George Foster had dreaded this conversation. It wasn't as if Sylvia was unreasonable. She knew an anthropologist needed to go on expeditions; he couldn't simply teach what others had discovered. Even so, he didn't look forward to their separation while he spent three months at Colville Lake; and he hadn't looked forward to telling her either. Missing their first wedding anniversary was bad enough, being apart from her for a three-month period which included that anniversary sucked. Still, her first question expressed concern for him.

"Arctic?" she asked, "Will you be cold?"

"Not particularly," he replied. "I'll only be at Colville in the summer, after all. It'll be warmer than it is outside right now. But I will be lonely."

"Well, why can't I go along? Would we go broke if I stopped waiting tables for the summer?" Sylvia saw everybody as living from one paycheck to the next.

"Not at all. We've been saving up the trust payments for expeditions like this. And, after all, we decide how that money is to be used; it's not like some agency is looking over our shoulders saying 'George is the anthropologist, so only George can go.'" He'd explained that. His grandfather's trust was never going to make them really rich; it did save him from half the begging that his profession required. "Moreover, despite the transport expenses, the cost of living at Colville Lake is fairly low. Of course, that's 'cause we'll be consuming only bare necessities. I just don't want you living like that. Tents, outhouses, and all."

"I'd rather live in a tent with you than in this apartment by myself."

"All right." And it was more than all right. Sylvia wasn't bored with him yet. "I'll ask."

He did ask Vrooman. "My wife would like to come along on the expedition. She's not trained, but she'd make herself useful."

"There is no way that the funders would pay for that."

"They aren't paying for me. We'd pay her airfare; we'd share a tent and pay for that. What are the incidentals?"

"Very well, but I want to talk to her and warn her of the consequences." And he did. That didn't dissuade Sylvia, and she spoke enthusiastically about typing his notes.

You had to balance the need to be prepared for the culture you were about to meet with the danger of going in so full of the answers that you didn't see what was really going on. Sylvia wasn't going to be writing a report, but she'd provide him with another set of eyes. As such, he preferred them to be fairly wide eyes. Still, there were limits. He explained the name, "Hare Indians."

"I thought that they grew lots of hair," Sylvia said.

"They used to dress in clothes made from rabbit skins," he explained. "Tribes in that area only have European names. Probably, they only have colonial identities. The people we'll be seeing probably think of themselves as 'The people of Colville Lake.' You know the story of Manhattan Island?"

"No."

"The first Dutch explorers found a bunch of Indians there. They bought the entire island from them for a few handfuls of beads. We used to think that the Dutch had pulled a fast one. Closer investigation revealed that those Indians were just visiting for the day to fish. You might buy the Brooklyn Bridge for a couple of hundred dollars in the same neighborhood as legitimately today.

"Anyway," he concluded, "European visitors were often much more certain about the limits of membership in a group, ownership of property, and executive leadership than the people who they were describing."

Sylvia really did want to be helpful. She got a typewriter she could use there, and he got cassette recorders, cassettes, and batteries. He could put his notes on cassette with one of the recorders and she could type them from the second.

Still, he regarded her typing as a cover story for why she was with him. He liked having her around in the daytime, but she almost never was during their regular life. What he would have missed was making love. You couldn't hope to hide that, especially from his colleagues. George suspected that most anthro majors had begun as kids reading anthro books for the descriptions of sex. They'd guess; he just hoped to keep them guessing.

Sylvia didn't cooperate in his scheme -- maybe he should have explained his plans. He set up their tent with the cots far enough apart to provide walls for a very private room on the floor between them. Sylvia moved those cots right together. That would be fine for sleeping on the cots, but he hadn't brought her with him just to sleep.

When he got back from the outhouse that night, she was a good deal readier for bed than he was. He separated the cots and turned them on their sides. "Why did you do that?" she asked.

He shushed her, and got in his bag. When she got in hers their heads were close together. Leaning closer, he whispered, "Anything you say in a normal tone of voice can be heard. And anyone walking south of the tent can see a shadow of us on the tent walls."

"That's why you dumped the cots?" she whispered back.

"Anyway, I don't think one cot would hold two of us comfortably." He kissed her.

"You're devious," she whispered. She might disagree with him but she followed his lead. "We are wearing wedding rings. Don't Hare married couples sleep together?"

"Yup. And with their kids in the same house, which means in the same room. I just want to exercise a little discretion."

He kissed her more thoroughly and started stroking her. When she pulled back, it was to breathe and to remove the nightie.

He crawled into her bag. When he kissed her again, his hands could reach her skin. So, for that matter, could the rest of him. He kissed her breast while his hands stroked her vulva.

Sylvia spread her legs in invitation. He nestled there for a minute, caressing her vulva and sucking on her breast. Then he slid into her. So sweet. After adjusting his position so he could reach her breasts, he began his motions in and out.

Sylvia encouraged these motions with her hands on his butt. He sped up and felt his reaction rising within him. He tried to hold it back, but he suddenly found he didn't need to. He felt her bite his shoulder as she convulsed around his cock. His orgasm followed hers.

He collapsed gasping above her as she was gasping beneath him. He dozed for a minute on her softness. She shoved his shoulder. He couldn't simply roll over as he could at home. Instead he crawled into his own bag. The distance, nothing when he'd been approaching his love, seemed great on the way back.

