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The tiny residential dome was packed with people; the refreshments, Clarey thought, as he munched industriously, were magnificent. But then he’d been forced to live on Earth food for a weekend, so he was no judge.

After they’d finished eating, the young people folded the furniture, and, while one of the boys played upon a curious instrument that was string and percussion and brass all at once, the others danced.

Clarey made no attempt to participate. In his early youth, he’d flopped at the Earth hops—and the Damorlanti had a distinctly more Dionysian culture than his home world. He stood and watched them leaping and twirling. When they’d dropped, temporarily exhausted, he made his way over to the musician, whom he recognized as one of Piq’s numerous grandsons; this one was Rini, he thought.

“Is that difficult to learn?” he asked, touching the instrument.

“The ulerin is extremely difficult,” the boy said importantly. “It takes years and years of practice. And you’ve got to have the touch to begin with. Not many do. All our family have the touch, my brother Irik most of all. He’s in Barshwat, studying to be a famous musician.”