Evening came early in the mid-September months. Leif cast a long look at the falling sun; the Almanac predicted a meeting of the fiery orb and the horizon around half after seven, but the mountains pulled back that time by nearly twenty minutes. Currently, the sky held a light wind blowing against his hair, chilling its damp lengths. Most of the trees held at least a dull color change, the dark shades of green relinquishing their realm to the lighter shades of Fall.

Outside his home, Leif turned south to face the orchard. Its own bountiful harvest appeared scrupulously cleaned, almost none of the ripe fruit remained dangling on its branches. A handful of trees near the back carried late-ripening fruit, but even now he could see the youngest of the Yiddermans performing a meticulous examination. Such care seemed to require frequent sampling for sugar content, and thoughtful contemplation as its resulting data processed.

He had to shake his head. The centaur fondness for apples proved beyond his imagination; it bordered on obsession.

Back on the porch, Eugene stood up, staring at a point a few steps back. Leif nodded to himself; Border collies – shoot, any dog – held almost preternatural senses, detecting friend or foe at distances he could only dream about.

A cleared throat announced someone's presence, more than the dog's attention. It sounded familiar. Leif paused, thinking, then turned. "Wesson."

"Mister Larsen, good to see you again!"

Leif quirked an eyebrow. The other man wore formal clothing, slacks and a button-front shirt, complete with a tie and sports coat. While inexperienced, he was suspicious about the agent's innocent appearance; Roanette's written report had spoken at length over the intensive training required in the Exchange's operatives division. "What can I do for you?"

Wesson's shoulders drooped, his face dropping in an almost comical expression if it hadn't been on a grown man. "Come now Mister Larsen, we're friends! Buddies! We've been through a lot together! The least you could do is call me Roman."

He pondered that for a moment. "Why?"

"Um," the agent cocked his head to one side, looking uncommonly like a kicked puppy. "Because it's my name? Friends call each other by their first names out here, do they not?"

That made more sense. The last actual Roman would have died millennia before, but that didn't change things much. Leif took in the city man's dapper appearance once more and shook his head. "What do you want, Agent Wesson."

Wesson sighed. "All right, I'm here basically to prep you for your next guests. Can we go inside?"

"No."

"Please?"

"No." Leif checked the sun's position once more. This was wasting time and there was grain to harvest. Allowing the man who'd admitted to planting surveillance devices in his home back into said home was the lastthing a logical man would allow. He raised one hand towards the orchard, where the retreating form of the blonde centauride could be seen. "Shade over there, but not inside."

"Fine," Wesson led the way, needing only an extended lower lip to complete the image of a petulant five-year-old. It was in the lowered head, shoulders and arms wrapped tight in front of the expensive Italian cut fabric, shined leather shoes seeking to cause distress on little clumps of vegetation at every other step. Too, there was a distinct grumbling tone under the man's voice, the sound of an unhappy man in a situation he did not like.

They reached the edges of the nearer orchard, which happily lacked centauride populations, as he saw the blonde centauride headed across the further pasture, arms loaded with sacks. These days, Leif wasn't sure if the female centaurs practically lived in the orchard. His freezer groaned under the massive quantities of apple-based pastries stuffed in its confines. Yet they did not stop; as soon as Sophette, the smaller half-sister of Roanette, had discovered the cookbooks stashed in the book room, almost every evening he was home held the odors of baked goods emanating from the kitchen.

It wasn't bad, he admitted. But guests after years of solitude wore on him; leaving for a week or so at a time to work the fields was only natural. Besides, it wasn't as if he were abandoning the centaurides, was it?

Was it?

"Mister Larsen, have I offended you somehow?"

Leif switched gears, coming back to the present. "Come again?"

Wesson leaned his back against a tree, its waving branches bereft of all fruit. "You don't want me in your house, you've never called me with questions, and I know you've been aware of another species coming. But you haven't called or written. Why?"

A blank look was all Leif could give for a moment. He tried to expand on it with a half-shrug. "No need."

