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filed into the yard. Their verbal reactions ranged from the spiritual to the obscene. As the two groups stared at one another, it was impossible to tell which looked more surprised.
    "Hello," Geoffrey said to break the stalemate.
    The group of men smiled slightly, bobbed their heads and replied with greetings in a variety of languages.
    "Does anyone speak English?" Geoffrey asked.
    A very old, bald-headed man limped forward, leaning heavily on a wooden cane. He offered a toothless grin. "I do. And a few others. Don't use it much though. Mostly learned to get our ideas across without words." His speech was slow and subdued, and his gaze wandered as if he were distracted.
    "Please, sir," Tarla said, "could you tell us where we are?"
    His eyes focused on hers, then widened with gradual awareness. "A woman?" He squinted at the crowd behind her. "Never had women before. Never had so many newcomers arrive at once either. Not quite sure what to do about that." He frowned a little as he seemed to struggle with his thoughts for a moment, then his toothless smile was back in place. "But they will. They always take care of any little problems. Must get back to work now." He turned and motioned for his people to get moving.
    "Wait!" Tarla cried and the old man stopped and looked back. It occurred to her that he could be senile but what about the rest of them? Standing there with passive smiles and vacant gazes, they reminded her of well-fed sheep—contented, slow-moving and almost mindless.
    "Oh, yes," the old man said as he hobbled around again. "You asked me a question, didn't you?"
    Tarla could tell he had no recollection of what she'd asked. "Where are we? How did we get here?"
    "Wish I could tell you, my dear, but can't. Got here about ninety years ago myself, far as I can figure. People here then didn't know where they were either."
    "What's the deal, Major?" A soldier shouted, then several others added their own questions.
    "What kind of place has green sky?"
    "How'd we get here?"
    "How do we get back home?"
    Logan turned around and, with no more than the slash of his narrow-eyed glare across the nervous crowd, silenced the voices.
    Tarla didn't see Geoffrey acknowledge Logan's assistance, but she clearly sensed that he did.
    "As you can hear," Geoffrey said to the old man, "we would appreciate any information you can offer. I am Major Geoffrey Cookson of the United States Army. We were all on an aircraft heading to the United States from Japan, when a storm—"
    "Yes, yes," the old man interrupted. "A storm. Always a storm. Thunder and lightning, then the bright light, then waking up in the barn. Sometimes a plane. Sometimes a boat. But always a storm... and the second sun."
    "The second sun isn't always there?" Geoffrey asked.
    The old man shrugged. "Now you see it, now you don't. Sometimes when you see it, there's a newcomer waiting in the barn. Was on a fishing boat off Guam myself. The rest are gone now." Again he appeared to mentally drift away, then return. "I am Duncan, the eldest of this lost tribe." He waved a frail hand toward the men behind him. "You'll have the rest of your lives to meet everyone else. Must go to work now." He started to move away once more.
    Tarla's worried gaze darted to Geoffrey but Logan spoke up. "You said they take care of problems. Who are they ?"
    Duncan shook his head. "Don't know that either. Just know they're out there, past the invisible wall, and they take care of problems." He crooked his finger for Tarla to come closer. When she did, he whispered, "I think they're fairies."
    The more Tarla was hearing, the less she understood.
    "This is getting nowhere fast," Logan muttered to Geoffrey. "And the animals at your back are starting to show their teeth."
    Tarla worried that decision-making was not one of the major's strong points. His decision to keep a man like McKay at his side was her first clue. She offered a suggestion when Duncan tried to leave again.
    "Duncan, you said you have to