The two young men rode easily along the line of fence bordering the narrow run of water, one large and muscular, with curls of sandy red hair poking out from under his weather-beaten Stetson, the other also tall but slimmer, his sinewy strength more suggested in his graceful economy of motion than by his appearance. The slim man wore no hat despite the brightness of the day, and his black hair almost glittered in the harsh light.

The June sun seemed to be baking the dust right off the ground, but the young men were sitting their horses comfortably, and the air carried the sound of their laughter. For them, riding fence was a happy excuse for getting out by themselves on their favorite horses for a long morning in an all-too-short summer.

"... mostly an Institute on paper right now, but we're looking for a site, and in a few years, well, hold on to your hat," the slim man was saying enthusiastically.

The redhead touched a finger to his massive Stetson. "I'll try to," he drawled.

His companion laughed. "The world needs this place, my friend. So many scientists need sustained support and they wind up butchering their projects in order to get results in one or two years just to make the NSF or the NIH happy, or get a better widget on the market ahead of Sony." He paused and let his eyes wander over the Wyoming landscape. "Now this land, for example, looks like a prime site for an international residential research facility... how many acres did you say?"

The redhead smiled. "M'uncle says fifty apiece if we're good." The smile widened. "Maybe sixty if we're bad. But I ain't havin' anything to do with an establishment that doesn't involve runnin' stock, drinkin' beer, and playin' piano."

His friend laughed again. "I wouldn't run a think tank without 'em."

It was noticeable that the man in the Stetson had the soft stretched-out drawl of a West Texas native, while his friend's voice, though colored with flat North Texas vowels, seemed to be mixed from many different regional accents, overlaid with occasional inflections that were entirely foreign to English. Their faces, too, reflected the unmixed Western descent of the one and the curiously blended heritage of the other, who had an Asiatic cast to his cheekbones and eyes, though the dazzling blueness of those eyes and the angular strength of the jawline could never have sprung from Oriental parents.

These differences, though, could only be seen at short range. From a distance, one would see only that both men swayed according to their horses' gaits with the unconscious grace of true horsemen. And both were watching the four strands of barbed wire charged to their care with the same relaxed but fully attentive gaze as they followed it along their bank of the stream.

They came to a point where the fence veered across the little river.

"Won't those posts come up with the spring floods?" asked the slim man.

"Nah, we've got 'em rooted in cement now, so they stay down pretty good. But a man died over this section of fence."

"Died?" The stream was twenty feet wide and knee-deep at most.

"Mmm-hmm. Back in my granddaddy's time -- in fact, the way my uncle likes to tell it, it was my great-grandfather that did it. Story is, when it came time to fence this part of the range, both families wanted all of Buffalo Creek, and it came to a shootin'. The shame of it brought everybody to their senses, and they decided to cross the river with the wire right here where the man died."

The slim man reined in and looked over at the four-strand fence that straggled across the creek. "A man's life for that," he said softly.

"We have a saying in my family that the truest test of a man's character is finding what will push him to crime," said the redhead.

His friend looked over at him sharply. After a moment, he quoted, "I never get your limits, Watson."

The big man chuckled. "Let's go," was all he said as he reined his horse around.

They rode toward a hilly section, falling back into jokes and casual talk that ranged from the current American constitutional crisis to chili seasonings and then to the new field of particle physics.

"Which dimension?" repeated the redhead, pushing back his Stetson.

"Eighth," his friend answered.

"And your only evidence for its existence is a bungled backyard experiment thirty-six years ago?"

"Not everything that can be believed can be seen. The Grover's Mills experiment---"

They were interrupted by the appearance of a rider who topped one of the low hills on the other side of the fence and shouted down to them.

"H-e-e-ey, Rawhi-i-i-de!"

The big youth whipped off his Stetson and waved it, breaking into a big grin. "This's one of my uncle's neighbors. Come on!" he said, spurring his horse. His friend followed as he splashed into the creek, and the three riders pulled abreast on opposite sides of the fence.

"I haven't seen you since about forever," said the other rider, who turned out to be a slim blonde girl with a big smile and a glow about her that was more than just good looks and good health and surpassing friendliness.

"Been at school," the redhead answered.

"Who's your friend?"

"Ah. This is Buckaroo Sherlock Banzai, from Texas and points East. Buckaroo, meet Miss Marguerite Simpson."

Miss Marguerite feigned a glare at her friend. "That's Peggy," she said firmly. "Pleased to meet you-- Buckaroo?"

"The pleasure is mine," Buckaroo returned with great sincerity. "And, yes, Buckaroo, but not Sherlock."

Peggy laughed. "Yeah, old Rawhide has such a big reputation for telling the truth that he could lie to a preacher about what's in the Bible." The redhead was studying his horse's mane with unaccustomed fascination.

"Which reminds me, Rawhide, when're you going to make an honest woman of that girl of yours?" Peggy grinned at Buckaroo.

Rawhide cleared his throat with great discomfiture. "Soon," he said almost inaudibly.

"Hunh," said Peggy. "I think he's blushing," she told Buckaroo with satisfaction. "A person whose graduate work consists of looking at bugs all day long deserves to blush."

Buckaroo was enjoying the novelty of seeing Rawhide caught off-center, particularly since the teasing was backed up with obvious affection, but he thought the time had come to rescue his friend.

"So, Peggy, are you in school?" he asked.

"Begging your pardon, Buckaroo, but you seem not to realize that you're in the presence of a gen-u-ine Cantabridgian," Rawhide answered for her. "You might want to bow and scrape."

Buckaroo laughed, and it was Peggy's turn to be a little discomfited. "I'm in my third year at Cambridge," she said almost shyly.

"Heathen parts," commented Rawhide. "Buckaroo here is at Columbia, himself. A blossoming medico."

"Really?" Peggy nodded at this information. "What about you, R'ide? Are you and your brothers really coming up here to settle?"

Rawhide shrugged. "Maybe later. I've got a grant to go down to the Rio Negro country and --" his tone became a trifle belligerent "--look at Patagonian water beetles."

"Yuk," said Peggy succinctly. "Give me some nice clean free electrons anytime."

Buckaroo, increasingly enchanted, surprised himself by saying, "You're pretty much of a free electron yourself, Peggy Simpson."

He was rewarded with another incandescent grin. "I've always fancied myself a charged particle," Peggy agreed. "Nice to have one's true nature perceived by handsome strangers." Gathering up rein, she said regretfully, " 'fraid I have to go now. What do you suppose the fence will do for company with all of us gone?" She wheeled her horse and was off before either man could give her an answer.

The two men watched her figure disappear over a hill, then looked at each other and shared a smile about Peggy Simpson. They rode for nearly a mile before either of them spoke again.

"I like your friend," Buckaroo said.

Rawhide caught the tiny emphasis on the last word. He chuckled and looked over at Buckaroo.

"Mmm-hmm, friend," he confirmed.

Buckaroo laughed, then fell back into his own thoughts, occasionally looking over at the low hills west of them. The two rode another mile or so in a companionable silence before Buckaroo ventured another remark.

"Did I tell you I've decided where I'm headed after P & S?"

His friend looked over at him.

"Oxford. Merton College," Buckaroo said.

Rawhide appeared to consider this bulletin for a few minutes. Finally, he nodded. "Sixty five miles from Cambridge," he remarked.

Buckaroo shot a glance at his friend, then looked over at the hills on the Simpson side of the fence. After a while, he responded, "Sixty three."

~ 30 ~