TO BE A MAN
Kerry Lindemann-Schaefer


Francis froze, the edge of the sheet he had just laid out on the bed still clutched in his hand.

"Did you hear something, Pat?" he asked, before remembering she had only her insensitive human ears to rely on.

The black woman shook her head, then stood listening intently, as she watched Francis from across the motel room they were making up.

The last of the daylight was fading quickly outside the second-story window, hastened on its journey by the low-hanging clouds that had covered the sun all day long. The Day of Descent had just passed and the day after tomorrow would be the human festival of Thanksgiving. Trees rustled in the stiff breeze, masking most of the other outdoor noises, but if Francis concentrated, he could make out the sound of small waves lapping against the seawall along the riverfront behind the Atlantic Inn. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. The old building creaked now and then. There was no trace of the noise that had alarmed him.

Finally, he relaxed. "Guess it was just a car passing by out on Route 50. Sure sounded as if it had turned down our road and then stopped, though."

"Maybe a guest?" Pat suggested hopefully. Although the Inn was booked almost full for the upcoming holiday weekend by a Senior Citizens' bus tour, all the rooms were empty tonight.

"No such luck. I'd have heard the tires on the gravel driveway at the front door." He shrugged. "It must have been out on the highway, not on our road at all. The wind could have made it sound closer."

"Yeah. The wind can sure play tricks on you. It gives me the creeps sometimes when I'm here all alone in an empty building, especially after some of those threatening phone calls. They're getting weirder all the time. Imagine saying you and I are screwing around! That's a laugh! I haven't been with a man since I was a teenager, and besides, I'm not sure we could, even if we wanted to."

Francis wasn't really listening to her words, but he gave a polite laugh anyway. Concentrating on the noises from outside, he straightened the sheet on the bed and began tucking in the corners. He should have been paying closer attention all along. They'd had more than their share of trouble in the past. Just because no one had bothered them ever since Jo Sanzari had died in her abortive attempt to blow up the Inn last July, that was no reason to think the Klan had given up. Other newcomers had had crosses burned on their lawns and shots fired through their windows in recent months, so it wasn't over yet.

Francis wasn't enough of an optimist to believe Larry Hatfrey would cancel his plans to build Schooners Landing because of a little thing like a death, but the unwelcome publicity over the attempted bombing had had an unexpected outcome. Local environmentalists had gotten together to oppose Larry's activities, writing letters to the newspaper and to county officials about how Seagull Realty was illegally draining and clearing wetlands when they hadn't yet received a permit to build. If the controversy hadn't done the Inn much good, it had been even worse for Larry. The realtor hadn't wanted his plans for the time-sharing resort made public until he had all his permits, in order to avoid exactly what was now happening.

Although the campaign itself had been largely Francis' idea, Pat was the official head of the Committee to Sink Schooners Landing, while he had done his best to keep a low profile. Nevertheless, several reporters had mentioned him in their coverage of the bombing and subsequent events. He fervently hoped none of those stories had found their way into the wrong hands.

It had become all too clear that there was no way he would be able to entirely avoid public involvement in the environmental struggle. Larry's building permit would come up for approval by the Coastal Management Committee sometime in January, and Pat's group had plans for a demonstration in front of Town Hall next month. The Coastal Green Society based in Eddington would be sending a contingent to take part in it. And that was only the first of a series of protests.

In short, things threatened to heat up very soon and Francis was worried.

Pat went back to work dusting the dresser, humming cheerfully. He knew that pretty soon she'd be ready to turn on the vacuum cleaner, so he tried to hurry and finish the bed in order to get out of the room before his ears could be subjected to that unpleasant racket.

*Why are you so cheerful?* he griped to the black woman, keeping his Tenctonese simple. Her grasp of the language was improving steadily, but she was far from fluent. As was often the case with humans, she could understand it better than she could speak it. *We've only made up twenty rooms so far, and there are three more left on this floor, then fourteen downstairs.*

Finished dusting, Pat began emptying the trash baskets. *Not all tonight must be done. Another day have we before the holiday,* she replied, with less hesitation than usual. She went back to humming the same tune.

