He didn't belong in Iowa Province.
Somewhere, out there in the cities of the Twelve Empires, maybe in the radiation-blasted caves of the Old World, perhaps in the remote fastness of the unknown Antarctican empire, life was waiting for him.
Not here. Not in Iowa.
As always, a cold shudder ran through him and he let his head wobble as the sickness swept upward. He swayed, tightened his grip on the plough, and forced himself grimly back into the synthetic mood of security that was his one defense against the baseless terror that tormented him.
The farm is good, he thought.
Everything here is good.
Slowly, the congealed fear melted and drained away, and he felt whole again.
"Up, old hoss."
He slapped the flank and the horse neighed again and swished its bony tail. It was a good horse too, he thought fiercely. Somehow, everything was good now, even the old horse.
Experienced hands had warned him against buying a mutie, but when he'd bought the half-share of the farm he had had to do it. The Old Kind were few and well spaced in Iowa Province, and all too expensive. They fetched upward of five thousand dollars at the markets; a good solid mutie went for only five hundred.