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mossland; gray-green fodder plants and wicker plants and others with webbed stems; white rock, yellowish rock… on and on forever… . Was the whole world like this? In school he’d learned that the world was round and that it was all wilderness except for the circle of villages and farms spreading outward from the City—but did one piece of wilderness look like another?
    The Technicians knew, he thought with rancor. The Technicians looked down on it from the air. No doubt they had already traveled beyond the Tomorrow Mountains, where the Prophecy claimed that more Cities would someday arise. The Scholars almost certainly had, for although it was rumored that they never left the City, it was ridiculous to suppose that they, who could do as they pleased in all respects, would not take advantage of the opportunity.
    At the Gates of the City, Noren reflected, he might see Scholars. Robed in brilliant blue, the color reserved for them, they would appear as High Priests: not merely to conduct devotions as their representatives the Technicians did, but to receive the homage of the people. And the people would give it with gladness! On holidays like Founding Day, the periodic Blessing of the Seed, and the Day of the Prophecy—which celebrated the Mother Star’s appearance in advance—hundreds walked to the City just to participate; and in the presence of Scholars those people knelt. Noren knew he could not look upon a Scholar without hating him.
    And perhaps he might see more than just Scholars. Perhaps, he recalled in dismay, he’d witness some other heretic’s recantation… .
    Resolutely he set the thought aside. Ahead, over the next rise, he glimpsed the thatched roof of Talyra’s house. A sudden, foolish hope came to him: might not Talyra have had second thoughts? Mightn’t she too have spent a sleepless night, deciding in the end to marry him in spite of his heresy? Much as he feared the answer, he could not leave without finding out. When it came right down to it, Noren realized, he could not leave without seeing her once more.
    He crossed the farmyard and stood by the familiar door. At his call, Talyra’s mother drew back the matting. “Oh, Noren,” she said, obviously flustered, “Talyra can’t come out. She—she isn’t feeling well today.”
    “She’s not ill!” he exclaimed, panic-stricken.
    “No—no, not really. Only she won’t see anybody.”
    Noren dropped his eyes dejectedly. “Look,” he persisted, “I’m on my way to the City. I don’t know when I’ll be back. I’ve got to see her.”
    The woman frowned. “Well,” she said slowly, “I’ll do what I can.”
    He sat at the scrubbed softstone table drinking the tea she gave him, hearing the low murmur of women’s voices and, to his anguish, occasional muffled sobs. In the corner of the room was the wicker couch, its frame stuffed with moss and covered with softened hides, where he and Talyra had sat not many weeks ago to plan their marriage; now red fabric lay there, her unfinished wedding dress. Skirts of red, the color of love, were worn only by brides.
    Finally Talyra’s mother returned. “I’m sorry, Noren,” she reported unhappily. “Though she’s refused to tell me why, she says that—that you must not come back for her sake.”
    Mumbling something, he got up and strode to the door. “The spirit of the Mother Star go with you, Noren,” Talyra’s mother added with feeling.
    The words, though customary, were an unfortunate choice. Once again Noren departed without a backward look, torn between distaste for the naive sincerity with which they’d been spoken and an irrational sense of hurt because his own father, in pronouncing him free to go, had not thought to say them.
    *   *   *
    The village center was a cluster of unadorned stone buildings, facing upon a sanded street graced by neither shrubs nor moss. It was a gray place, enlivened by color only on festival days when people wore brilliant clothes instead of their