"Hmph," was all Francis had to say to that. As far as he was concerned, cleaning rooms wasn't hard work, but it sure was boring. If two of their housekeepers hadn't quit in September to return to college, he and Pat wouldn't have had to do this all through the fall season. And if their best housekeeper hadn't gone home sick with the flu today, they wouldn't be so far behind that they had to work so late. And if they hadn't had that group of scuba divers in on Monday night, more of these rooms would be already made up. And if he hadn't been tied up for the last two evenings at the coupling ceremony for Fargo and Ginny Wells, Pat wouldn't have had to carry the brunt of the work here at the Inn by herself.

Francis shook his head ruefully. It seemed to be an unwritten law in the motel business that everything always happened at once. This week had been no exception.

Despite these minor inconveniences, he had to admit that things were going well overall. The Inn would close down for the season right after this weekend. Business had been as good as could be expected for their first year. Many of the local Tenctonese were warming up to him, as evidenced by the Wells' asking him to catalyze a child the other night.

And Pat--well, his friendship with the black woman had deepened to the point where he almost felt as if there might be at least one person in the world he could really trust.

*Not to complain, boss,* Pat said brightly, interrupting his musings and bringing his attention back to the job at hand. *Always we don't have to perform this trick.*

*Task,* he corrected absently. *We don't have to perform this task all the time.*

She repeated the sentence correctly, pronouncing the Tenctonese "#" sound rather less awkwardly than most humans. As she dumped the contents of the wastebaskets into the large trash bag out in the hall, she began singing the words of the tune she had been humming softly under her breath.

The bed made at last, Francis straightened up and rotated his shoulder, trying to work out the ache from his old gunshot wound. Although he could hear the words to Pat's song perfectly well, they didn't seem to make much sense. "Who is this amazing person named Grace?" he queried.

"Not who, boss, what. It's a theological term, not a name." She launched into an enthusiastic rendition of the song at normal volume:

"Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost, but now I'm found; Was blind, but now I see."

He shook his head. "I still don't get it."

"Grace is sort of this unearned divine assistance, see? Like a favor conferred by God, to help your spiritual development. The song is about how someone's life was changed completely by grace."

Francis gave her a skeptical look.

"No, it's for real. Or at least it was to the man who wrote the song. My great-grandfather said it was written by an 18th century slaveship captain who repented and became a country preacher after surviving a storm at sea. Guess he figured God was trying to tell him something."

Francis automatically pulled down the shirt sleeve that covered the tattoo on his right wrist. Maybe the song made some sense after all.

Pat caught the habitual gesture and shrugged. "Yeah, well, I guess you don't want to hear any more about that." She picked up the vacuum cleaner, but Francis interrupted her before she could turn it on.

"Are there more verses?"

She nodded.

"Will you sing them, Please? I'm curious how it goes."

When she had obliged him with a somewhat less enthusiastic rendition of the other verses, she stopped and turned away.

"Thank you. That's--interesting. But how come you know that song? I never see you go to church. It is a church song, isn't it?" he amended quickly.

"Yeah, it is." A strange expression crossed her face, almost as if she were surprised to realize she had in fact been singing a religious song. She frowned darkly for a moment. "You're right, I don't go to church because I don't hold with that nonsense anymore. But I learned a lot of hymns from great-granddad when I was just a little girl. 'Course, he was an old man by then, but in his youth he'd been a circuit rider for some of the black congregations in this part of the state." She looked down at the vacuum cleaner still in her hand. "I don't guess he'd be too happy with me now. Like you said, I don't go to church anymore."

"Circuit rider? Sounds like that would be someone who rides around in circles, but I suppose that's not right, is it?"

"Well, no, not quite. Way back then, no one church could afford to pay a minister just for themselves, so a few of them shared his services, each paying part of his salary. He had to do a lot of travelling around, though. And in those days, horses were the main form of transportation. Granddad used to tell me he spent more time with his horse than with any of his congregations."

A faraway look had come over Pat's face, accompanied by a slight smile. She leaned against the edge of the dresser, vacuum cleaner forgotten.

Suddenly, Francis swivelled his head sharply, his attention focussed on the sounds he'd just heard. Gravel had crunched in the driveway leading to the Inn. Just once, as if it were the result of an inadvertent footstep, but after that had come a faint cracking of branches, as if someone might have stumbled into a bush in the windy darkness outside. He probably wouldn't have noticed the faint noises, if he hadn't been already on edge.

Placing a finger across his lips in the human gesture for silence, he whispered, "Thought I heard something out front."