It was bright day when he woke. Sylvia was on her cot. His sleeping bag was warm, but his bladder insisted that he get out of it. He put on his pajamas hastily and rushed to the outhouse. He didn't feel that he had slept enough for it to be daybreak. What time was it, anyway? Back in the tent he found his watch. Not yet four. He righted his cot and put the sleeping bag on it. He crawled in and went back to sleep.

Sylvia was up and dressed when he woke next. He breakfasted on some snacks they'd brought with them and set out to walk through the village. People were up and busy about their affairs. Walking along the shore of the lake, he drew a sketch with little squares for each cabin. When he'd walked to the east end of the village, which didn't take him a very long time, he turned back.

Sylvia had lunch for him when he got back. She looked frazzled. Housework, even with electricity and a gas stove, wasn't her specialty. After dinner, though, she offered to start on the typing. "I'm still gathering impressions," he told her. "The only thing I've put down is a sketch map, and the typewriter can't help that."

"Well, let me see and copy that," she said. He did, helping her with a few names he'd scribbled down.

When nighttime came, he was glad to have their cots together. He could reach inside Sylvia's sleeping bag and touch her. It wasn't like holding her in their double bed at home, but it was one hell of a lot better than being hundreds of miles apart.

Two nights later, the cots were a wall again. When he moved towards Sylvia's sleeping bag, though, she pushed him away. Before he could feel rejected, she was stripping and climbing into his bag. When she was on top, he was very happy that nobody could see their shadows on the tent. Someone's seeing them make love would have been an invasion of privacy; someplace's seeing Sylvia take the dominant position would have been a subject of gossip for weeks.

The Hare men didn't know what they were missing, though. Sylvia rubbed her whole body over his. Her nipples drew lines of delight across his chest. He could finger her vulva with his right hand and clasp her butt with his left. He was ready, more than ready; but it was her decision. Then she grasped his cock and rubbed her vulva along its crown. He thrust upwards, ineffectively. When she positioned herself for his entry, though, he managed to stop moving.

Her warmth was all over his tip and sliding slowly, oh so slowly, down the shaft. Once she held him all, she grinned at him in the dimness. His hands went to her breasts and in between her thighs. The sliding of her vulva over his cock generated the most delightful sensations. They progressed from delight almost to agony. His arousal rose to fever heat, but no orgasm would come in this position.

Then, when hers did, his followed. He pressed upwards into her, even raising her weight in his frenzy. He pulsed and pulsed. Then he was gasping under her limp, also gasping, weight. Slowly, their breathing got more regular. Finally, Sylvia kissed his forehead and left for her own bag.

Sometime in the night -- night? it was sunlit -- he had to visit the outhouse. When he came back, he righted his cot and put the sleeping bag on it. Sylvia was in her bag on her cot when the alarm went off.

A few days later, Sylvia pointed out a new supply of firewood and asked if he had bought it. "I don't know," he told her. "I didn't buy any wood. The Dene have a favor economy. Rather than paying for things, they do each other favors. They trade with the outside for cash, of course. But they are more likely to do a favor for someone who has done a favor for them."

Sylvia revealed that she'd been teaching some of the children. She was in the favor economy, one of them. He mentioned this to Vrooman later. "I hope," the department chairman said, "that her position reflects on the rest of us."

And, whether it went that far, it certainly helped him to be the teacher's husband. And it helped his diet that people were paying Sylvia tuition in wild food.

Sylvia's cooking, however, wasn't entirely gain. One night, when they'd dumped the cots and were making out in the sleeping bags on the ground, Sylvia moved over above him. Then she winced. He could see it in the sunlight passing through the northern side of the translucent tent: he could certainly feel her cramp up in her position over him. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"I burned my hand this morning."

"Which hand?" She showed him. He turned on his left side so that hand was raised. "Poor girl," he whispered, "and you didn't say anything all day."

"It's not that bad, and the Dene work with much worse. It's just that I had all my weight on it then."

"And it hurt, and that took you right out of the mood."

"Maybe you should be on top, and can we start over?" That was one hell of a lot better than calling it off for the night.

"Or, side by side." They were both speaking in whispers. When she relaxed, he did start over. He started his kisses on her mouth before trailing them down to her breasts, and he kissed these thoroughly before zeroing in on her nipples. He caressed her vulva enjoying the feel under his fingers as much as her response. And he waited for a lot of response before moving on to her clitoris.

Finally, she actually said "George!" letting him know that she wanted him. He wanted her, too, but in this position it wasn't going to be easy.

"Help me," he whispered. She guided his cock into her with her hand. He could only come just into her tight entryway. he held a breast with one hand and her butt with the other. His kiss was an apology for the orgasm he couldn't hold back. But she was there with him.

They didn't have to move when their energy left them, although he did slip out. He was dimly aware that she left him sometime in the night to visit the outhouse. When he had to make his own trip, she was in her own sleeping bag on her own cot.

He righted his cot, too. The ground was lumpy and a little cold. Still, if the tent didn't provide all the comforts of home, it came furnished with the most important one. He blew a kiss towards her sleeping form.