(Week 5)

Night time on the ranch. The absence of elves and centaurs made it feel like … well, what was rapidly seeming to become old times. Before myths strode out of legend and grew giddy over fruit. Long-eared elves with deep eyes and graceful words sought to grow ever-closer – until he'd had the presence of mind to set them to building homes in the centaur's area. It felt like playing dirty-pool, setting their own competitive natures against each other, but he needed to harvest! There were a few scant weeks in which everything could be done, and even those remaining days were racing past.

Leif concentrated on the stars. Even that meeting with the elves – which could have ended better than his gunboat diplomacy, if he'd admit it to himself – felt months old. Technically it'd only been a little over one week, but now he ignored the small green people wandering his fields as if they were deer.

He needed a break to reality. Hence his little star-gazing sojourn, at sunset.

It was a happy scene for Leif, a time when the light faded into darkness, unleashing the subtle brilliance of galaxies overhead. Tonight would be a clear night, bordering on cold. He appreciated the way the air was beginning to bite at his nose; it was the gentle nip of an appreciative canine when rubbing its fur the right way. He knew the understated warning, to hurry. Hurry. Winter would not stay away for long; already the distant peaks were growing their long white caps. When that happened, the time he had left was less than a full month, sometimes weeks.

Crimson gleaming tail lights caught his attention. They travelled on the state road, based on the distant crunch of gravel and general position. Leif followed their progress, continuing to contemplate. An unexpected phone call that evening let him know of the upcoming delivery, one freezer courtesy of the American Exchange Commission. A good model too, larger than his other freezers, complete with warranty. That was nice.

An odd change in the vehicle's speed made the tail lights stand out even further, recapturing Leif's gaze. He watched as the twin tail lights flared, then went out. Its engine still ran, and he could still hear gravel crunching, until it changed to something different, more like the muffled rumble as a too-low car went over tall grass.

Frowning, Leif gauged the location, matching it to memory. His home was built on a hillside, granting a better view of the countryside than most. Based on mental geography, the nearest area would either be the pasture entrance just a few miles down the road, or the Zakapenko place – unoccupied until Earl went home.

Eugene trotted up, facing the same direction. After a moment he sat, ears raised, tail wagging just enough to declare his state of happiness.

"What do you think, boy?" Leif reached down, giving his canine companions ears a scratch. "Take a gander, or check it out in the morning?"

The border collie tilted his head, then shook it.

"Aye," he nodded. "Not yet. If it happens again, I'll take my rifle over for a look-see. Come on then, let's go home."

Dogs lacked the native intelligence for full conversations. It was a reason why Leif enjoyed having more people around, barring the unfortunate emotional content. Dogs didn't want much more than work to do, food to eat, and a place to sleep. Give them a good scratch now and again, treat them with kindness, and their loyalty was undying. When dogs disagreed about position or social status, there was a bit of growling and snapping, and then the problem was solved. It was all automatic, inhuman logic combined with the pragmatic sort of thing only animals could consider. Admirable, from one viewpoint; to consider all known data, derive a solution, and accept a decision.

He could appreciate that.

"Pity humans can't do that," he murmured almost under his breath. The border collie sighed against his leg. "Always a mess. Now I got fillies throwing down on my lawn, feds pushing for Lord only knows what …"

The dog looked up at Leif's lowered head. Its confused expression tugged at his heartstrings.

"Sorry boy, not your problem," Leif lowered himself into a squat, then sat, one arm over the faithful companion. "My fault."

Together the two stared at the stars, sparks against the dark-indigo background. This late in the year nightfall came earlier, but living in the temperate plains brought one north enough to delay true darkness by entire hours. Even now Leif could make out the lighter patch in the west, where the sun had vanished some time before. In mid-summer that would still be bright enough to read by, almost full daylight until eleven at night. Long days, short nights.

"Turning around though," he commented. Eugene huffed a short agreement. "Long nights, short days."

Thoughts continued to swirl in the rancher's mind, orbiting that central problem like the ancient dance tread by the stars overhead, orbiting the center of the Milky Way. They had fewer problems – or so he'd assume. What did balls of burning gas find concerning to their existence? Did they have competitors, seeking out his favor every day? Earnest, well-meaning and even attractive young women displaying their charms in a fashion that only highlighted their own desperation?

What to do. Don't want to hurt 'em, but that might not be an option next time.

