his general vicinity. She returned to her blanket and read
until the light started to go. There was a book discussion. Patrick
talked about a math book that he was reading, and Joe got started on
significant digits, of all things. "You understand the principle," he
said.

"Natch," Art said, "but here is Morgan, in case anyone needs a
refresher." Willow tried to remember high school physics while she
watched Morgan sit down deliberately. He had powerful shoulders and a
sensitive expression. "Morgan, what are significant digits?"

"Ah," Morgan said, "the concept is that in scientific computation, the
result cannot be more accurate than the least accurate quantity or
measurement involved." There was light applause. Morgan drank deeply.

"Just so," said Joe. "And didn't I have a hell of a time understanding
that? I thought you could make an answer as accurate as you wanted. You
want seven decimal places? No problem." Patrick was sitting forward,
listening intensely. "I finally got the idea, and I never forgot it,"
Joe went on. "Well, there I was in weather school in the Air Force, and
their dew point calculation gave an answer that was more precise than
one of the measurements. 'These decimal points are meaningless,' I said
to the sergeant. Yeah, right. Next thing you know, I'm in front of the
base commander.

"'Burke,' he says, 'you may have a point. But it's a goddamn small one.
Are you an airman or a goddamn philosopher, Burke?'

"'Airman, SIR,' I said."

"Airman Burke," Art toasted.

Willow was impressed. She thought about Stanford--the academic cliques,
the gorgeous football players, the socialites. They were good at what
they did; they were judged by how they performed in their groups; they
lived by accepted rules. These people, in Mead's meadow, were just as
sharp, just as physical (in a different way, maybe a better way), and
just as easy and confident. They were all of the aboves. They were
free. They were alive, or more alive, in a different way. A shiver ran
up her back.

She opened a bottle of wine. The band was tighter, into _When the
Saints Come Marching In_. As the light faded, the uninhabited range of
mountains before them became darker and more mysterious, unexpectedly
comforting. The mountains were timeless, or in a different flow of
time.

"This is what they saw," Patrick said, "the first people." He pointed
across the valley.

"Do you want some wine?" She held up the bottle.

"Change of p