"Since the Thirty Years' War, back when 'Hamlet' was opening in London, these people have been breeding a man who can fit one special niche in society. The failures were killed in the early days, or later went gay and took the trappings of the majority. The successes stayed on the farm, respected and left alone. Aaron has flirted with our century; he and his wife learned some very un-Amish skills at the Homestead School. The skill that makes Aaron worth his fare out here, though, is an Amish skill, and the rarest one of all. He knows the Right Way to Live, and lives it; but he knows, too, that your Truth-of-the Universe is something different. And right, for you. He's quite a man, our Aaron Stoltzfoos. That's why we dropped him here." "Better him than me," the Engineer said. "Precisely," the Captain said. He turned to the Exec. "As soon as we've lifted, ask Colonel Harris to call on me in my cabin, Gene. Our Marines had better fresh-up their swordsmanship and cavalry tactics if they're to help our Inad Tuaregs establish that foundry on Qureysh." "It sometimes seems you're more Ship's Anthropologist than Captain," the Engineer remarked. "I'm an anthro-apologist, Hymie, like Mr. Kipling," the Captain said. "_There are nine and sixty ways of constructing tribal lays. And--every--single--one--of--them--is--right!_" Bells rang, and the ship surged. "Aaron and Martha, God keep you," the Captain said. * * * * * "Whoa!" Aaron shouted. He peered back toward the ship, floating up into grayness, the cavitation of her wake stirring the snow into patterns like fine-veined marble. "_Gott saygen eich_," he said, a prayer for his departing friends. His wife shivered. "It's cold enough to freeze the horns off a mooley-cow," she said. She glanced about at the snow-drifted little trees and clutched her black cloak tighter. "I'm feared, Stoltz. There's naught about us now but snow and black heathen." "It's fear that is the heathen," Aaron said. "_By the word of the Lord were the heavens made; and the host of them by the breath of His mouth._" He kissed her. "I welcome you to our new homeland, wife," he said. Behind them Wutzchen--"piglet"--grunted. Martha smiled back at the giant porker, perched amongst the cases and bags and household goods like the victim of some bawdy chiavari. "I've never heard a pig mutter so," she said. "If he knew that his business here was to flatter the local lady-pigs with farrow, Wutzchen would hop out and run," Aaron said. "_Dummel dich_, Stoltz," Martha said. "I've got to make your supper yet, and we don't have so much as a stove lit in our tent." Stoltzfoos slapped the team back into motion. "What we need for our journey home are a few of the _altie lieder_," he said, reaching back in the wagon for his scarred guitar. He strummed and hummed, then began singing in his clear baritone: "_In da guut alt Suumer-zeit_ ...