He was trying to tell himself that this was good land, that he had found a good place, here in the heart of Duke Winslow's sprawling farmland. He was compelling himself to believe that this was where he belonged, here where life held none of the uncertainty of the cities of the Twelve Empires. Right here where he had lived and worked for four years, here in Iowa Province. But it was all wrong. Somewhere deep in the cloaked depths of his mind, he was trying to protest that there had been some mistake. He wasn't a farmer. He didn't belong in Iowa Province. Somewhere, out there in the cities of the Twelve Empires, maybe in the radiation-blasted caves of the Old World, perhaps in the remote fastness of the unknown Antarctican empire, life was waiting for him. Not here. Not in Iowa. As always, a cold shudder ran through him and he let his head wobble as the sickness swept upward. He swayed, tightened his grip on the plough, and forced himself grimly back into the synthetic mood of security that was his one defense against the baseless terror that tormented him. _The farm is good_, he thought. _Everything here is good._ Slowly, the congealed fear melted and drained away, and he felt whole again. "Up, old hoss." He slapped the flank and the horse neighed again and swished its bony tail. It was a good horse too, he thought fiercely. Somehow, everything was good now, even the old horse. Experienced hands had warned him against buying a mutie, but when he'd bought the half-share of the farm he had had to do it. The Old Kind were few and well spaced in Iowa Province, and all too expensive. They fetched upward of five thousand dollars at the markets; a good solid mutie went for only five hundred. Besides, Kesley had argued, the Old Kind belonged with the Old World--dead five hundred years, and long covered with dust. Only the distant towers of New York still blazed with radiation; the chain reaction there would continue through all eternity, as a warning and a threat. But Kesley wasn't concerned with that. He started down a new furrow, guiding the plough smoothly and well, strong arms gripping the beam while the horse moved steadily onward. In front of him, the broad expanse of Iowa Province stretched out till it looked like it reached to the end of the world. The brown land rolled on endlessly, stopping only where it ran into the hard blueness of the cloudless sky. Suddenly, the horse whinnied sharply. Kesley stiffened. The old mutie could smell trouble half a mile away. Kesley had learned to value the animal's warning. He stepped out from behind the plough and looked around. The horse whinnied again and raked the unbroken ground with its forepaws. Kesley shaded his eyes and squinted. Far down at the other end of the field, near the rock fence that separated his land from Loren's, a dark-blue animal was slinking unobtrusively over the ground. _Blue wolf._ _And today I'll have your hide, old henstealer_, Kesley thought jubilantly.