Leaving the lights on in the room where they had been working, they moved carefully across the hall and edged into one of the darkened guest rooms facing the entrance to the Inn. Francis peered out of the second-story window, searching the darkness for any sign of movement. On the basis of past experience, he half expected to see a cross blaze into flame, surrounded by ghostly figures in white robes.

But there was no cross. There was nothing except the wind and a few splatters of raindrops. He had almost convinced himself that he was imagining things when a cat screeched indignantly, as if it had been stepped on, then came hurtling out across the lawn from the shadows along the south wing of the building.

Francis raced out of the room, down the steps, and along the first floor of the south wing, pausing only when he had reached the exit door at the end. He listened but could hear nothing directly outside.

Easing the door open slightly, he slipped through.

Silently rounding the rear corner, Francis caught sight of a shadowed figure almost halfway down the length of the building, crouched over something. A match flared in the darkness, then blew out in the wind. The brief instant of light had been enough to reveal a pile of rags and paper against the wooden side of the Inn, with a gasoline can lying nearby.

Another match scratched into life. But just as Francis yelled, "Freeze!" and started forward, the intruder leaped up abruptly, the match flying off to one side as if it had been struck by something. It landed harmlessly in the grass and sputtered out.

The would-be arsonist looked around in confusion, saw Francis coming, and took off across the lawn. Small in stature, it might have been a short man or perhaps a woman.

After kicking the pile of gasoline-soaked rags away from the building, Francis sprinted after the intruder. He could easily track the stranger by sound, as he crunched through dead leaves and twigs. He was moving parallel to the river, following the scenic path they had cleared for the use of the Inn's guests. It didn't take long for Francis to close the distance between himself and the one he pursued. Must be a human, if he could catch up so easily.

Aware now that he was being followed, the intruder picked up his pace. He was already gasping for breath. Just as Francis reached out to grab the human's shoulder, the intruder veered sharply to one side, off the path and into the bushes. Following close behind, Francis stepped abruptly over the edge of a short drop, skidding on mud and slippery stones down toward the often salty water of the Yaupon River.

Landing on a thin strip of muck studded with sparse clumps of reeds, Francis' first impulse was to turn and scramble wildly back up the slippery bank. He stopped himself from doing that by sheer force of will. The human he had been chasing was sprawled only a short distance away, on hands and knees in the shallow water at the river's edge. The stranger coughed and shook his head from side to side, slinging wet hair out of his face.

The human was an adolescent boy, Francis noted. He was almost within arm's reach. If Francis could just step out into the water, he'd have him. But the Inn was only a few miles from the river's outlet into the sea, and the tide must be in, judging by the faint smell of salt in the air.

Francis hesitated, and the boy caught sight of him. Uttering an inarticulate cry, the human threw himself sideways towards the deeper part of the river. The clinging mud betrayed him, allowing him only to slosh down a few feet further from his pursuer.

Francis could see that the boy's next attempt would succeed. Setting his teeth, he stepped into the dank water with his right foot, thankful for the heavy woolen socks and lace-up ankle boots he was wearing. If he could move quickly enough, the water would barely have time to soak through to his flesh.

Bending his knee and leaning out over the water, Francis grabbed hold of the boy's jacket with one hand and dragged him backwards. The human tried to twist around, flailing his arms and legs and splashing. As soon as he could withdraw his foot, Francis did so, feeling the salty water already soaking into his boot. He had to get out of here quickly and get that boot off.

"Hold still or I'll break your arm," he said to the still-struggling human, getting a grip on the boy's upper arm even though he could feel the wet fabric burning the palm of his hand. The quiet menace in Francis' voice combined with the fingers digging into the boy's arm convinced him to obey.

With his free hand, Francis pulled his own belt out of his pants, then jerked the human's hands together behind his back, securing them with the belt. He was about to hoist the boy up over the riverbank when he heard Pat's voice calling him.

"Over here," he replied. She wasn't far away, probably up on the path. He caught a glimpse of a flashlight beam in the darkness.

"I've got my gun, boss. Where are you? Do you need help?" she asked tensely, parting the bushes above him.

"I'm okay. Got someone I'd like you to meet though." Francis lifted the boy into the air, shoving him half over the bank and practically into Pat's lap. "Tie his feet," he ordered brusquely. "I want to talk to this little tert."

