Lee was thrown half out of his seat, and hit the edge of the cockpit with a grunt. The ground was rushing toward him, green earth ascending far too quickly; there was no way they would land safely.

Just before his wingtip would have touched the ground, Ripley brought the plane level. With a series of thumps that were no more or less startling than falling out of bed, several times, they were coasting among the weeds.

He had put them in a clearing not more than thirty yards across, dotted with severed stands that were once grapevines. He killed the engine, unstrapped himself, went out of the cockpit and over the wing, and touched the ground, blandly smiling.

Lee went more cautiously.

They stripped off their outer layers, leaving themselves in their field uniforms. Lee switched to his simple wool cap. It hadn’t rained all day, which meant it would have to rain again soon.

They stood still on the ground for a few moments, the way fliers did— in the air, they lost track of all sense of motion; returning to earth meant some adjustment in equilibrium.

“Sir?”

“Yes, Duncan?”

Lee had no idea what to say.

Ripley carefully checked the snap on his pistol, and smoothed out his uniform. He wore his thousand-yard stare. “Your rifle, Duncan?”

Lee shook his head.

“You put it in the plane.”

Lee nodded. “But I enjoyed the loop otherwise.”

Ripley squinted. He dusted his hands together. “Hmm.”

Lee wondered what that meant. He surveyed the ruinous space between the plane’s nose and the nearest stand of trees. It was studded with stumps. He saw rabbit holes. He wanted to ask a question, but he was afraid of the answer.

“How do we get out of here?”

Ripley put his hands on his hips and made an easy surveying of the field. He shrugged. Then he began walking.

It was a small vineyard, just one barnlike storage building with a horseshoe of hills behind it, patchworked with terraced rows of yellowing vines stretched in the Guyot method along wire trellises. Most of the tendrils were barren, but here and there, grapes—Chardonnay—had gone wild, overplump, and leathery among the turning leaves.

There hadn’t been wine here in years—the bottles had been seized and the oaken barrels emptied. The main building looked as if it had been used until recently for something. Half timbered in oak, it was thick-walled, whitewashed, with a primitive cement binding together hazel or oak branches. It had been bombed, Leland noticed with some disappointment, but only once. From the ground, it was easier to see the damage— tiles had jarred loose from the roof, and two walls been blown out. Wild tarragon and purple dandelions poked among the debris.

The pathway there was short, but slow going because of the tall weeds. Lee and Ripley walked haltingly, eyes on the ground, searching among the pennyroyal for unexploded shells.