A muscle twitched under Wesson's left eye. "While I understand a need for independence, if there are any issues, I need to be made aware of them as soon as possible."

Again, Leif contemplated the situation. There were a number of fields that still needed combining, but the few spots left for haying were largely done by hired help. Which reminded him, he needed to call the Kobernicks and finalize details on that. But … problems? They left him alone, he left them alone; what better arrangement could there be? "Nope. No problems."

Wesson frowned. "Are you sure? No one has pushed you to ride them, just to save time or some such thing?"

"Ah?" Leif gestured at the small barnyard not too far away. "I have a half-dozen horses right there. Trucks and tractors, plus my four-wheeler. Don't need a ride." He considered the dapper, smaller man for a heartbeat. "'Suppose the only complaint is they're taking up all my freezer space."

The other man's face went blank. "Freezer … space …?"

"Aye." Leif chuckled. "Ro and Sophie found the extra freezers in the Quonset. Filled 'em full of all kinds of apple goodies. Must have over a thousand pounds packed away, think I'll need to get another one for the meat come butchering time."

"Really." The government man's voice was flat. "That's the biggest problem?"

Leif frowned. "Not a problem exactly. Just unplanned. Bit of a bad time to run out of space. Maybe a day to get to the butcher, takes him a week to get the job done. Another day to go out and back, pack it all in the freezers." His frown deepened. "Might need two, looks like a hard winter coming."

"If that's it, then I'm not too worried about your new tenants," Wesson shrugged. "I'll make arrangements for two freezers to be sent up here, and a transport for the, ah, cow, right?"

"Ach, no. I'll take care of it." Leif took a step back. "Thank yeh all the same."

"Mister Larsen, Leif." Wesson's brown eyes rolled skywards in exasperation, not unlike a frustrated colt. "It is my job to ensure relations go smoothly between man and liminal. Part of that task involves a rather substantial budget devoted to breakage or resources used in service; sort of like how you are paid to leave entire swaths of grassland untilled, you see?"

Surprised, Leif pursed his lips. "Been reading?"

"I'm no idiot," Wesson cast a significant look at the ranch house, but said nothing. "Your decisions are your own of course, but I must warn you that interacting with liminal women is not exactly like working with humans. Actions speak much, much louder than words."

"Yah," the rancher found an apple, smaller than normal, hiding in a fork of the tree branches. It tasted delicious. "As it should."

The city man took a few seconds to search for another apple, giving up quickly. "I can see where you're coming from, but human society is essentially based on lies. 'How are you doing,' 'I'm sorry to hear that,' things like that. We aren't actually interested in how people are doing, or feeling sorry for something not affecting us. There's some empathy involved, yes, but nothing we can actually place as a sensation for someone else. Centaur society – shoot, many liminal cultures period – forgo all of that."

Leif held out his ripe, red fruit, pale flesh standing out against the russet skin. "Want a bite? No?" He brought it back. "Not sure what you're sayin' there. Could you make it simple?"

Wesson sighed. "Centaurs place a very high value on property and possessions. You are almost a king in their eyes, and you've been handing out the fruits of your labors," he eyed the half-eaten apple, "with very little restraint. To be very plain, two of the three Yidderman daughters are crushing on you. Hard. Compared to the centaur men, you are a prince; mannerly, generous, kind, empathic, and very very rich. With a single decision, you have the power to change the living conditions of an entire tribe, which means they want you to be happy. In action, they are trying to convince you to take care of them, and in centaur culture, that often includes marriage."

Leif inhaled, experiencing perhaps a full second of understanding why drowning was such a bad idea – and choked. Bits of chewed apple scattered to the ground. It took almost a full minute before he was able to speak once more. "Marriage?"

"Not so loud!" the city man's head jerked around. "Their hearing is better than some dogs!"

Leif spluttered again, fighting against the reactions of a pair of traitorous lungs. "Is that what you've been dancing around all this time? These girls are thinkin' to settle down or something?"