Grabbing an overhanging bush, Francis pulled himself up and away from the water. Safely on the bank, he fumbled with stinging fingers at the laces in his boot, cursing. Before he could ask for her help, Pat knelt in front of him, carefully pulling off the sodden boot and peeling the sock away. Skinning out of her sweatshirt, she patted the remaining dampness from his foot with the cloth.

"Looks pretty red, boss. Can you walk?"

Francis knew he could walk, but only if there were no other choice. "We're not far from the driveway here. Why don't you go get the car?"

She nodded. "Here, take my gun. In case our young friend over there gets ideas."

"If this little punk gets any ideas, I'll dissuade him with my bare hands."

"Take the gun anyway, boss. I'll be back as fast as I can."


A half hour later, Francis lay on the couch in the Inn's recreation room, his foot washed clean of the remaining river water and covered with a light dressing. The burns weren't as bad as they could have been, but his foot and ankle hurt like hell, despite the pill he'd taken for the pain. He'd surely blister, but no lasting damage would be done if he were careful and kept off that foot until it healed. Pat had propped it up with several pillows, hoping to minimize any swelling.

"I still think we should call Richard and get him to take a look at those burns," she protested.

"In the morning. There's nothing more Richard could do, anyway. First I want to talk to our friend over there." He nodded toward the boy, who was securely trussed up and sitting in a chair, trying to look defiant but succeeding only in looking scared.

"Hmph," Pat snorted. "The only ones who need to talk to him are the police. We caught him in the act, didn't we?"

But Francis was staring at the human youngster. "Talk to me, boy. What's your name?"

The human said nothing, but squirmed uneasily against the hard wooden chair. His damp clothes clung to his slender frame. Now and again he shivered.

"Would you prefer to talk to the police?" Francis asked softly. "I assure you, that can be arranged."

"My name's A.C.," he finally admitted.

"That's not a name."

"Yeah, boss, it is," Pat interjected. "Lots of folks go by initials around here. A.C., huh? That's most commonly an abbreviation for Alton Carroll. Am I right?"

The boy nodded grudgingly.

"What's your last name--uh--A.C.?" Francis asked, trying to get the feel of the odd name.

"Gilbert," he replied.

"And what were you doing on our property at this hour of the night?"

Anger twisted across the youngster's face. "What d'ya think I was doin', slag? I was gonna burn this place down," he snarled.

"Did Larry Hatfrey tell you to do it?"

"Nobody told me to do it. It was my own idea." He leered. "Saw you at the Wells' house the last couple of nights. They're just down the block from me. Peeked in a window to see what all the fuss was about. When I realized what you were up to, that made up my mind. The last thing we need in Cartersville is more baby slags. I figured to run you out of here once and for all, without anyone else's help."

While A.C.'s expressed motive was certainly plausible, Francis had heard enough to recognize the boy's voice and confirm his suspicion that this had indeed been the youngest of the Klansmen who had been involved in the original attack on the Wagners, the attack that had eventually led to Francis' decision to settle down in this area.

"I seem to recall that you once wanted to see what saltwater did to newcomers," Francis said mildly, referring to that earlier incident. "Well, I trust you've gotten a pretty good look at my foot. Does that satisfy your curiosity?"

A.C. frowned at Francis' remark. Then his expression changed. Evidently, he too remembered the Wagners, and the way he had terrorized Jane by threatening to smear saltwater on her face.

"Uh, yeah. I'm not curious anymore," he said, some of the anger draining away. "You know, if you weren't a slag, I'd probably like you. You got guts."

"Guts?"

"Yeah. I've seen other people whipped before. You're the only one who didn't scream. Guess you learned to be brave when you were an Overseer, huh? That must have been cool." A.C.'s voice sounded positively enthusiastic.

Francis' soul froze within him. He narrowed his eyes and said in a cold voice, "If I indeed have what you call guts, it isn't because I was an Overseer. To terrorize helpless people does not require courage. It requires only cowardice. To enjoy it requires cowardice of a particularly disgusting sort."

"You're just sayin' that 'cause you think it's what the humans want to hear, right?" A.C. stated knowingly. "Well, it's not what I want to hear. I'm tired of all these mealy-mouthed wimps. I admire strength and courage."

"And you think you've found it in the Ku Klux Klan?" Pat asked, walking over closer to the boy.

"Among other places, yeah."

She put out a hand and touched his earlobe, even as he flinched away from her. "This one of those other places, A.C.?"

