The older man sat down on the grassy bank on the hill overlooking the orchard. The autumn sun was bright but the humidity was low and there was a breeze. The younger man sprawled next to him.

"Thanks," said Roger Boynton. He looked across the valley, past the apple trees, to the fine white-columned house on the hill beyond. He smiled reminiscently. "A friend of mine once owned that house. A fellow commissioner in World Government. He and I used to sit on this very hill, sometimes. We'd munch on an apple or two that we'd picked on our way through the orchard. Winesaps, they're called."

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