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“I’ll only give you half marks. Not all cows have horns. And for that matter, there used to be homed horses. But they became extinct when

there were no more virgins to bridle them.” Duncan was still trying to decide if this was a joke, and if so what was the point of it, when he had a slight mishap.

“Sorry!” exclaimed George, “I should have warned you to mind your step.

Just rub it off on that tuft of grass.”

“Well, at least it doesn’t smell quite as bad as it looks,” said Duncan resignedly, determined to make the best of a bad job.

“That’s because cows are herbivores. Though they’re not very bright, they’re sweet, clean animals. No wonder they used to worship them in India.

Hello, Daisy-morning, Ruby-now, Clemence, that was naughty-Tv

It seemed to Duncan that these bovine endearments were rather one-sided, for their recipients gave no detectable reaction. Then his attention was suddenly diverted; something quite incredible was flying toward them.

It was small-its wingspan could not have been more than ten centimeters-and it traced wavering, zigzag patterns through the air, often seeming about to land on a low bush or patch of grass, then changing its mind at the last moment. Like a living jewel, it blazed with all the colors of the rainbow; its beauty struck Duncan like a sudden revelation. Yet at the same time he found himself asking what purpose such exuberant-no, arrogant-loveliness could possibly serve.

“What is it?” he whispered to his companion, as the creature swept aimlessly back and forth a couple of meters above the grass.

“Sorry,” said George. “I can’t identify it. I don’t think it’s indigenous, though I may be wrong. We get a lot of migrants nowadays, and sometimes they escape from collectors-breeding them’s been a popular hobby for years.” Then he stopped. He had suddenly understood the real thrust of

Duncan’s question. There was something close to pity in his eyes when he continued, in quite a different tone of voice:

“I should, have explained-it’s a butterfly.”

But Duncan scarcely heard him. That iridescent creature, drifting so

effortlessly through the air, made him forget the ferocious gravitational field of which he was now a captive.

He started to ran toward it with the inevitable result.

Luckily, he landed on a clean patch of grass.

Half an hour later, feeling quite comfortable but rather foolish, Duncan was sitting in the centuries old farmhouse with his bandaged ankle stretched out on a footstool, while Mrs. Washington and her two young daughters prepared lunch. He had been carried back like a wounded warrior from the battlefield by a couple of tough farm workers who handled his weight with contemptuous ease, and also, he could not help noticing, radiated a distinct aroma of Charlemagne…. It must be strange, he thought, to live in what was virtually a museum, even as a kind of part-time hobby; he would have been continually afraid of d aging some priceless artifact—such as the spinning wheel that Mrs.

Washington had demonstrated to him. At the same time, he could appreciate that all this activity made a good deal of sense. There was no other way in which you could really get to understand the past, and there were still many people on earth who found this an attractive way of life. The twenty or so farm workers, for example, were here permanently, summer and winter.

Indeed, he found it rather hard to imagine some of them in any other environment even after they had been thoroughly scrubbed…. But the kitchen was spotless, and a most attractive smell was floating from it. Duncan could recognize very few of its ingredients, but one was unmistakable, even though he had met it today for the first time in his life. It was the mouth-watering fragrance of newly baked bread.

It would be all right, he assured his still slightly queasy stomach. He had to ignore the undeniable fact that everything on the table was grown from dirt and dung, and not synthesized from nice, clean chemicals in a spotless factory. This was how the human race had lived for almost the whole of its history; only in the last few seconds of

time had there been any alternative. For one gut-wrenching moment, until Washington had reassured him, he had feared that he might be served real meat. Apparently it was still available, and there was no actual law against it, though many attempts had been made to pass one. Those who opposed Prohibition pointed out that attempts to enforce morality by legislation were always counterproductive; if meat were banned, everybody would want it, even if it made them sick.

And anyway, this was a perversion which did harm to nobody…. Not so, retorted the Prohibitionists; it would do irreparable harm to countless innocent animals, and revive the revolting trade of the butcher. The debate continued, with no end in sight.