"Oy vey," Wesson grumbled. His back straightened, one arm reaching out to grip the rancher's shoulder. "Look Leif, if you got any more settled, your legs would be rooted. The only thing you'd need is a little pruning every now and again."

Leif shook his head. "I know the filly's want to canoodle, but it's a crush. They're young; it'll pass. Life goes on."

A faint tremor of exasperation rumpled the government agent's visage. "Well, at least you're not completely oblivious. That almost seems to be a requirement in this line of work. Just … keep it in mind, all right? Especially with the elves. They've been looking forward to this for years now – don't mess it up for them."

Air hissed through the leaves as Leif flicked the mostly-eaten apple into the depths of the orchard. "I appreciate the heads up, Agent. But I ain't stupid either. They've had their hats tilted for me for a while now, but that's all that's going to happen."

The rumble of distant engines carried through the air, reaching Leif's ears. He frowned. It didn't sound like any neighbors; the next military convoy wasn't due for another month or so. Everyone knew there were active missile silos dispersed throughout the region – they just chose to ignore the frequent visits from military vehicles occupied by inexperienced grunts. Well-intentioned grunts, who treated you with the same respect seen between nervous folk sitting on a bomb, but unskilled, accident-prone grunts all the same. Neighbors kept an eye out for each other, a fact thumb-fingered fools often forgot.

He closed his eyes, concentrating. The baritone rumble mixed with the higher timbre of a less powerful motor, multiple engines combining in a distant symphony. "Three or four cars, one truck. That them?"

Wesson's head was tilted in similar fashion. "That's Agent Seneca. They elected to avoid the helicopters then? Trying to be quiet, I suppose. Oh, pretend that we did not meet. Seneca's new, and wants to prove herself without help."

Leif started for the house once more.

"Leif – Mister Larsen," the agent's voice caught him just a few steps out from the orchard's boughs.

He turned back, eyebrow raised.

"Just … be careful. I'll back you up, but please be careful."

The tall man, bronzed by the fury of northern summers, snorted. "So long as they leave me alone, we'll be fine."


Less than twenty minutes later, Leif stood in his front living room once more, watching out the window as sleek, black vehicles arranged themselves on the large circle drive. Already he'd moved the '74 Chevy a bit further back, just behind the workshop; he hoped the newcomers would know better than to just walk into a place filled with anvils and welding equipment. Likewise he'd shifted the larger tractor out of the way – the combines were safely ensconced in the Quonset, as befitting critical hardware of their status.

In his mind, he couldn't help drawing a contrast between the new, almost glossy finish on the cars purring in his drive, and the more worn appearance of the hardware he owned. In proper perspective, he didn't really want new things, but the stark difference was more than enough to get neighbors tongues wagging. A bright, shiny new tractor gave conversation fodder for a month – what was a cavalcade of cutting edge technology going to do?

"Quiet?"

Half of the entire point for the centaurs taking up the Old Stead acreage was to maintain secrecy. A full quarter of the paperwork had seemed to consist of NDA's … what his brother had called non-disclosure forms. Money had been funneled through more intermediaries than his cornfields had stalks – then the idiots went and drove brand spanking new vehicles into his front drive, in full view of the gravel road.

"Right."

Along the back wall, standing on its massive frame, the grandfather clock ticked away the seconds. As each pass of the metal disc shaved another fraction from the passing minutes, he could see more people emerging from the vehicles. That was fairly easy, as the various machines were set in a protective circle, following the ring of his driveway. It felt almost like the old Conestoga wagons, huddled for defense.

The clock's gears rattled for the moment before one chain dropped, powering the internal bell. While small, its resonance filled the room, sounding the half hour.

This time, Leif moved. He reached the front door well ahead of the newcomers, snagging the hat off its stand and jamming it on his head. The door slammed shut behind him, the screen banging into place. He took his time, strolling down the short steps onto the driveway. The small group waited a dozen feet from their vehicle. He recognized Wesson, talking into his bulky satellite phone, and gave a friendly nod. Responding, the man came closer, closing the device.

