The last missionary came to Crow some twenty odd years ago, long before my time. His arrival could be a good sign; maybe he could put in a good word with the Council of Cities when he returns. Membership would do our isolated border community some good in terms of supplies and aid.

Once the greeting party reached the entrance to the dome city, father approached the missionary again. Is there anything you require for your stay, Monsigneur? he signed rapidly, slurring the gestures together. I could barely understand the man half the time.

A bed and a meal will be all for now, thank you. He signed crisply, each word terminated with the snap of his sleeve.

The enormous airlock, wide enough for several rows of ox-carts to pass through, hissed open for Ermanno as he grunted and wheezed turning the steel hand crank. The thing always seemed to stick when the rains were imminent.

The squeal of the gears cut through the silence, sending shivers down my spine. I sighed as I watched the missionary enter the city.