Omega Point Trilogy by George Zebrowski

the coastal settlements, with their fisheries and small farms, supported the other two thirds. The seasonal contrasts were milder on the coast, more severe on the plains.
    Whenever the train slowed, Kurbi had the urge to jump off and head for the nearest house; although he had met hundreds of people in family groups, he was still curious to see how the next group lived, how they would receive him. It meant that he would have to live with them until another train came through to carry him further west or back to the port, but he did not mind; for a time, his past life would again seem far away, almost as if it had never existed. The people here lived in a great religious dream of world and sky and growing things. He could enter into their lives, and leave at any time. A part of him knew that he was using New Mars to bury his past, but he did not care; that he felt better was enough. All the past lives in the Federation Snake , he thought. Worlds exist at every stage of development and its variation, each experiment and utopian scheme strives to continue, each failure struggles to survive .
    As the train slowed, Kurbi threw his rucksack out and jumped to the grass, rolling on the gentle slope. He got up, picked up his rucksack and crossed the eastbound tracks, walking back toward the house he had passed earlier.
    The house was farther away than he had thought. After an hour of walking, it still seemed distant, as if defying him with its peaceful appearance. He stopped and sat down on the grass to rest. A cooling breeze passed across his back. He turned and saw the rain clouds sweeping toward him from the other side of the tracks like a curtain being drawn across the plain. Dark clouds were slipping over the horizon, bringing the much-needed rain at last. When he saw lightning brighten the prairie with its pale flash, he got up and ran.
    The rain caught him while he was still a quarter-kilometer from the house. The sky flashed and the thunder rumbled, vibrating the ground. A bolt hit the grass a hundred meters to his right. He wiped the rainwater from his face as he ran, tasting its freshness on his lips; the smell of ozone was distinct as he drew a deep breath and quickened his pace.
    The door of the house opened when he reached it, startling him. He stopped for a moment, then went inside.
    Three women sat in wooden chairs. A man closed the door and sat down at the head of the table.
    “You are welcome,” the oldest-looking woman said.
    “Thank you — I’m dripping water all over your floor.”
    “It will run through the boards,” the man said. Kurbi looked at him now. His hair was black and his eyes brown; he sat with his elbows on the rough board. All four people wore the same expression as the man, a look of tolerant interest. “You are the offworlder,” the man added.
    “How did you know?”
    “From the rail town, from those who run the train. Are you the only one?”
    “I think so,” Kurbi said. “You’ve never met an offworlder?”
    “We have not,” the man said as if he were proud of the fact.
    Kurbi took a step forward. “My name is Rafael Kurbi.”
    Thunder followed, lending an absurd portentousness to his introduction.
    “I live here with my wife and daughters. We do not exchange names with strangers … but since you have told me yours and do not know our ways, you may call me Fane Weblen.”
    The two younger women seemed to smile from behind their long, brown hair. The mother was without expression. Her chiseled, sun-darkened features seemed bare with her hair put up in a bun on her head. Kurbi noticed the winding gray streaks.
    “Please sit down,” she said in a decisive tone of voice, as if she resented his scrutiny.
    Kurbi sat down in the one chair on the empty side of the table.
    “Are you hungry?” she asked. “We have eaten, but there is a little meat left.”
    “No, thank you, I ate on the train,” Kurbi said, patting his rucksack which he held on his lap. “When does the next train