"Wesson." Leif came to a halt, greeting the man once more. He took a moment to enjoy the beautiful weather; the first frost would be soon; then the last of harvest. "Picked a nice day to visit.

The slight man in a sharp business suit gave a gentle bow as if seeing him for the first time. A young woman in similar clothing stood behind him, curiosity embodied in every line. "Indeed Mister Larsen. I am pleased to be here again. May I introduce Agent Seneca, who will be the coordinator for your new liminal guests? Agent Seneca, Mister Larsen."

The woman, roughly Leif's height, stepped forwards. "Sir. Thank you for opening your home to the Program. If there is anything I can do to assist or clarify, please do not hesitate to ask."

Leif thought about that. Were there any questions? Roanette's report left him with more information than he'd started with at the beginning of the whole situation. Being surprised with a centaur after a lifetime of firm certainty in their mythical status had been a shock of a lifetime or two. There was minimal time – but he had set aside this evening for the newcomers. More information would be far better than less.

"You're responsible for the elves and dryads, yes?"

Thin, penciled eyebrows rose. "I wasn't aware that information had been disseminated yet. You were planning to meet with me, yes?"

"Hm." Leif chose not to answer, stretching his neck, vertebrae creaking a quiet relief. Hadn't this day been scheduled? Perhaps the Exchange Program was not as organized as one would desire. "Where and when?"

"Their representatives are here today, and are eager to meet with you. Are you ready?"

Leif grunted. "Aye."

"Excellent, I'll just need to confirm with my superiors." Seneca pulled out a small rectangular piece of electronics. Nimble fingers danced on its surface, sun glare making any image featureless from Leif's angle. Her face grew puzzled. "I don't … there's no signal?"

Wesson flashed a charming grin. "Sorry, I forgot to mention that. There is no signal out here. May I offer my satellite phone?"

Shock still evident on her face, the female agent shook her head. "The ambassadors have standard service too, did you not arrange for a tower?"

"Less than a month isn't enough time," the agent's white teeth did not stop gleaming. "Plans are in the works; one at the center of the settlement, and one next to the road. There is a landline connection in the house –" he caught the glare Leif couldn't help sending his way. A coughing fit didn't quite retract the phrase. "If … ah … Mister Larsen is okay with it?"

"No." Leif said before the female agent had a chance to respond. "Next?"

Agent Seneca's eyes fluttered to Leif, then back at Wesson, before the cell phone lowered. "Um, I see. May I borrow your satellite phone, Agent Wesson?"

His charming grin grew even wider. "Of course!"

Leif inhaled, a long deep selection of diesel fumes, wide country air and the strange perfume that'd started floating around in the past few minutes. It was a farmer's life, one that granted satisfaction unlike any other occupation. Independence. Durability. Resilience.

Wait. Perfume?

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Lord Larsen." A cultured voice spoke behind him.

Leif closed his eyes. Liminals seemed to have a deep desire to mock his human senses at every opportunity. Intentional or no, it was beginning to annoy.

Heaving an internal sigh, he turned around. A few steps away stood a different woman from before; this one stood a few inches shorter than himself, yet possessing a svelte frame that bespoke a lifetime of careful sculpting. Like the centaurs, her ears were different from human norms, raised into points that swept back in a sweeping arc. Her eyebrows were equally alien, a natural series of one sharp angle and two straight lines each. Unlike the typical fantasy displays his brother had sometimes referenced, the woman was neither diminutive nor underdeveloped. If it weren't for the decidedly larger eyes and ears, she could have been mistaken for a surgically enhanced model.

"Just Mister, at least for now," he held out a hand. "You're new."

A strange look crossed her face, amusement perhaps? Her hand, smooth skin hiding whipcord muscles grasped his own. "It could be said, yes. I am Aredhel Lithlinede, representative of the Sindrel. May I introduce my compatriot Haile Norodhen, of the Kail?"

Leif glanced around; nothing could be seen. No other elf, or dryad for that matter, other than the blonde woman standing before him. Was this supposed to be some kind of joke? An imaginary friend?

