“It’ll be awful.” she said. “Not riding, I mean. I have half a mind not to go. Why won’t they—“
“Shh,” said her mother. “We promised one another we wouldn’t ask. We don’t know enough yet. Eat your breakfast. We want to be ready when the thing comes.” The thing. The vehicle. The not-horse which they were expected to ride within. All the Grassian vehicles seemed to be mechanical devices trying to look like something else: drawing room ornaments or lawn statuary or bits of baroque sculpture. The one that had brought the horses had looked like nothing so much as an aerial version of an ancient wine amphora, complete with stylized representations of dancers around its middle. Tony had told her it had been all he could do not to laugh when he saw it; and Marjorie, who had watched its laborious descent with disbelief, had turned aside to hide her amusement. Now she said again, “Eat your breakfast,” wondering if she needed to warn Stella not to laugh. If she warned Stella not to, Stella would. If she didn’t, Stella might not. Sighing, Marjorie fingered the prayer book in her pocket and left it to God.
They did eat their breakfast, all of them, ravenously, leaving very little of what had looked like a large repast for twice as many people. Marjorie ran her hand around her waistband, noting that it seemed loose. With everything she was eating she still seemed to be losing weight.
The aircar, when it arrived, was overly ornamental but not actually funny, a luxurious flier, engineered for vertical ascent. Once inside it with Obermun bon Haunser as their guide, they lowered themselves into deeply padded seats and were given cups of the local hot drink—which was called, though it did not resemble, coffee—while the silent (and apparently non-bon) driver set off toward an unseen destination. They flew to the northeast as the Obermun pointed out notable landmarks. “Crimson Ridge,” he said, indicating a long rise deeply flushed with pink. “It will be blood-red in another week or two. Off to your right are the Sable Hills. I hope you feel somewhat privileged. You are among the very few non-Grassians who have ever seen anything of our planet except for Commoner Town, around the port”
“I wondered about Commoner Town,” said Rigo. “On the maps it shows as a considerable area, some fifty miles long and two or three miles wide, completely surrounded by forest. I understand it is entirely given over to commerce or farming. When we arrived, I saw roads in and around Commoner Town, though there are none on the rest of the planet”
“As I have previously explained to your wife, Ambassador, there is no grassland around Commoner Town. When we speak of the town, we mean the whole area, everything right down to the edge of the swamp. Here on Grass, where swamp is, trees are, as you can see if you look to your left. That is the port-forest coming up below. Quite a different surface from the rest of the planet, is it not? It doesn’t matter if they have roads in Commoner Town, because there is no grass to destroy, and they cannot get out through the swamp.” Obermun bon Haunser pointed down at the billowing green centered with urban clutter, his nostrils flaring only very slightly in what was unmistakably an expression of contempt. He had spoken of the roads as though they were something malevolent, something seeking subtle egress, like serpents caged against their will.
Stella started to blurt something but held it in as she received the full force of a forbidding glare from her father.
“You prefer they not get out?” Anthony asked, with precisely the right tone of disingenuous interest. “The roads or the commoners? Why is that?”
The Obermun flushed. He had obviously said something spontaneous and unplanned which he now regretted. “The commoners have no wish to leave the town. I meant the roads, my boy. I cannot expect you to understand the horror we have of marring the grasses. We have no fear of harvesting them, you understand, or making use of them, but scarring them lastingly is abhorrent to us. There are no roads on Grass except for the narrow trails linking each estancia to its own village, and even these we regret.”