The vineyard spread out on all sides, endless rows of green running far off into the distance and curving off and up into the blazing glare of the sun-line at the axis.
Eilar Vallist shielded his eyes with one hand as he inspected the sun-line’s mirrors, chewing contemplatively on a just-plucked grape. At length, he dropped his gaze and raised his ring terminal to his lips.
“Eilar to Station Ops. Mirrí, are you there?”
“Mirrí Vallist coming back. What’ve you got for me?”
“Nothing showing on the sun-line, and light levels are in the zone, but these grapes just won’t do for the ries-Vintiver; sugar levels aren’t coming up fast enough. Can you give me another three, three-and-a-half sunward swing on the primary?”
“Can do. Give us five to get the gyros unclutched. Ops, clear.”