"It won't calm down." Logic could tell him that much. The infighting between Roanette and Aredhel hadn't gotten any greater than cold looks and snide comments – but emotional battles created the deepest wounds. Could he use human logic on centaurs, elves and dryads?

How to give them what they wanted, without the chaos such a gift would create. That was a question.

An idea stirred in the depths of his consciousness, slowly forming. With a lifetime's experience in methodical plant production, Leif considered it. Under inspection the concept had promise, if developed correctly. He took another long look at it, evaluating its long-term benefits. If continued, could it manifest benefits long down the line? Good fruit trees didn't sprout fruit immediately, it took years of patience before good crops became available.

Silent, Leif wandered back to the side porch. He dragged a rocking chair from its protected location and set it down before the fire pit. In days gone by it had been a place family had gathered on fall evenings, near enough so the house provided shelter, but far enough away to avoid that closed-in feeling. He threw a few split logs into the pit, selected a promising shard, and sat down before the first flickering flames. His knife started peeling curls off the chosen castoff, skilled hands showing almost idle interest in the material.

This would take some thought.

[Two Days Later]

Rolling hills stretched across the horizon, each flourishing with bountiful lengths of golden-hued plant life. Rusty-orange stalks of dried wheat steaked through the fields, blending into the encircling green of wild grasses. What trees existed on the wind-blasted grounds bent close; evergreens standing tall while their less-hardy deciduous cousins crouched low. Careful eyes could see ears sticking out from the grasses at intervals; long instruments of auditory reception, capable of detecting a single grasshopper's scuttling motions at fifty paces.

Swinging his gaze to the south, he heaved a small sigh. Hillsides formerly layered in verdant greenery lay bare in strips of denuded soil, brutally cleansed of any vegetation. Heavy equipment, newer and brighter colored than anything he owned, bit ravenous holes deep into the earth, as if feasting on the ground's soft flesh. Each scoop built a pile of rich earth twice as tall as his own home, nearly as high as the main barn. Behind the pits, square stones made their presence known in the background, plain grey sharply contrasting against the verdant hill's curving sides.

More machines trundled over the road carving itself into the land. Pristine prairie, once host to only cattle and the infrequent rancher since the last Ice Age, lay torn apart. Blasted felt appropriate an appropriate term, shredded perhaps. He would have to check the thesaurus sitting on his shelf on the trophy room's shelf. Creating words suitable for the devastation took – time. Perhaps that sense of nervousness would dwindle, the slowly rising frustration borne out of so many changes. Again, that would take time. Planning for many visitors – or worse, tenants – took vast amounts of time, especially for those such as he.

"Time is what I have though," Leif murmured. Mentally, he ran through the list of tasks. He'd spent his time wisely. "Got three thousand harvested, hay on the east forty needs mowing, move cattle to fall quarters, harvest the western side – " his voice fell into an almost-silent muttering, brushed away by the wind.

"Do you need help?" an familiar voice behind his right shoulder spoke up.

Leif jumped, heart beating a frantic tattoo against the back of his rib cage. Cursing silently, he nodded acknowledgement to the raven-haired centaur – centauride – that had sneaked up so adroitly. "Morning Ro'. Thank you, but I'm just going over the chores list."

Eagerness filled her voice. "Can we help? My sisters and I would be glad to assist."

Strong effort kept irritation away. The centaur sisters infrequently left him alone outside his house; impatiently waiting to do something for him. Anything. The eldest, the golden-haired Alynette, appeared to hold a deep crush on his neighbor Earl, currently recovering in the hospital. Unfortunately, Roanette seemed determined against joining that interest, choosing instead to remain in close proximity to himself. Even after their time at The Place, she would not leave him alone – to the point of resting in the tree belts during his field work. Watching a tractor above all things. Farming was the only life worth living in Leif's opinion, but spending hours at a time watching a tractor churn across a field?

More unfortunate still, her youngest sister seemed equally determined, albeit in a different manner. Sophie was as quiet as Roanette, but spent her time watching his every move without saying a word, following at her sister's side nearly every time he looked around. And yet for all her silence, she watched with a far greater intensity – like a naturalist observing a new insect for the first time.

Considering the differences in just three representative daughters of one centaur, Leif didn't want to know what kind of breeding patterns were needed; Roanette had black hair and ebony flanks, while Sophie boasted a mane of fire – characteristics their brown-bearded father most emphatically did not have. What kind of mother could produce such different offspring? Why did the children share their father's attributes in such a solely oblique fashion?