Given the current rate of impossible individuals becoming possible, that could be the wrong thing to ask. Who knew if a massive, fifty-foot golem had been pretending to be his ash heap for the last few years?

"Hi."

He looked down. A small, greenish-brown person stood there, her greatest height maybe reaching his hip, if she rose to her tiptoes. Unlike Aredhel, her hair was a dark brown, mixed with what looked to be actual moss, intertwined with vines that came down on a small torso, wrapping leaves in what he sincerely hoped was not poison ivy.

That stuff itched like the dickens.

"Hello?" The sound of moving feet, mixed with the low noise of people talking quietly, almost distracted him, but he remained polite. Even the metallic sounds of slamming car doors failed. "Pleased to meet you both. I am Leif Larsen."

The two wildly different women gave an identical curtsy; they must have rehearsed. The taller one shook a blowing strand from her face. "We know, Lord Larsen. Are you prepared for the bargaining?"

Leif felt his insides congeal into an unhappy bundle; the noise of yet more approaching vehicles pulling into the yard behind him. "Thought you were bunkin' with the centaurs."

A bright smile turned the elvish woman into a beautiful vision. "But of course! We are fully willing to share accommodations with our quadruped associates. But our races have different needs, and as such we must come to terms on what is, or is not, allowed within your territory."

"Ah." The rancher pushed back the brim of his hat, itching at the spot covered by its brim. Behind, the noise from people exiting the vehicles grew louder still. He withstood the noise for another few moments, then rolled his eyes and turned.

Roanette stood several paces away looking mulish – where had she come from? Flanking her were two groups of distinctly differing appearances. To her right were more elvish-looking folk, but the people to her left could be best described as – short. And green. Both parties appeared to be getting along well, if only by the amount of sound they generated. It was almost as if they were deliberately trying to cause as little annoying sound as possible, while competing for how much of a polite cacophony was possible, the most genteel riot that had ever sneaked up on his lawn.

The only riot to have ever occurred on his lawn, come to think of it.

Leif exchanged a brief look with Roanette. Her frustration was clear, lips pursing for a moment as a small, greenish-brown individual gave her ebony tail a healthy tug. Her expression became a smile, although he could tell it forced. "Ro', you meet the new folk?"

The centauride's hindquarters shifted, accidentally swishing the long tail into the face of the child-sized individual who was grasping at it again. "Indeed, milord. The dryads and centaurs have long since become associates in trade. You may remember our time at the The Place when we first met? Our talks included some information on the dryads, remember?"

There was a certain tone in her voice that Leif couldn't understand, but the smaller woman at his side seemed to hiss. Her voice cut over what Leif had been about to say. "Of course, centaur. You broke the agree—"

"Careful now," Aredhel leaned over just far enough to place a hand on the dryad's shoulder. "We have no need to cast unnecessary castigation. 'All's well that ends well,' as the Americans say."

Leif could sense tension in the air. Roanette and the two elvish women were glaring at each other with all the intensity of high-capacity cables. Maybe if there were a way to convert that energy into a more useful form – Leif shook the thought away. His ranch needed nothing in the lines of combative tenants, disgusting though the actual thought of strangers on his land.

"Um," he looked from one to the other. Playing peacemaker fell under his authority, possibly. Maybe he could hire someone to do that? But until then … "Is there a problem?"

The taller elf's smile had all the charm of a diamond: brilliant, sharp, and cold as ice. "Nay, good sir. 'tis nothing with which you should concern yourself. We shall discuss the matter in private."

Roanette drew herself up. "There is nothing to discuss. We had no plans to abrogate our commitments; every migration does not proceed to plan."

"Yes," Leif's head snapped back to Aredhel, "But a journey shared is based on trust. If broken, it takes long to repair. Compensation for the lost opportunities will be required, as your father knows."

