The sky was dark out here, away from the bright lights that ringed the habs, and cloudless. A thin mist rose from the lake behind him, now that the sultry heat of the day had cooled to night with the setting of the suns, and the air had that crisp edge that presaged the coming of the Turning.

He’d planned to build a fire. He had wanted to boil some water, make kef and cook his meal, but the scattered glittering pinpricks spread across the sky caught him, and his fire striker fell unused beside the pile of tinder he’d gathered.

He looked, now, for the things the old man had spoken of, when he’d sat by his knee as a child. First, he found the Egool, its bald head glinting brightly, between outstretched wings, always striving to reach the Ag Poll, where it could Land and take a Small Step. He followed the line of the Poll, as the man had taught, and, all at once he could see it: The Three Founders, the far off origin of this people.

It was easier to see them, out here. Much easier to believe the tale, too.