A vague memory recalled itself, Roanette telling him of her father's dozens of – breeding stock for lack of a better term. It appeared empirical evidence bore her aright; otherwise traits wouldn't breed true in such a fashion. Hadn't Arabian's been imported as baseline stock for countless show horses in Europe? It sounded more of a harem than a herd however, but the similarities were striking.

Shame filled him for a moment; these weren't horses, they were people. Half-horse, abnormally strong, apple-obsessed people that allegedly went mad every full moon, but people nonetheless. And very attentive – so much so that it instilled a panicky feeling in his chest, a sensation he'd thought long gone by high school.

Stuck in neutral, Leif's plan, finalized less than two nights before, nudged itself into the conscious portion of his mind. It felt cruel in a way, but work had to be done – winter came with brutal force, unsparing of emotion. If he were to keep working with bearable stress, he'd have to become equal to that void. "Well, I'm in a bit of a pickle Remember the Old Orchard? Out by the Place?"

Roanette's long ears leaned forwards, quivering. "Yes Milord. The large orchard covering twenty acres south of your family's ancestral dwelling? The vast holding retaining Lodi and Goodland and the secret breeds of your ancestral mysteries?"

Leif tried to shake off the sensation of two different cultures using the center of his brain as a jousting lane. Centaur perceptions held more importance on casual husbandry than he'd thought. He'd have to remind himself to not underestimate them – again. "Right. Well, it's been a few years since anyone's taken care of it. As you know, there's a lot of fruit there, more than I'll ever use. So. Got a proposal."

A strange look entered the centauride's expression, a cross of euphoria and trembling anticipation. It cleared as fast as it had arrived, smoothing into the perfect expression of polite attention. Her hands were working in front of her impressive bosom however, fingers twining in nervous anticipation. "I am listening, milord."

He shoved the sense of unease deep, considering his next sentences carefully. It was probably the persistant usage of milord, combined with her obvious hero-worship. "You get some of your people, and talk with the elves. Dryads. Whatever. I figger centaurs can pack away a heap more than humans at the table. Even neglected, I'm guessin' ten thousand bushels possible. Call it maybe two percent for me this year, and to use myself. The rest I'll leave to your judgement, Ro'. If you need flour, sugar, just let me know. I'll pick up a couple hundred pounds in town for this winter myself, but if you need more …."

Once more the world faded to a hot black realm. Leif half-expected something like this to happen, but it was still a shock being tackled by a centauride. Such was her strength that he couldn't push free; instead he was lifted off the ground and shoved into her chest with the same approximate flexibility as the average girder. Faint squealing noises resonated somewhere overhead; his ears were muffled by the softness closing in on either side. There was also a great deal of motion going on, his legs swinging mid-air like an unbroken bronco's loose stirrups. Chary of slipping, he tried to find a handhold, but wound up clinging to the centauride's back in desperation.

All at once he was free, staggering a tiny half-circle, winded and blinking in the sudden sunlight. The three border collies off to one side were watching him with great interest; perhaps they believed this a new kind of game? Leif hoped not.

"I'll begin immediately!" Roanette spun in place, pausing a heartbeat as raven-dark hair formed a brief nimbus around her face, then charging towards the sheds. A flicker of movement on the edge of his vision showed Sophie's crimson tresses on a parallel course, easing his tension tremendously. In seconds the two erupted from the structure's far side, bearing long-handled implements like lances. For a moment he mistook them for an errant cavalry charge, lances lowered for the attack – but very few soldiery had figures like that. Too, burlap would be a poor choice of armor. Leather might work, but not fabric.

For a moment, Leif focused on watching Roanette go, still feeling guilty. She meantwell … but living alone for years tended to … prejudice one. He'd talked more in the past month than the past two years. Frightening, if he let himself think about it. He didn't if he could help it. Which was getting harder.

Then something made its presence known, a hard lump stuck between his teeth and lip. Leif worked it out, and spat. A button landed on the grass, staring up at him like a tiny eye. A quick check showed every button running down his shirt in place – which meant – stopping that thought, he scooped it up, giving it a hasty swipe before depositing it in a pocket. He'd return it back to the centauride later. Her asset's coverings needed all the help they could get.

Fortunately, work beckoned. Leif whistled, calling his dogs. They dashed to his side, following the same trail. Their antics warmed his heart; the way they frolicked among the tall grasses, leaping after small grasshoppers and playing tag. Scheherazade pretended to be uninterested, yet eagerly responded when baited – snapping her teeth playfully.