"Preposterous!" Roanette's forelegs actually rose off the ground a few inches. "My father knows –"

The clearing of a large individual interrupted the growing disagreement. "Yes, daughter. I am aware of the circumstances." Large, dark eyes studied the elf. "Miss Lithlinede, a pleasure to see you."

Aredhel folded her arms. "Your silver tongue will not avail you here, leader of the centaurs though you be!"

"Is there a problem here?" Leif took the opportunity to step in once more. It was awkward, but he'd dealt with worse.

"We are merely somewhat aggrieved that our plan, decades in the making, was overturned through an alleged emotional display. Charity and compassion are laudable traits," Aredhel took a moment to flick her hair out of her eyes. "But the initial meeting and claim should have, by rights, been mine."

A headache began to pound behind Leif's forehead. He massaged it with stiff fingers, kneading at the pressure. This … was going to be a long day.

Salvation came from an unlikely source.

"Ladies, please!" Wesson's voice boomed out in a commanding tenor. His normally cheerful exterior looked disappointed, as if a favorite daughter were offering a poor report card. His voice dropped, a richer timbre Leif hadn't heard from him before. "We have already spoken about this; there is no need to give needless confusion to the esteemed Mister Larsen. We are here merely to meet, and make certain there will be no insurmountable difficulties in this endeavor. If we must discuss the situation further, well, there is a great deal of work to be done before the Exchange becomes public knowledge. May we not set aside our differences until a more auspicious time?"

Both of the elven women managed to retreat without moving, gracious smiles firmly in place. Roanette took a few steps back as well, resuming her normal position at her father's right side, half a length back.

Leif caught Wesson's eye for a brief moment, sending wordless gratitude.

"Right now," Wesson beamed back. "We should introduce the Ambassadors, of course. They will be travelling across the country, presenting their case to the various institutions that will be created.

Leif cocked his head to one side, glancing back at the taller elf; the shorter dryad remained still, eyes darting back and forth. "You're the ambassadors?"

"Representatives, actually, for your personal benefit. If I may introduce the ambassadors," Aredhel stepped forward, taking Leif's arm in a lightning-quick maneuver he didn't foresee, tucking it close to the soft portions of her chest. She guided him towards the taller group of elves. "Master Larsen, this is Elladen Taliman. Ambassador, Master Larsen."

A man with the same elvish characteristics as the elf holding Leif's arm gave him a sweeping bow, fluid movements showing an impressive amount of training. "A pleasure, Master Larsen. While my duties will prevent much interaction, I am certain we will accomplish great things together."

"Right kind of yeh," Leif's mind went blank, then locked on a phrase. "But just call me Leif. Or Mister Larsen if you have to; haven't been masters around here since the Civil War."

The elf's ears twitched. "I believe the term mister is the modernized equivalent of master is it not? If so, why would you object?"

Caleb leaned forwards, "An excellent question. I believe it is cultural; this country has suffered great indignities due to forced conditions, in the late 18th and 19th centuries, correct?"

"Which we would have known if we'd been first instead of her." Aredhel's irritated mutter could be heard by all. Leif could tell how far it carried by the reddening complexion of the normally calm centauride still by her father's side. "It will be ten times as difficult, now that she's got her Lord riding her."

The centauride went pale; but small red points on her cheeks seemed to indicate rage rather than fright. "My master and I have not 'ridden' as you say. But better he be saddled with one such as I than for your claws to be embedded in his flesh!"

"Um," Leif tried to interrupt, but was overridden. As a consolation prize he managed to free his arm; the elf seemed to forget about his presence in her anger. "Excuse me? Please?"

"Claws? How dare you, pillow-stuffing, fat-chested homeless vagrant! Your abysmal lack of culture is readily apparent to anyone with eyes!"

Leif took a breath, but once again was cut off. This was getting out of hand.

"'Tis better to lack the arrogant sophistry of your so-called civilization than to believe all the mistaken thoughts about 'ancient nobility'. Your ancestors fled every encounter, hiding in trees for centuries until they grew enough spine to beg for help!" Roanette fired back.

Wesson raised his hands, Seneca at his side, grimacing. "Ladies, ladies!"

