“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 though the air, made him forget the ferocious gravitational field of which he was now a captive. He started to run 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 damaging 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 that 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, thought 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.
Confident that lunch would present mysteries but no terrors, Duncan did his best to enjoy himself. On the whole he succeeded. He bravely tackled everything set before him, rejecting about a third after one nibble, tolerating another third, and thoroughly appreciating the remainder. As it turned out, there was nothing that he actively disliked, but several items had flavors that were too strange and complicated to appeal to him at first taste. Cheese, for example—that was a complete novelty. There were about six different kinds, and he nibbled at them all. He felt that he could get quite enthusiastic about at least two varieties, if he worked on it. But that might not be a good idea, for it was notoriously difficult to persuade the Titan food chemists to introduce new patterns into their synthesizers.
Some products were quite familiar. Potatoes and tomatoes, it seemed, tasted much the same all over the Solar System. He had already encountered them, as luxury products of the hydroponic farms, but had always found it difficult to get enthusiastic about either, at several solars a kilogram.
The main dish was—well, interesting. It was something called steak and kidney pie, and perhaps the unfortunate name turned him off. He knew perfectly well that the contents were based on high-protein soya; Washington had confessed that this was the only item not actually produced on the farm, because the technology needed was too elaborate. Nevertheless, he could not manage more than a few bites. It was too bad that every time he tried to take a mouthful, he kept thinking of the phrase ‘kidney function’ and its unhappy associations. But the crust of the pie was delicious, and he polished off more than half of it.
Dessert was no problem. It consisted of a large variety of fruits, most of them unfamiliar to Duncan even by name. Some were insipid, others very pleasant, but he felt that all were perfectly safe. The strawberries he thought especially good, though he turned down the cream that was offered with them when he discovered, by tactful questioning, exactly how it was made.
HE was comfortably replete when Mrs. Washington produced a final surprise—a small wooden box containing a wax honeycomb. As long as he could remember, Duncan had been familiar with that term for lightweight structures; it required a mental volte-face to realize that this was the genuine, original item, constructed by Terran insects.
“We’ve just started keeping bees,” explained the professor. “Fascinating creatures, but we’re still not sure if they’re worth the trouble. I think you’ll like this honey—try it on this crust of new bread.”
His hosts watched him anxiously as he spread the golden fluid, which he thought looked exactly like lubricating oil. He hoped it would taste better, but he was now prepared for almost anything.
There was a long silence. Then he took another bite—and another.
“Well?” asked George at last.
“It’s—delicious—one of the best things I’ve ever tasted.”
“I’m so pleased,” said Mrs. Washington. “George, be sure to send some to the hotel for Mr. Makenzie.”
Mr. Makenzie continued to sample the bread and honey, very slowly. There was a remote and abstracted expression on his face, which his delighted hosts attributed to sheer gastronomical pleasure. They could not possibly guessed at the real reason.
Duncan had never been particularly interested in food, and had made no effort to try the occasional novelties that were imported into Titan. The few times that any had been pressed upon him, he had not enjoyed them; he still grimaced at the memory of a reputed delicacy called caviar. He was therefore absolutely certain that never before in his life had he tasted honey.
Yet he recognized it at once; and that was only half the mystery. Like a name that is on the tip of the tongue, yet eludes all attempts to grasp it, the memory of that earlier encounter lay just below the level of consciousness. It had happened a long time ago—but when, and where? For a fleeting moment he almost took seriously the idea of reincarnation. You, Duncan Makenzie, were a beekeeper in some earlier life on Earth...
Perhaps he was mistaken in thinking he knew the taste. The association could have been triggered by some random leakage between mental circuits. And anyway, it could not possibly be of the slightest importance...
He knew better. Somehow, it was very important indeed.