He brought the ship down in a forest three miles away from the farmhouse and camouflaged it to look like a great mossy boulder. He spent the entire morning testing the atmosphere and the soil with a savage patience. In the early years of the Corps, virus mutations had taken a fearful toll of intermittent spotters. Finally he discarded his uniform and selected a pair of homespuns from the ship's wardrobe locker. Under the homespuns reposed his utility kit, a miniature arsenal. Late that afternoon he emerged from the forest and stood at the edge of the cleared fields, a weatherbeaten itinerant, obviously willing to chop wood for a meal. Abruptly his jaw muscle twitched. The scene was pastoral, perfect. The man, plowing the south forty. The little girl, playing in the shadow of the sleepy farmhouse. But no beast pulled that plow. A giant of a man with power and intelligence stamped on his bronze features pushed the plow by hand, in a die-straight furrow. The little girl was blonde and elfin. She wore sandals, her tunic was brief and plain. She was playing follow-the-leader-- With a robot. The robot was tall. The sun struck sparks from its steel carapace as it lumbered after the girl. Saxon stood frozen as she came flying towards him in a burst of tossing blond hair and laughter, as she saw him and came to a dead halt. "Hello," Saxon said. He tried to smile. "Hello." Her inflection was slurred. After six generations, naturally. Her blue eyes sparkled. "Foot-sore, stranger?" The words had the cadence of a ritual greeting. Saxon stared at the robot and said carefully, "Yes." "He's only a primer model," she said, following his gaze. "Next year when I'm twelve Father promised to install secondary circuits. My name's Veena. What's yours?" Saxon introduced himself, as the giant at the plow came forward. His white smile was a benediction, his voice a lambent organ. "Welcome, rover. Haven't seen one of you in months. I'm Lang. Agricultural hobbyist. You'll stay?" His tone was almost pleading. Saxon nodded inarticulately, followed them towards the farmhouse. His hands were shaking. The interior of the house was--dimensionless. For a moment Saxon thought he was still outside. A silver brook tinkled through the mossy carpet that was the floor. The south wall was a golden vista of ripe wheat rippling in the warm breeze that ruffled his hair. Birds twittered in the sun-flecked foliage overhead. "Nice house," Saxon said numbly. Lang's smile was different. "A bit pretentious, I'm afraid. Grandfather built it right after the landing. We've been too lazy to do much remodeling. A remarkable man, Grandfather." That explained it, Saxon thought in relief. One titan in an infant colony, warping it into a Utopian mold, passing on the heritage of his genius. How long, he wondered coldly, before they built starships and returned to demolish the Earth which had exiled them?