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moment, “I suppose I do have one ambition. More a wish.”
    â€œWhat?”
    Merral stopped and looked up. “Well, I would like to see the forests of Ancient Earth. To examine old woods and jungles. Ecosystems that go back, not just for eight thousand years, but millions of years. Unplanned, at least by us. Composed of a hundred thousand species in relative stability, not our five thousand in unsteady, unpredictable, and changing relationships.”
    Barrand grunted, but it was Zennia who spoke. “Yes, I could see that. All Made Worlds are imitations, as best as we can make, of the one original Earth. But I have heard that many of Ancient Earth’s forests were badly affected in the Dark Times; they have been reconstructed.”
    â€œTrue. They are not as they were when our First Father and Mother walked in them. But I would like to see them once.”
    The house was in sight now and the dogs were coming out. Barrand, his teeth bared in a grin, turned to Merral. “And perhaps, Nephew, one day you will.”
    â€œMaybe, Uncle, but it’s a long walk from here.”
    And as the dogs romped around them, they laughed again.

    That night Merral borrowed an image projector and went up to his room early to work. He wanted to get the ideas for the ridge tidied up before the Nativity holiday and knew that there would be little time on the next day to get anything done. If he got to the Forestry offices at Wilamall’s Farm by dusk as he planned, he should be back in Ynysmant by eight on the regular ground transporter. And as that would leave little time to write up anything, it was best to do it now. So he linked his diary to the image projector and used it to draw an elegant, scaled 3-D model of the proposed quarry that appeared hanging over the desk like a gray whale painted with gridlines.
    As he adjusted the edges of his model, he paused. Was he really working up here just because he had to get the work done? Or was there more to it than that?
    He felt there was something that he didn’t understand in the house, something intangible and impalpable that he preferred to avoid; something he wanted to be away from. Somehow, the house of his uncle and aunt had ceased to be as welcoming as it had been. As he sat there in the room, Merral felt drawn to consider again the mysterious problem that had afflicted Barrand that morning. Had it been resolved, or had it simply been pushed to one side? Certainly, during the evening, his uncle had become more withdrawn and terse.
    Merral was sitting there, idly rotating the diagram as he considered his uncle, when there was a gentle tap at the door.
    It was Zennia, bearing a glass of warm milk for him. She smiled. “I thought you might like this before you went to bed.”
    â€œWhy, thank you very much, Aunt! I hadn’t realized how late it had become.”
    He took the glass and placed it carefully on the desk. As he began to mention his plans for the morning, he saw a glint of emotion cross her face, a look that came and went so fast that it was hard to recognize. But, fleeting as it had been, Merral felt it to be one of concern, and he knew that it confirmed his own unease. There was indeed something wrong in the house.
    Zennia, apparently realizing that she had revealed some secret thing, turned sharply and made to go to the door.
    â€œAunt, wait a moment,” Merral said. “Uncle . . . how is he?”
    Zennia stopped, her hand on the door, and looked at him, her eyes showing unhappiness.
    â€œHe is tired, Merral. He’s gone to bed.”
    â€œHe’s not unwell? Any symptoms?”
    â€œNo. Just tired.” She paused as if uncertain whether to continue. When she spoke again, it was in puzzled tones.
    â€œIt seems . . . it seems as if he dreamed as well last night—something strange and not very nice. He won’t say what.” She moved again as if to go.
    In his surprise, Merral said