"Once, maybe twice. I don't like it there. I'm a farmer; always have been. I came down from Kansas Province. But what the hell—?"

The stranger raised one hand to silence him. An amused twinkle crossed the cold black eyes, and the thin lips curved upward. "They did a good job," the stranger said, half to himself. "You really believe you're a farmer, don't you, Dale? Have been, all your life?"

Again the words stung; they bit deep into a hidden reservoir of fear, and rose to the surface again, leaving Kesley strangely disturbed. "Yes," he said stubbornly. "What are you trying to do?" Anger came over him again, and he snapped, "Suppose I order you off my farm?"

The stranger laughed. "Your farm?" His eyes probed searchingly. "How can you call this your farm?"

Kesley quailed at the incomprehensible pain this third attack brought. What is he after? Why can't he leave me alone?

This is my farm.

I belong here.

He stood poised, swaying on the balls of his feet, staring mystifiedly at his tormentor. I belong here, he thought fiercely—but without any conviction, this time. Something within his mind kept insisting that it was a lie, that he belonged elsewhere.

The glitter of the cities suddenly rose as an image in his mind.

Rage boiled over. "Let me alone!" he shouted, and jumped forward, raising the knife high.

"No!"

The stranger's voice was almost a shriek of fear, but he was cool enough to draw and fire. A bright spurt of flame nudged from the muzzles of the blaster, and Kesley felt a sudden intolerable warmth in his hand. He dropped the hot knife and stepped back, panting like a trapped tiger.

"I wish you hadn't done that," the stranger said.

"I wish you had never come here," Kesley retorted. It was like a nightmare. He felt blind, unable to defend himself, unable even to understand the source of the attack.

Loren was watching the scene in utter horror, and Kesley noticed a couple of the farm girls standing a short distance away, watching, too. The 

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