Leif nodded. No matter what changes occurred, work fulfilled in a way very little else could. It even drove frustration to bay, for a while.

"Master."

The barest sliver of surplus self-control enabled Larsen to hold his temper. "I've said to never call me that."

Aredhel bowed, long braids almost falling into the knee-high grasses. It surprised Leif a little, seeing an elf in denim. "I observe Lady Yidderman names you as her Lord. Why may I not do the same?"

"Different. Later. What is it?" Leif did not want to go over the intricate subtleties of 'Master' terminology, or how his efforts to get the attractive centauride to stop calling him some kind of middling royalty. Frustration for another day.

"As you command. What are your wishes for me this day?"

Leif pulled himself together. He'd planned for this. It would've been better to set down when they'd first arrived, but better now than later. "How good are your folk at hunting?"

The blonde elf's eyebrows twitched. "Some are skilled indeed. Others less so. I possess some skill myself, but would not claim mastery of the subject."

"Huh," the sun's upward climb still progressed. More haying could be done. 'Make hay while the sun shines' was an aphorism to live by. "See, the state's getting less populated. More city folk, less country folk. Fewer people, more animals. But it ain't balanced. Hasn't been for a while."

The elf cocked her head to one side, large eyes fastened on his.

"When settlers came, they cleaned out the wolves. Mountain lions too, mostly. Heard tell of a few out there, but it's not enough. Deer are multiplyin' too fast. Elk too."

Her large eyes looked up at him. "You desire we cull the herds? How many and where?"

Leif straightened, turning to look west. Grandfather's Shoulder rose above the treetops like an ancient citadel, forgotten and buried. It made a marvelous tracking point for times such as these. "See the forest, on the south side of Grandfather's Shoulder?"

The elf glanced in the indicated direction and nodded.

"We call that the South Slope. Last two years I checked over the north and east sides, had to donate the meat. Pack it. Store it. Too much for one man. Gave away enough to feed a village. But the herds are growing too fast." Leif twisted back, catching her dark eyes in as stern a look as he knew how. "Talk to the centaurs. Get their help. Get the wildlife down to sustainable numbers. If you get them organized this week, I'll get you the numbers by Monday. Take your time. Do it right."

She gave him an elegant bow, reminiscent of an old play he'd once seen. "I hear and obey, my lord."

"An' don't call me –" the elvish woman's back was already retreating, racing through the tall grass like a leaping gazelle. "Ach. Ferget it."

Leif waited, stock-still. So far as he could determine, no one stood nearby. From his position, the multi-ton loads dropped by construction hardware miles away was audible to the ear as quiet thuds, sometimes underfoot as well. He could sense the vibrations through the soles of his boots as well, obvious to a man raised on the Plains. But bipedal presence – or quadraped if he were honest – did not seem to be present.

One look at the road showed no vehicles. Neighbors dropped by on occasion, but not during harvest season. But there were no federal vehicles either. Even the military jets that could be seen practicing over the military base a few hundred miles off appeared to be taking the day off.

He grinned. Perfect time to get out into the fields.

[break]

Unlike many, Leif wore ear protection while riding heavy machinery. Lawn mowers put out around ninety decibels, if he recalled aright, not much less than the 1440 International he operated right now. Neighbors sometimes poked fun at the vibrant orange, noise-canceling headset he wore, but he didn't need to ask folks to repeat themselves all the time. Over half the county needed to do that these days, especially the male half over forty.

As the field's edge drew closer, he spun the wide steering wheel around. The combine obeyed his command, its massive attachment slicing into wheat stalks, conveyor belts running the grain heads into the main channel, feeding the kernels into the hopper. Behind stretched over a thousand acres of stubble, the end result of a few weeks hard work. The fields most recently worked still had a floating layer of dust, sunbeams stabbing through the haze, visible when the eight-ton machine made its full turn.

Leif luxuriated in the solitude, a sense of accomplishment his closest companion. The only living creature in sight was the patient form of Eugene, who lay panting in the shade a quarter mile off. Solid steel rumbled beneath his feet, the six-cylinder seven thousand plus cubic centimeter engine thundering the song of his people. This was the culmination of a year's patience, months of prayer and wary eyes cast heavenward. Preparation of the field alone took effort beginning before the year did, monitoring grain prices and projecting future values. Prices of fertilizer and pesticides worked into the equation with age-old worries; how much time could he spend planting and cultivating the fields? Could something else be planted that would make a better profit?

