Saari got up and pulled on her wrap too. Then she walked over to one of the other women, spoke to her a minute, and came back carrying a quilted, rough fabricked coat. "Here, Trina, you'd better put this on. It'll be cold out."
"Are you going with us?"
"Sure. Why not? Dad's talked enough about space. I might as well see what it's like for myself."
Trina shook her head. But before she could speak, someone opened the door and the cold breeze came in, hitting her in the face.
"Come on," Saari said. "It'll be warm in the car."
Somehow she was outside, following the others. The wind whipped her hair, stung her eyes, tore at her legs. The coat kept it from her body, but she couldn't protect her face, nor shut out the low moaning wail of it through the trees and the housetops.
She groped her way into the car. The door slammed shut, and the wind retreated, a little.
"Is it—is it often like that?"
Saari MacGregor looked at her. Max Cramer turned and looked at her, and so did the others in the car. For a long moment no one said anything. And then Saari said, "Why, this is summer, Trina."
"Summer?" She thought of the cereal grasses, rippling in the warm day. They'd be whipping in the wind now, of course. The wind that was so much stronger than any the world's machines ever made.