Unfortunately, the story didn’t tell him anything about the crucial question of the world’s technology. The boy’s clothes, though dusty, looked well made. There were no pockets, but the belt of button-down pouches looked like it came straight out of a Kelty catalogue. Tomosh’s shoes looked a lot like the tough old sneakers Dennis had worn as a child.
A rambling farmstead came into view as they crested a low hill. A house, barn, and storehouse lay about a hundred meters back from the windbreak along the road. The yard was surrounded by a high stockade. To Dennis the place looked prosperous enough. Tomosh grew excited and pulled on Dennis’s hand. Dennis uneasily followed the boy down the hill.
The farmhouse was a low, rambling earth-sheltered structure with a shallow, sloping roof that gleamed in the afternoon sunlight. At first Dennis thought the reflection came from aluminum siding. But as they came closer he saw that the walls were actually laminated wooden panels, beautifully joined and vanished.
The barn was similarly constructed. Both buildings looked like pictures out of a magazine.
Dennis stopped just outside the gate. It was his last chance to ask stupid questions.
“Uh, Tomosh,” he said, “I’m a stranger hereabouts…”
“Oh, I could tell that. You talk funny!”
“Umm, yes. Well, in fact, I’m from a land far away to the… to the northwest.” Dennis had gathered from the boy’s ramblings that it was a direction about which the locals knew little.
“Naturally, I’m a bit curious about your country,” he went on. “Uh, could you tell me, for instance, the name of your land here?”
Without hesitation the boy “answered, “It’s Coylia!”
“So your King is the King of Coylia?”
Tomosh nodded with an expression of exaggerated patience. “Right!”
“Good. You know, it’s a funny thing about names, Tomosh. People in different lands call the world by different names. What do your people call it?” Dennis was determined to put “Flasteria” to rest.
“The world?” The boy looked puzzled.
“The whole world.” He motioned at the earth, the sky, the hills. “All the oceans and kingdoms. What do you call it?”
“Oh. Tatir,” he replied earnestly. “That’s the name of the world.”
“Tatir,” Dennis repeated. He tried not to smile. It wasn’t much of an improvement on “Flasteria.”
“Tomosh!”
The shrill cry came from the farmhouse. A rather husky young woman stepped out onto the front porch and shouted again, “Tomosh! Come here!”
The boy frowned. “It’s Aunt Biss. What’s she doin’ here? An’ where’s Mom an’ Pop?” He took off toward the farmhouse, leaving Dennis standing at the gate.
Something was obviously wrong. The boy’s aunt looked worried. She knelt and held his shoulders as she explained something earnestly. To mush was soon fighting back tears.
Dennis felt awkward. To approach before he was invited by the adult didn’t seem wise. But he couldn’t see just walking away, either.
Nothing looked awry about the house and yard. Real chickens pecked at the ground alongside what looked like a flock of tiny tame ostriches.
The paths about the farmyard apparently were made of the same resilient, hi-tech material as the highway. They had the same raggedy edges, almost blending into the surrounding dirt and grass.
That seemed to be the way the whole farm was put together. The windows in the house were clear and well fitted, but they were inserted at various rough approximations to level and square. Big and small windows were set side by side in no apparent pattern.
Tomosh clutched his aunt’s skirt, now fully in tears. Dennis was concerned. Something must have happened to the boy’s parents.
Finally he decided to approach a few steps. The woman looked up.
“Yourr name is Dennis?” She asked coolly, in the queer local dialect.
He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Is Tomosh all right? Is there anything I can do to help?”
The offer seemed to surprise her. Her expression thawed just a little. “The boy’s parents are gone. I’ve come to take him to my home. You are welcome to sup and stay until my man comes to gather the goods and lock up.”
Dennis wanted to ask more questions, but her severe look kept him quiet. “Set here on the steps an’ wait,” she said. She led the boy inside.
Dennis wasn’t offended by the woman’s suspicion of a stranger. His accent probably didn’t help any. He sat on the steps where she had indicated.
There was a rack of tools on the porch just outside the front door. At first Dennis looked them over complacently, thinking about other things. Then he looked closer and frowned. “Curiouser and curiouser,” he said.
It was the strangest assortment of implements he had ever seen.
Near the door were a hoe, an ax, a rake, and a spade, all apparently shiny and new. He touched a pair of shears next to them. The edges were sharp, and they looked quite strong.
The handles had grips of smooth, dark wood, as one might expect. But the cutting edges didn’t seem to be made of metal. The razor-sharp blades were translucent and showed faint veins and facets within.
Dennis gaped. “They’re stone!” he whispered. “Some sort of gemstone, I do believe! Why, they may even be single crystals!”
He was staggered. He couldn’t imagine the technology that could provide such tools for a country farmer. The implements near the door were unbelievable!
But that wasn’t the last surprise. As he scanned the toolrack, Dennis felt a growing sense of strangeness, for although the tools farthest from the door seemed also to be made of stone, that was all they had in common with the beautiful blades near the entrance.
Dennis blinked at the incongruity. On the far left was another ax. And this one might have come straight out of the late Stone Age!
The crude wooden handle had been rubbed smooth in two places, but it still had bits of bark attached to it in spots. The blade appeared to be a piece of chipped flint held on by leather thongs.
The rest of the tools fell between these extremes. Some were as crude as could be imagined. Others were obviously the products of an extremely high materials science, and computer-aided design.
He touched the flint-headed ax, lost in thought. It might have been made by the same hand that put together the mysterious knife that lay wrapped in his pack.
“Stivyung’s the best practicer in these parts,” a voice behind him said.
He turned. Lost in thought, he hadn’t heard Aunt Biss come out onto the porch. The woman proffered a bowl and spoon, which he took automatically. Steamy aroma sparked a sudden hunger.
“Stivyung?” He repeated the name with difficulty. “The boy’s father?”
“Yah. Stivyung Sigel. A fine man, sergeant of the Royal Scouts before marryin’ my sister Surah. His reputation for practice was his downfall. That an’ the fact that he’s built just like the Baron—both height an’ weight. The Baron’s men came for him this mornin’.”
She seemed to think she was making sense. Dennis didn’t dare tell her otherwise. Much of his confusion might be due to the woman’s thick accent, anyway.
“What about the boy’s mother?” Dennis asked. He blew on a spoonful of stew. It was bland but compared favorably to the survival rations he had been eating for over a week.
Aunt Biss shrugged. “When they took Stivyung, Surah ran over to fetch me, then packed up an’ headed for the hills. She wanted to ask the L’Toff for help.” Biss snorted. “Lot o’ good that’ll do.”