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“Fake antique,” said Washington with some disapproval.

“Mid-twentieth-century TV antennas. Oh well, there’s no accounting for tastes.”

The road was plunging downhill now, and was about to pass under a graceful bridge car ring a road much wider than the parkway. It was also carrying considerably more traffic, moving at a leisurely twenty or thirty kilometers an hour.

“Enjoying the good weather,” said Washington.

“You only see a few madmen there in the winter. And you may not

believe this, but there was a time when the motor ways were the wide roads. They had to be when there was a hundred times as much traffic and no automatic steering.” He shuddered at the thought. “More people were killed on these roads than ever died in warfare-did you know that? And of course they still get killed, up there on the bikeways. No one’s ever discovered a way to stop cyclists from wobbling; that’s another reason why the road’s so wide.”

As they dived under the bridge, a colorful group of young riders waved down at them, and Washington replied with a cheerful salute.

“When I was thirty years younger,” he said wistfully, “a gang of us set off for California on the Transcontinental Bikeway. No electro cycles allowed, either. Well, we were unlucky-ran into terrible weather in Kansas. Some of us made it, but I wasn’t one of them. I’ve still got a twelve-speed Diamond

Special-all carbon fiber and beryllium; you can lift it with one finger.

Even now, I could do a hundred klicks on it, if I were fool enough to try.”

The big car was slowing down, its computer brain sensing an exit ahead.

Presently it peeled off from the parkway, then speeded up again along a narrow road whose surface rapidly disintegrated into a barely visible grass-covered track. Washington took the steering lever just a second before the END AUTO warning light started to flash on the control panel.

“I’m taking you to the farm for several reasons,” he said. “Life will soon get hectic for both of us, as more visitors start arriving. This may be the last opportunity we have to go through your program in peace and quiet.

Also, out-worlders can learn a lot about Earth very quickly in a place like this. But to be honest-the truth is that I’m proud of the place, and like showing it off.”

They were now approaching a high stone wall, running for hundreds of meters in both directions. Duncan tried to calculate how much labor it represented, if all those oddly shaped blocks were assembled by hand-as surely they must have been. The figure was so incredible that he

couldn’t believe it. And that huge gate was made of-genuine wood, 116 for it was unpainted and he could see the grain. As it swung automatically open, Duncan read the nameplate, and turned to the Professor in surprise.

“But I thought-” he began.

George Washington looked slightly embarrassed.

“That’s my private joke,” he admitted. “The real Mount Vernon is fifty kilometers southeast of here. You mustn’t miss it.”

That last phrase, Duncan guessed, was going to become all too familiar in the months ahead-right up to the day when he reembarked for Titan.

Inside the walls, the road-now firm-packed gravel -ran in a straight line through a checkerboard of small fields. Some of the fields were plowed, and there was a tractor working in one of them-under direct human control, for a man was sitting on the open driving seat. Duncan felt that he had indeed traveled back in time.

“I suppose there’s no need to explain,” said the Professor, “that all this doesn’t belong to me. It’s owned by the Smithsonian. Some people complain that everything within a hundred kilometers of the Capitol is owned by the

Smithsonian, but that’s a slight exaggeration. I’m just the administrator; you might say it’s a kind of full-time hobby. Every year I have to submit a report, and as long as I do a good job, and don’t have a fight with the

Regents, this is my home. Needless to say, I am careful to keep on excellent terms with at least fifty-one percent of the Regents. By the way, do you recognize any of these crops?”

“I’m afraid not-though that’s grass, isn’t it?”

“Well, technically, almost everything here is. Grass includes all the cereals-barley, rice, maize, wheat, oats…. We grow them all except rice.”

“But why-I mean, except for scientific and archaeological interest?”

“Isn’t that sufficient? But I think you’ll find there’s more to it than that, when you’ve had a look around.”

At the risk of being impolite, Duncan persisted. He was not trying to be stubborn, but was genuinely interested.

“What about efficiency? Doesn’t it take a square kilometer to feed one

man, with this system?” “Out around Saturn, perhaps; I’m afraid you’ve dropped a few zeros. If it had to, this little farm could support fifty people in fair comfort, though their diet would be rather monotonous.”

“I’d no idea-my God, what’s that?”

“You’re joking-you don’t recognize it?”

“Oh, I know it’s a horse. But it’s enormous. I thought…”

“Well, I can’t blame you, though wait until you see an elephant.