Here it all paid off. Bushel after bushel of golden wheat poured into the storage tank sitting behind Leif, more than thirty per acre if fortune smiled. Each pass along the field's length allowed the twenty-eight foot attachment to consume more grain than a small village could harvest once upon a time. It gave Leif a thrill sometimes, knowing that his efforts equaled entire townships from centuries before. Of course it didn't pay nearly as well as farming once had – bulk production reduced overall prices as any student of Adam Smith would know. But it still straightened his back on bad days.

"I'm a God fearin' hard workin' combine driver," the lyrics refrain resonated in the machine's cab. One of the brothers – he forgot who – jury-rigged a set of speakers near the roof. "Hoggin' up the road on my p-p-p-p-plower, chug a lug a luggin' five miles an hour." He waited the percussive beat, and sang along. "On my International Harvester!"

It was a nice change from the classical genre played back in the house, Leif considered. But there were times when a little Western was needed.

One of the glass-faced gauges on the panel clicked over, catching his attention. Leif smiled, slowing the combine's progress at the end of the next row. The storage tank was near full, better to disburse the load now than run into trouble overfilling it.

Parking at the side of the field took a minute; walking to his ATV took a few minutes more. Fields never grew regular amounts; what one field could produce in a year, another struggled to grow in three. It was part and parcel of being a farmer, tailoring optimal growth conditions, but it meant exact bushel production prediction an exercise in futility.

"Eugene," Leif gave a short whistle, catching his companion's attention. "Truck."

The dog jumped to his feet, running before his hindquarters left their sitting position. Leif followed, watching as a quail pair took flight, startled by their passage. Reaching the ATV, he drove it back to the grain truck, tying it securely to the vehicles' rear fender before driving both back to the combine.

Just as the hopper started its work, Leif noticed the faint whoppa-whoppa noise of a helicopter. Pulling back, he scanned the sky, pinpointing the sound as he gained distance from the noisy grain falling into place. It was a new-looking helicopter, paint gleaming and as aerodynamic as one could desire. Leif could admire its efficiency, as the machine swooped in low over the treeline, circling back to lower itself on the gravel road. Backwash from the rotating blades threw dust in the air, chaff and debris flinging itself in massive whorls around the landing craft.

"Heavens to Murgatroyd," a dapper figure climbed out of the passenger side, ducking under the blades. It bent double, running out towards Leif before the helicopter rose once more like an awkward bumblebee discovering it had company.

Leif waited until the suited figure approached. "Wesson?"

White teeth in a pale face glinted sunlight back at him. "You're a hard man to find Mister Larsen. The elves were kind enough to give me a lift, helmets cover many traits it seems. Where have you been?"

Hours of productive labor gave Leif ample strength to deal with this city man. He nodded at the combine, its auger unloading wheat into the grain truck. "Workin'."

The agent sighed. "I know, but there are several people waiting to see you back at your place. I told them we could meet today, since the elvish encounter seemed to work so well, despite the difficulties. Did you not get my message? I left a note on your door, and a recording on your answering machine."

Leif thought back; he'd been out of the house by dawn the last three days, and only returned once since. "Nope."

"A pity. Oh well, I got here in time. Shall we take your truck?"

The lanky rancher glanced back at the grain truck, still poised beneath the combine's extended arm. "Half-full. We'll take the ATV. Eugene. Home."

Wesson blinked. "We'll take the – wait. What?"

Ignoring the talkative man, Leif walked back to the combine, taking a light jump and landing half-way up the six-foot series of steps. Two fast motions had him inside the cab, twisting the small bronze key off. In obedience to the laws of physics, economics and Leif's command, the towering contraption of steel and ingenuity shuddered, the augur slowing to a stop. Golden kernels ceased to pour out the pipe, leaving only the rumbling sound of the F600's eight-cylinder engine. The grain truck too died into sullen quiet as Leif shut it off.

"You're more nimble than you look," Wesson ventured.

Without a word Leif moved towards the four-wheeler, long legs eating up the distance with ease. He reached the machine, flinging a limb over it, and gunned the engine to life. One glance gave his opinion on the agent's lack of transportation – Wesson hurried to join him. A heavy thump shook the small vehicle, startling a yelp from the agent, and a curious whine from one large border collie.