He too, was unsuccessful.

Leif retreated, thinking and watching. Both of the women were apparently dead-set on lambasting each other as hard and fast as possible. In another timespan, if he recalled the bits of stories told by his second-oldest brother, there would be a pair of podiums and a pit for the poor folk to stand and watch, perhaps throwing peanuts and pebbles. The phrase 'peanut gallery' sprang to mind but, alas, he lacked the appropriate condiments.

No one appeared to notice his departure, save for the cringing ambassador, and an almost frantic Seneca. Leif re-entered his house, heading straight to one its more secure rooms. A few seconds of searching saw the gun safe dial spin open, its deadly contents exposed; he selected a classic Winchester Model 21. While old, it bore the traces of good maintenance, a cherished tool handed down through the generations … or at least a generation.

Moving quickly, he broke it open, loading the double-barreled monstrosity with rock salt. After a moment's hesitation, he pocketed heavier shells, just in case.

Returning to the outside, Leif found the elf and the centauride engaged in close verbal combat. Roanette's species advantage lay in height and mass, leading her to tower over her opponent, leaning over to physically dominate, while a larger set of lungs gave volume he'd not heard outside of a drill sergeant back in town. Aredhel by comparison had not backed down, going toe-to-toe with the towering centauride; it seemed the tiny dryad at her side was making comments as well, firing them upwards in a tag-team effort.

Further back, he could see Wesson speaking animatedly with Roanette's father and the elvish Ambassador. Hand gestures and a calm demeanor gave some hope, but the grouping behind both chief ambassadors were already speaking in loud enough tones that he could barely hear himself think.

"Right, that's enough." Leif switched off the safety, pointed the double barrels at the sky, checked his angle, and squeezed both triggers.

Deafening thunder overwhelmed the clearing, a decent cloud of gunpowder and cordite blasting from the barrels. Echoes from hills miles away rebounded the booming retort, repeating long seconds after the initial sound had faded. Silence following the blast fell, as if the god of thunder had hurled his displeasure into their midst.

Leif glared at the audience. Every face had turned his way, a number had screamed, diving for cover. Staying wary, he broke open the slightly-modified Winchester once more, casually batting away the spent cartridges without getting burned. The quiet click made by the emptied weapon closing seemed almost as loud as the blast from seconds before.

"If," his tone was quiet, but commanded their attention. "You have a problem, work it out. If you need to fight, make it official. A fair fight. No stakes. Just work out your issue, pound someone's face in, then help 'em to the doc. Are we done here?"

A light breeze wafted the last traces of smoke as he waited. Roanette and Aredhel shifted uncomfortably, eyes down.

After several heartbeats, Caleb cleared his throat. "An interesting idea for serious consideration. Now that we have met, perhaps we may return to the construction site? The contractors are eager to complete their tasks."

The elven ambassador was quick to agree. "Of course, we mustn't delay; there are still so many things to accomplish." His blinding smile turned on Leif once more. "A pleasure to meet you Mister Larsen. In time, I pray your hospitality may be returned, once our residence achieves completion."

In an instant, both tall and short liminal folk jerked into motion, flowing back into oversized vehicles. It reminded Leif of a circus he'd once seen, when clowns had continually poured out of an outlandish vehicle; only now it looked like fashion models vanishing inside mobile constructs of chrome and black paneling. Within two minutes the last dryad hopped up the doorsill, engines turning over, and the shining vehicles pulled out.

Leif finally blinked.

Only Roanette, her father, and the two agents remained standing; the former talking in whispers that had all the politeness one could observe from afar, but their expressions suggested argument. Of the latter, Agent Seneca stared after the departing guests, mouth hanging open while Wesson clutched his forehead, shaking it in long, slow turns.

Finally, he took the shotgun back inside, returning it to the locker. It'd need cleaning, but he'd take care of that later. Right now there were fields to harvest, and perhaps a book on diplomacy to read. Somehow, he didn't thinkn this was how the event had been supposed to occur.