After a stomach-stretching meal (ham steak, corn, green beans, homemade bread, lots of milk) we waddled to the car to resume our trip.
During the afternoon we pulled aside frequently to take in the rugged view. The forest was strangely silent. No birds circled above; no animals called out their cries. Only the soft wind that rippled through the incredibly dense vegetation.
The land wasn’t fenced, but each plantation had its own identifying mark nailed to trees and posts along the road, much like the brands once put on cattle. The first we came to stretched many miles before it gave way to another.
As evening settled, rich reds dominated the sky, fading to subtle lavender. The two moons, Major and Minor, sailed serenely over scattered clouds. By now we both were tired, and I began watching for markers along the road. I said, “Let’s pick a plantation before it gets too late.”
According to the holovid guides, Hope Nation had few inns outside Centraltown, so plantations provided free food and lodging to travelers who came their way. An old tradition, now virtually obligatory. Plantation owners didn’t stint on food or shelter; they could afford it, and travelers brought outside contact that the isolated planters appreciated.
Derek drove on in silence. Then, “Mr. Seafort, I changed my mind. Let’s camp out for the night.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want to look at plantations.”
I raised an eyebrow, waiting.
“I told you the managers control our estate. They won’t want me around. They’ll patronize me, and push me aside if I ask questions. Let’s not bother to visit.”
“That’s not a good idea.”
“What difference is it to you?”
“Better to face it than brood for the rest of your leave.
Besides, Carr is another day’s ride or more. We’ll stop at a closer estate for the night.”
His tone was petulant. “What’s the point of seeing another family’s holding? It’s mine I care about.”
“You care so much you’d turn tail and run?”
Even in moonlight I could see him flush. “I’m no coward.”
“I didn’t say you were.” But I had. Inwardly, I sighed.
“I’ll handle it, Derek.”
“How?”
“I’ll do the talking, and we won’t tell them your name.”
Ahead was a gate, and a dirt service road that wound into a heavy woods. A wooden sign above read “Branstead Plantation.”
“Slow down. Take that one.”
Reluctantly he turned into the drive. “Mr. Seafort, I feel like a welfarer asking for a handout.”
“That’s the system here. Go on.”
Nothing but woods for a good mile. Then, a clearing where remains of huge brush piles skirted the edge of plowed fields that stretched as far as the eye could see.
Our road straightened, ran alongside the field. After another two miles I began to wonder if the road led to a homestead, but abruptly we came on a complex of buildings set around a wide circular drive. Barns, silos. A heliport. Farmhands’ shacks. They surrounded a huge wood and stone mansion that dominated the settlement.
We got out to stretch. A stocky man in work clothes emerged from the stone house, walked to where we waited.
“Can I help you boys?”
“We’re travelers,” I said.
“The guest house is over there.” He pointed to a clean but simple building that seemed in good repair. “We don’t serve separate for the guests; you’ll eat with us in the manse. We dine at seven.”
“Thank you very much,” I said, but he’d already turned to go.
“Welcome.” He didn’t look back.
We carried our duffels into the guest house. A row of beds sat along one wall, with hooks and shelves on the wall opposite. Around the corner, a bath. The lack of privacy wasn’t unlike a wardroom.
Derek’s tone held wonder. “He didn’t care about us. No questions.”
“Don’t you know about travel in the outland?”
“My father was born here. I wasn’t.”
“Then read the holovid guides, tourist.”
I opened my duffel.
Derek sorted through his clothes. “I’m not a tourist.” His voice was tremulous. “This is my home. Earth never was.”
“I know, Derek.” I’d have to remember not to tease about certain things.
We washed and changed clothes. In Naval blue slacks and a white shirt, I could have been any young civilian. Shortly before seven we strolled up the drive past a field of grain to the main dwelling. From the plank porch we could hear loud conversation and the friendly rattle of dishes.
Derek fidgeted with embarrassment. I knocked.
“Come on in.” A well-fed balding young man in his thirties. “I’m Harmon Branstead.” He stood aside. The entrance room was rough-hewn but comfortable, well furnished with solidly built furniture.
“Nick, um, Rogoff, sir.”
Derek shot me an amazed glance. I gulped, breathing a silent apology to Lord God. Whyever had I chosen the name of the man I’d murdered? I said hastily, “And my friend Derek. We’re sailors.”
“A local ship?”
“Hibernia,sir. The interstellar--”
“We all heard Hiberniadocked. Quite an event.” He held out his hand. “Welcome to Branstead Plantation. How long will you stay?”
“Just the night. We’ll be on our way in the morning.”
“Very well. Come eat with us.”
We were the only guests. Supper was at a long plank table in a dining room that was large but homey. The planter and his wife, their small children, and two farm managers sat at table with us. Hefty platters of home-cooked food were passed around.
Derek asked, “Did you build this place, sir?” He glanced at the stuccoed walls, the comfortable furnishings.
“My grandfather did,” said Branstead. “But I’ve added about ten thousand acres to cultivation, and put up a few more buildings.”
“Very impressive,” I said.
“We’re the fourth largest on Eastern Continent.” His voice was proud. “Hopewell is first, then Carr, then Triform, then us.” Branstead passed creamed corn to his older son, a boy of nine or so. “As soon as we get the machinery paid off, I’ll open some new acreage. Then we’ll see. Maybe by the time I pass it on to Jerence we’ll be the biggest.” He beamed at his son.
“I’d think estates would get smaller over the generations,”
said Derek. “Divided among all your children.”
“Divided? Lord God, no! Primogeniture is the rule. Firstborn.” Branstead nodded at his younger child. “Of course, everyone is well provided for, but the land stays intact. We wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“How large is your plantation?” I asked.
“We’re only three hundred thirty thousand, but we’re growing. Another seventy-five thousand and we’ll pass Triforth. Hopewell is eight hundred thousand acres.” A pause.
“Carr is seven hundred thousand, but they don’t really count as they’re no longer family-run.”
I spooned myself more corn, passed it on. “What’s Carr?”
My tone was careless.
“One of our neighbors. The estate was owned by old Winston, ‘til he died. We all thought they’d stagnate, but I have to admit, Plumwell’s doing all right, even if there’s talk that--” He bit off the rest.
Derek toyed with his food.
Branstead leaned back in his chair. “So, you boys are Navy.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Smart of you not to wear your uniforms, Mr.--Rogoff, is it? I myself wouldn’t hold it against you, but there are some... “
“I’m on leave. Otherwise--” I was proud to wear the uniform, and resented any implication to the contrary. My back stiffened.
“Now, don’t take offense. Some folks see Naval blues and blame the sailors.”