Leif twisted the throttle. "Hold on."

Behind him the suit-clad agent cocked his head to one side. "To what? Ahhh!"

His arms flew forwards, wrapping around Leif's middle like a surprised python as the fine-tuned engine kicked into gear. The ground rolled away beneath their feet, turning a static scene of tranquil pastoral nature into a blur of nearby green and increasingly barren fields.

Leif loved the color in early fall. Fields turned gold, promising profit and reward for hard labor. Trees shifted from green to vibrant yellows and reds, fading to brown as their festive panoply exhausted itself. Leaves provided bulk cover, insulating roots and tree trunks, giving ready-made tinder for fire pits and old furnaces alike. The last fruits became ripened, trees released showers of protein-rich hazelnuts and black walnuts. He loved the walnut trees; their wood made excellent carvings.

A frantic pummeling at his abdominal region shoved Leif's attention back at the frantic man, yelling at his ear. Wind combined with the vehicle's engine, whipping the sound off into thin air.

Shaking his head, Leif poured on the speed. Eugene barked approval, poking his cold, wet nose into the back of the agent's neck, reassuring the nervous man. For some reason, this did not seem to work as intended.

Leif roared through the next turn, leaning over to counter-balance. The last fields were some of the furthest from home, where it would take even longer to get back. These however were less than ten miles away, a distance he could cover on foot in no time. A frown creased his forehead; perhaps he'd have to work on his perception of 'no time' if multiple people were going to be counting on finding him. Time moved both too quick and far too slow out in the country. People judged time by the sun, when it rose and set, rebelling against its strictures with artificial light when necessary.

The tires crunched into clean gravel, heralding their arrival on the major East/West route across this Quarter. Bits of rock pinged against his undercarriage, alternating between metallic ringing sounds and the sad thud sounds when contacting plastic guards. Trees, once a deep green, became a brown-and yellow blur as he sped up. Despite its age, the ATV could reach a few notches past thirty miles an hour; on the infrequent times Leif really opened it up.

Once in a while.

Maybe twice or month. Or week. It was no one else's business but his own, wasn't it?

He pushed it, reminding himself to repair the speedometer when there was time. No one cared out in the country, but with strangers around, it might be a good idea to have the little needle do more than bounce off the top end and back down every fifteen seconds.

Ahead the flagpole became visible – reminding him of the story about a grandma that ran up a dishtowel when her contractions were getting closer. Uncle Fred had been born without difficulties, but it was still an entertaining story to tell, especially to the people that couldn't imagine living more than fifteen minutes from a hospital, or at least what they imagined to be a short drive. Civilization had its benefits, it had to be admitted.

Leif released the throttle, letting friction rob the speedy little machine of its momentum. The four-wheeler coasted around the last stand of trees, coming into view of the main house and the multiple sets of – he wasn't surprised any more – black and chrome vehicles out front. He checked his wristwatch, running a simple calculation. 'Less than twenty minutes. Riding triple slows it down a bit.'

Vibrations shook his body, then the sound of a landing collie met his ears. Wesson's involuntary squeak brought a smirk to his face, wiped away as fast as it arrived.

He turned. "You alright there Wesson?"

"Perfectly fine," came the dry response. The government man extracted himself from the vehicle's worn seat, stumbling a few steps before regaining his balance. "What the hell is that thing? A bastard of a Formula One and a dune buggy?"

Leif took it as a compliment. "A little old, but in good condition."

"Good condition?" eyebrows lifted. "I saw the speedometer go from twenty to fifty in fifteen seconds, on gravel!"

"Oh," Leif frowned at the reminder. "Been meanin' to get that fixed. Always something to do. Well then, where's the folks you wanted me to meet?"

Wesson closed his jaw, shaking himself. "Right, right. They're probably inside, waiting for you."

Leif took a long look at the house. It appeared to be in one piece; no smoke poured from the windows, or even from the chimney. The windows were intact, reflecting the bright sky despite the afternoon sun's place on the far side of the building. But they were unbroken as well.

"Well?"

A turn brought the rest of the vehicles into view. All were of average size, translating as no oversized humanoids like the Centaur vans. Only three were parked there, fewer when compared to the greater numbers witnessed with the dryad and elvish contingents. There had been at least three neighbors stopping by to check on the visitors after that, helpfully explained away by the magic phrases of 'federal contract work' and 'NDA's' if they wanted to know more. It wasn't unusual to get a visitor every few months – but so many so soon? That could be a problem.

