hardly recognizable as algae.”
“It’s a problem,” Ullward admitted. “I clubbed up with some friends; we bought a little mat in the Ross Sea and grow all our own.”
“Think of that,” exclaimed Ravelin. “Isn’t it frightfully expensive?”
Ullward pursed his lips whimsically. “The good things in life come high. Luckily, I’m able to afford a bit extra.”
“What I keep telling Ted—” began Ravelin, then stopped as Ted turned her a keen warning glance.
Ullward bridged the rift. “Money isn’t everything. I have a flat of algae, my ranch; you have your daughter—and I’m sure you wouldn’t trade.”
Ravelin regarded Iugenae critically. “I’m not so sure.”
Ted patted Iugenae’s hand. “When do you have your own child, Lamster Ullward?” ( Lamster: contraction of Landmaster—the polite form of address in current use .)
“Still some time yet. I’m thirty-seven billion down the list.”
“A pity,” said Ravelin Seehoe brightly, “when you could give a child so many advantages.”
“Some day, some day, before I’m too old.”
“A shame,” said Ravelin, “but it has to be. Another fifty billion people and we’d have no privacy whatever!” She looked admiringly around the room, which was used for the sole purpose of preparing food and dining.
Ullward put his hands on the arms of his chair, hitched forward a little. “Perhaps you’d like to look around the ranch?” He spoke in a casual voice, glancing from one to the other.
Iugenae clapped her hands; Ravelin beamed. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble!”
“Oh, we’d love to, Lamster Ullward!” cried Iugenae.
“I’ve always wanted to see your ranch,” said Ted. “I’ve heard so much about it.”
“It’s an opportunity for Iugenae I wouldn’t want her to miss,” said Ravelin. She shook her finger at Iugenae. “Remember, Miss Puss, notice everything very carefully—and don’t touch!”
“May I take pictures, Mother?”
“You’ll have to ask Lamster Ullward.”
“Of course, of course,” said Ullward. “Why in the world not?” He rose to his feet—a man of more than middle stature, more than middle pudginess, with straight sandy hair, round blue eyes, a prominent beak of a nose. Almost three hundred years old, he guarded his health with great zeal, and looked little more than two hundred.
He stepped to the door, checked the time, touched a dial on the wall. “Are you ready?”
“Yes, we’re quite ready,” said Ravelin.
Ullward snapped back the wall, to reveal a view over a sylvan glade. A fine oak tree shaded a pond growing with rushes. A path led through a field toward a wooded valley a mile in the distance.
“Magnificent,” said Ted. “Simply magnificent!”
They stepped outdoors into the sunlight. Iugenae flung her arms out, twirled, danced in a circle. “Look! I’m all alone! I’m out here all by myself!”
“Iugenae!” called Ravelin sharply. “Be careful! Stay on the path! That’s real grass and you mustn’t damage it.”
Iugenae ran ahead to the pond. “Mother!” she called back. “Look at these funny little jumpy things! And look at the flowers!”
“The animals are frogs,” said Ullward. “They have a very interesting life-history. You see the little fishlike things in the water?”
“Aren’t they funny! Mother, do come here!”
“Those are called tadpoles and they will presently become frogs, indistinguishable from the ones you see.”
Ravelin and Ted advanced with more dignity, but were as interested as Iugenae in the frogs.
“Smell the fresh air,” Ted told Ravelin. “You’d think you were back in the early times.”
“It’s absolutely exquisite,” said Ravelin. She looked around her. “One has the feeling of being able to wander on and on and on.”
“Come around over here,” called Ullward from beyond the pool. “This is the rock garden.”
In awe, the guests stared at the ledge of rock, stained with red and yellow lichen, tufted
“It’s a problem,” Ullward admitted. “I clubbed up with some friends; we bought a little mat in the Ross Sea and grow all our own.”
“Think of that,” exclaimed Ravelin. “Isn’t it frightfully expensive?”
Ullward pursed his lips whimsically. “The good things in life come high. Luckily, I’m able to afford a bit extra.”
“What I keep telling Ted—” began Ravelin, then stopped as Ted turned her a keen warning glance.
Ullward bridged the rift. “Money isn’t everything. I have a flat of algae, my ranch; you have your daughter—and I’m sure you wouldn’t trade.”
Ravelin regarded Iugenae critically. “I’m not so sure.”
Ted patted Iugenae’s hand. “When do you have your own child, Lamster Ullward?” ( Lamster: contraction of Landmaster—the polite form of address in current use .)
“Still some time yet. I’m thirty-seven billion down the list.”
“A pity,” said Ravelin Seehoe brightly, “when you could give a child so many advantages.”
“Some day, some day, before I’m too old.”
“A shame,” said Ravelin, “but it has to be. Another fifty billion people and we’d have no privacy whatever!” She looked admiringly around the room, which was used for the sole purpose of preparing food and dining.
Ullward put his hands on the arms of his chair, hitched forward a little. “Perhaps you’d like to look around the ranch?” He spoke in a casual voice, glancing from one to the other.
Iugenae clapped her hands; Ravelin beamed. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble!”
“Oh, we’d love to, Lamster Ullward!” cried Iugenae.
“I’ve always wanted to see your ranch,” said Ted. “I’ve heard so much about it.”
“It’s an opportunity for Iugenae I wouldn’t want her to miss,” said Ravelin. She shook her finger at Iugenae. “Remember, Miss Puss, notice everything very carefully—and don’t touch!”
“May I take pictures, Mother?”
“You’ll have to ask Lamster Ullward.”
“Of course, of course,” said Ullward. “Why in the world not?” He rose to his feet—a man of more than middle stature, more than middle pudginess, with straight sandy hair, round blue eyes, a prominent beak of a nose. Almost three hundred years old, he guarded his health with great zeal, and looked little more than two hundred.
He stepped to the door, checked the time, touched a dial on the wall. “Are you ready?”
“Yes, we’re quite ready,” said Ravelin.
Ullward snapped back the wall, to reveal a view over a sylvan glade. A fine oak tree shaded a pond growing with rushes. A path led through a field toward a wooded valley a mile in the distance.
“Magnificent,” said Ted. “Simply magnificent!”
They stepped outdoors into the sunlight. Iugenae flung her arms out, twirled, danced in a circle. “Look! I’m all alone! I’m out here all by myself!”
“Iugenae!” called Ravelin sharply. “Be careful! Stay on the path! That’s real grass and you mustn’t damage it.”
Iugenae ran ahead to the pond. “Mother!” she called back. “Look at these funny little jumpy things! And look at the flowers!”
“The animals are frogs,” said Ullward. “They have a very interesting life-history. You see the little fishlike things in the water?”
“Aren’t they funny! Mother, do come here!”
“Those are called tadpoles and they will presently become frogs, indistinguishable from the ones you see.”
Ravelin and Ted advanced with more dignity, but were as interested as Iugenae in the frogs.
“Smell the fresh air,” Ted told Ravelin. “You’d think you were back in the early times.”
“It’s absolutely exquisite,” said Ravelin. She looked around her. “One has the feeling of being able to wander on and on and on.”
“Come around over here,” called Ullward from beyond the pool. “This is the rock garden.”
In awe, the guests stared at the ledge of rock, stained with red and yellow lichen, tufted
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