since nobody else could do it—it was up to him to champion the wines of Earth.
“Have you been to France?” he asked.
“France?” the dark-haired girl answered. So he knew the answer to the question.
“Wait,” he told them, “wait. I’ll be back.” He went clattering down the cellar stairs.
In the cellar, he hesitated. He had a few bottles of the best Pinot Noir grown in the Napa Valley; and that meant—nobody could question it—the best Pinot Noir grown in California. But which year should he bring? The ’43 was the better balanced, feminine, regal, round, and delicate. The ’42 was a greater wine, but its inherent imbalance and its age had made it arrive at the state that winemakers call fragile. One bottle of it would be glorious, the next vapid, passe and flat.
In the end, he’d settle on the ’42. He’d take his chances. Just before he left the cellar, he picked up another bottle and carried it up with him. It was something his son had given him a couple of years ago; he’d been saving it for some great occasion. After all, he was championing the wines of Earth.
He opened the ’42 anxiously. It was too bad he hadn’t known about their coming earlier. The burgundy would have benefited by longer contact with the air. But the first whiff of the wine’s great nose reassured him; this bottle was going to be all right.
He got clean glasses, the biggest he had, and poured an inch of the wine into them. He watched wordlessly as they took the wine into their mouths, swished it around on their palates, and chewed it, after the fashion of winetasters everywhere. The girl with copper hair kept swirling her glass and inhaling the wine’s perfume. He waited tensely for what she would say.
At last she spoke. “Very sound. Very good.”
Joe da Valora felt a pang of disappointment whose intensity astonished him. He looked at the girl searchingly. Her face was sad. But she was honest. “Very sound, very good.” was all that she could say.
Well, he still had an arrow left in his quiver. Even if it wasn’t a California arrow. His hands were trembling as he drew the cork out of the bottle of Romanee-Conti ’47 his son had given him. (Where had Haro ld got it? The wine, da Valora understood, was rare even in France. But the appellation of origin was in order. Harold must have paid a lot for it.) More glasses. The magnificent perfume of the wine rose to his nose like a promise. Surely this…
There was a long silence. The girl with the dark hair finished her wine and held out her glass for more. At last the other girl said, “A fine wine. Yes, a fine wine.”
For a moment Joe da Valora felt he hated her. Her, and the others. Who were these insolent young strangers, to come to Earth, drink the flower, the cream, the very pearl, of Earth’s vintages, and dismiss it with so slight a compliment? Joe had been drinking wine all his life. In the hierarchy of fine wines, the Zinfandel he made was a petty princeling; the Pinot ’42 was a great lord; but the wine he had just given them to drink was the sovereign, unquestioned emperor. He didn’t think it would be possible to grow a better wine on Earth.
The girl with the copper-gold hair got up from the table. “Come to our ship,” she said. “Please. We want you to taste the wine we make.”
Still a little angry, Joe went with them. The sun was still well up, but the sky was getting overcast. It would rain again before night.
The ship was in a hollow behind the hillside vineyard. It was a big silver sphere, flattened at the bottom, that hovered a few feet above the rows of vines. The copper-haired girl took his hand, touched a stud at her belt, and they rose smoothly through the flattened bottom into a sort of foyer. The others followed them.
The ship’s interior made little impression on Joe da Valora. He sat down on a chair of some sort and waited while the copper-haired girl went into a pantry and came back with a bottle.
“Our best wine,” she said, holding it out for him to see.
The container itself was smaller and squatter than an Earth bottle. From it she poured a wine that was almost brownish. He was impressed by its body even in the glass.
He swirled the wine glass. It seemed to him he smelled violets and hazelnuts, and some other perfume, rich and delicate, whose name he didn’t know. He could have been satisfied for a half hour only inhaling the wine’s perfume. At last he sipped at it.
“Oh,” he said when he had swished it in his mouth, let it bat he his palate, and slowly trickle down his throat. “Oh.”
“We don’t make much of it,” she said, pouring more into his glass. “The grapes are so hard to grow.”
“Thank you,” he said gratefully. “Now I see why you said, ‘A fine wine.’”
“Yes. We’re sorry, dear Earth man.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he said smiling. He felt no sting of inferiority, no shame for Earth. The distance was too great. You couldn’t expect Earth vines to grow the wine of paradise.
They were all drinking now, taking the wine in tiny sips, so he saw how precious it was to them. But first one and then the other of them would fill his glass.
The wine was making him bold. He licked his lips, and said, “Cuttings? Could you… give me cuttings? I’d take them to, to the University. To Davis.” Even as he spoke he knew how hopeless the words were.
The darker blond man shook his head. “They wouldn’t grow on Earth.”
The bottle was empty. Once or twice one of the four had gone to a machine and touched buttons and punched tapes on it. He knew they must be getting ready to go. He rose to leave.