"Aren't you going to go in?" Wesson looked like the cat that swallowed the canary, satisfied with something he might not have a right to own, but unrepentant all the same.

Leif swallowed.

His footsteps thudded on the ground, making a hollow booming noise when he reached the porch boards. The storm door was closed, but the larger wooden door was open behind it. He could smell something cooking and see movement in the shadows down the hall. Carefully Leif eased the door open, jumping as a bell he most definitely had not installed rang overhead.

Out of nowhere a trio jumped into sight. They looked normal – if one ignored the cat ears sticking from the upper sides of their heads, or the clothing which appeared to have been attacked by high-class moths with a taste for silk.

"Welcome home master!" the chorus hit Leif's ears with the force of a tidal wave. He froze.

The lead individual stepped forward. "We wished to express our thanks for taking care of us. We are the neko. My name is Riley, and these are my helpers: Jasmine and Jennifer."

Leif felt numb as he watched the two slightly smaller cat people drop into well-practiced curtseys. All three wore unseasonable attire, showing flesh-toned skin and fur. He could make out long hair as well, pulled back by headbands and bits of jewelry he'd never noticed on the elves or centaurs. There were even tails waving just within sight, lashing back and forth, the same way he'd seen farmcats behave when seeing a fresh bowl of cream. He'd never empathized with mice before – they were a pestilence to farmers all over. But at this moment, he felt a twinge of kinship.

"Again, welcome home master!" Riley sashayed forwards. "Would you like dinner, bath, or," she giggled. "Me?"

Decades of practice helped Leif in his hour of need. One hand found the door handle, opening it without forcing its owner to remove his eyes from the dangerously swaying invader. He seized the opportunity and grabbed the inner door as well, swinging its hefty weight shut, and let the storm door bang closed behind it.

"Something wrong?" Wesson was only halfway up the porch's steps by the time Leif passed him. His half-spin might have been comical if Leif had been watching.

Leif hurried. 'The Quonset, freezers in the Quonset. Gotta remember to thank Ro' for doing all that baking.'

The ATV buzzed to life, lending Leif its speed to the large structure. A cloud of dust rose at his passing, sending the smell of hot earth in his nostrils. Saddlebags lay in wait, oiled and waiting. It wasn't exactly their designed purpose, but it would do.

Wesson caught up as he was loading the second saddlebag onto the ATV's luggage rack. "What are you doing? Did you just abandon the neko delegation during the greeting ceremony?"

Leif spared one angry glance in the agent's direction. Then he resumed his work, dropping another loaf of bread with preserved meat into the next saddlebag.

"Answer me Larsen!"

The freezer door slammed shut, dust flying off the lid. "No."

Wesson looked incredulous. "That – you're going to be petty about this? Just refuse to answer?"

Leif paused. "What? No, that's my answer. I'm not taking those cat girls. No way in hell."

His answer seemed to stagger the other man. "B-b-but you signed the contract. You can't turn them down. Besides, they're a huge signatory on the Liminal Bill, throwing them out would giving insult to the entire species."

A third saddlebag landed on the ATV, bringing its shock absorbers rebounding in squeaky protest. "Then maybe they shoulda thought of that before prancin' half-naked around my home, cooking my food, acting like some soddin' hooker!"

Surprise made its way across Wesson's face. "That's what this is all about? You're mad that they made advances towards you? You should be flattered."

Leif stalked to another bench, selecting an array of batteries and loading them into a pouch. "That's a matter 'o opinion."

Wesson rolled his eyes. "Neko are naturally flirtatious. It's a part of their heritage, although I should note that once given their loyalty will never waver. They're very good at household tasks, and this is their way of trying to impress you. A home-cooked meal is considered an invaluable treat in their culture; remember? Isn't learning about their culture what this program is all about?"

The sound of metal sliding against metal was the only response as Leif worked an old safe open in the far side of the echoing building. A secondary door, in much better condition opened up, revealing a small array of firearms. Leif pulled out a rifle, checking its bolt-action with fast movements of nimble fingers, then withdrew an inconspicuous looking pouch. The rifle he slid into a scabbard, which attached to the side of the ATV; the pouch he strapped to his waist.

A note of irritation entered Wesson's voice. "Look. I went through a lot of effort convincing the neko to come out here. They could've gone to a city center; New York has a massive apartment complex they're building for liminal embassies, and Dallas is making an arena big enough for both the minotaurs and giants to play at the same time. Japan already has the Kimomimi theater, and every species sent a few representatives to sing for them."

