"Hey, have a look out this window. You can see all over. Gosh, this must be the same kind of place all the other long ones are." * * * * * The buildings were long and narrow with rounded, Quonset-type roofs. They were built end to end in long, dull-blue rows, and the grass that grew between them was of an exactly matching shade, tall, and lush. At precise intervals, the rows of buildings were interrupted by uncurbed streets of hard-packed, dull black dirt, and at the end of the widest was a field-like expanse trimmed to a perfect circle. The massive, glittering building in its center was immense. Varicolored banners flew from a trio of spires rising antenna-like from a single point atop the highest, oddly flat-topped turret. In the geometric center of the squat structure's otherwise unbroken curving front was a balcony, molded deftly into the severe sweeping architectural lines of which it was an integral, although predominating part. Beyond were rolling hills, and close above them, a foggy, blue-white sky. Already waves of heat were beginning to shimmer from the triple turrets of the gold-hued colossus in the center of the great circle, and the banners above them were being whipped by stiff gusts that seemed to blow from several directions at once. Once or twice, there were flashes of lightning that split the low rolling bottom of the sky, but there were no gathering storm clouds, nor was there rain. "Gosh," Terry said. "It sure is funny grass--" A high, shrill sound suddenly pierced the stillness, and at its signal, youngsters, no older than themselves were stumbling from their narrow cots, yawning, standing. "They're putting on their pants and boots. We better--" Mike was saying. Wide-eyed, they watched the others, carefully imitated them. There were no shirts to cover the young, sweating torsos, and dressing was simple. Just the crisply-cut breeches, the light snug-fitting boots, and the black belts. "You guys been assigned to a quadrant yet?" Mike looked up. He was a taller boy, and looked a little older than the rest. He wore a gold star in his belt, and there were still-red scars across his chest and across one shoulder. "I guess not," Mike said. "What's that? Quadrant, I mean?" "How long have you been here, anyway? Thought you two came a couple of weeks ago. On the _Mikol VI_." The twins looked at each other, then back to the tall, blonde boy. "What's your name?" Terry asked. "I'm Jon Tayne. Son of Quadrate Larsen Tayne. Your father's a general officer just like mine--that's why we can talk together out here. Otherwise we couldn't--part of the training, you know. Teaches you the undesirability of class-consciousness. I've been here two years--they tossed me back. Insufficient conditioning. But it doesn't matter to me--maybe you'll get as big a kick out of it as I do. I like it here. Not many do, though."