Another resounding clang of metal on metal came from a different part of the Quonset. Leif appeared behind the far side of a pickup truck, hefting a pair of metal girders. One end of each fit into the truck bed, extending to the ground in two straight lines. He tested them, leaning a boot on the flat surface and leaning before looking back at Wesson. "So. What." Leif focused on the planks, once more testing their security.

Wesson exhaled a long, slow breath. When he looked up, the somewhat silly appearance had vanished, replaced by a serious, intelligent look. Leif could well imagine this newer man working in a cut-throat industry – maybe.

"Larsen," Wesson rubbed his hairline. "I know this is hard. Shoot, I had nightmares for six months straight after meeting the Arachne. And I was trained for that!"

Leif paused, listening.

"I've worked with neko before. They're friendly, cheerful, and to be honest, needy. We surprised you with that; it's my fault. I thought seeing some cute girls ready with a meal would be a nice change from … you know." His arm waved a general arc.

"Angry elves and half-ton women jumping out o' nowhere?" Leif felt his shoulders lowering.

"I wouldn't say it quite like that," Wesson cast a nervous glance behind. "But yes. Neko are inoffensive, they're a little temperamental at times, but easy-going enough. If you offend them …."

Leif shook his head. "I'll be polite. Only decent thing. But nothin' on that contract talked about giving up my own home. They got over five thousand acres to run around; that's a town you're building on my land, Wesson. Not a few houses or some crappy apartment building. A town. Knew it would come to that. Doesn't make me any happier."

"Be that as it may," Wesson shoved his hands in his pockets. "You have three unhappy neko in your home, and their handler is going to tear a strip down your back if you don't go back."

Leif snorted. "So be it. I have work to do."

"Really?" Wesson's expression intensified. His movements were steady, disapproving. "Are you certain you want to do that?"

A low rumble emanated from the ATV; Wesson tensed, anger clouding his features. The wiry rancher guided it up the makeshift ramp, inching it forward. Within the confines of the Quonset, no one could be heard. Wesson waited until the four-wheeler settled in place, and tried again.

"Are you going to disappoint those girls?" he wandered closer, expensive patent leather shoes leaving sharp-edged tracks. A pungent scent of oil made his nostrils twitch; leftover spills from years of use. "They've been eager to meet you, you know. Apparently the centaurs have been talking you up, how strong and clever you are? Running a big ranch like this all on your own impressed the hell out of those elves too. Something about 'a love for the land.'"

Leif shook his head. "No. If they want to live here, they live where the contract says they'll live. If they want to visit, they come fully clothed."

"You're such a prude," Wesson scoffed. "What's the harm in having a little fun? It's the way liminals operate. Half of the reason you received so much leeway in that contract was so you could do some hanky-panky, a lot to be honest. Shoot, the State Department gives the entire Liminal division a dispensation for cultural interaction. The sooner you learn that, the easier it will be on all of us."

A sharp whistle rose erupted from Leif's mouth in response, shrilling in the confines until its reverberations almost pierced eardrum levels. It was the clarion call of an outdoorsman, used to open air and wide distances. It made those unused to the haunting qualities shudder, unused to such common actions. Eugene bounded inside, tail wagging. Seconds later, the two other collies loped in, tails wagging. Leif gestured, sending the three dogs into the pickup bed before heading towards the cab himself.

"Mister Larsen, Leif," small pebbles, buried under layers of silt ground against hard-leather soles. "This is your opportunity to expand your horizons! Think of the future benefits this will bring!"

Leif paused, one booted foot on the durable truck's running board. "I want them gone within twelve hours, Wesson. Send them to the elves, the centaurs, I don't care. If they want to impress me, they need to show they can understand my culture."

Wesson's expression turned ugly. "You are being very unreasonable about this."

"Yeah?" Leif slammed the door shut. One window was open wide enough to talk through. "I'm a patient man, Wesson. I've given you land, time and patience. I ain't given' you my home. Twelve hours, Wesson."

The rumble of eight cylinders deafened the room with a diesel-fueled roar, a small cloud of exhaust visible for a brief moment. Backing the square-edged pickup through the Quonset, Leif made his way outside, just far enough to spin the oversized steering wheel over and take off. Glowing red taillights were the last sign of his passage, by the time Wesson stalked out of the building.