Caught by Pat's gesture, Francis' eyes focussed on the earring the young human wore and found it to be a swastika. Great. Just what they needed.

A.C. nodded. "Yeah. But I wouldn't expect a nigger to understand."

"And why not? Don't you know there are Black Supremacist groups in this country? The underlying philosophy isn't so very different," she said smoothly.

"Yeah, well, I don't give a damn about them. The Nazis were awesome. They knew how to do it right."

"Suuure," Pat agreed sarcastically. "Nazis are far from being the only examples of well-organized human brutality, but they seem to have become the modern symbol of such things." She shrugged. "Guess it's not too surprising if an insecure kid like you admires them."

"Whaddaya mean, insecure kid? I'm sixteen years old. I'm a man!"

Pat smiled wryly. Francis decided to change the subject a bit. "What do you like about the Nazis? Or, for that matter, the Klan, or the Kleezantsun#?"

"They're not weaklings. They do what they want and make people like it. They're masters, not wimps. They got courage."

"I see," Francis replied, nodding. He had the young human figured now. "There are many words for that sort of thing, but I'm afraid courage isn't one of them. You want to see the kind of 'courage' someone like that has? Take a look at the trials of your Nazi war criminals. They did their best to tell you it wasn't their fault, someone else made them do it, they were only following orders. They couldn't even take responsibility for their own actions. That's the kind of courage your precious Nazis had. If that's what you want, you're well on your way to finding it with the Klan."

"Yeah, right," A.C. sneered. "Does that apply to you too, Overseer?"

"I sincerely hope not," Francis replied, taken aback. "Not anymore, at least."

Pat came to his rescue. "A.C., it's quite possible to be a man without being a monster, you know. All this isn't necessary."

"What would you know about being a man, bitch? Or do you expect me to listen to you because you're a perverted dyke who wants to be a man herself?"

"First off, I don't want to be a man. Secondly, being a real man, or for that matter, a woman, means being a person with the courage to live by your own morals and take responsibility for your own actions. It doesn't mean stepping all over other people."

"Yeah. It's only okay to be a wimp. That's what you mean, isn't it?" A.C. replied. "It's good to be a weakling, but you mustn't be strong or aggressive. Bullshit!"

"I knew someone once who said that weakness in and of itself is no virtue, but strength wrongly used is a vice," Francis replied, Kheersa's voice vivid in his mind. "Strength controlled and properly used is the positive good. She said if the only possible choice is to be a master or to be a slave, the right thing is to be the slave."

"Sorry, pal. Not interested," was A.C.'s scornful retort.

The conversation seemed to have reached an impasse. In the silence following the boy's remark, a voice said harshly in Tenctonese, *Too bad you didn't follow your own advice, Overseer.*

Francis pulled himself up on the couch and turned toward the door to the Front Office. Finding himself looking down the business end of a revolver, he made no attempt to get to his feet. The intruder's face was covered by a black ski mask, but there were no bulges which might have concealed human hair or ears. By voice, height and build, Francis figured himself to be facing a newcomer male.

"You, woman," the masked man ordered Pat, "hand over your gun to me and come into the Office. I want the front door locked, the lights out, and the No Vacancy sign on, so no one bothers us." As Pat complied, he continued to Francis, *I'm going to stand right here by the door. One wrong move from you, and I put a bullet through her. Understand?*

Francis nodded, still sitting motionless on the couch. He kept his hands conspicuously resting on his thighs.

When Pat had once more returned to the rec room, the gunman stood looking at the two humans as if he wasn't quite sure what to do with them. He didn't have the stance and assurance of a professional killer, but Francis knew a nervous amateur could be even more dangerous, if he were spooked. Best stay very calm and do nothing to alarm him, at least until he found out what this was all about.

*I assume your business is with me?* Francis suggested, keeping his voice level. *If you want the humans out of the way, why don't you lock them in the storage closet over there? It has no window, and the door can be locked from the outside.*

The intruder sidled warily over to the door Francis had indicated, pushing it open with his foot and glancing quickly inside the small room. Satisfied, he ordered curtly, "Woman, untie the boy from the chair, but leave his wrists bound. Bring the extra rope over to Bin Tr--uh--him." He gestured with the gun. "Overseer, tie her wrists, and make sure you do a good job."

Pat looked reluctant to allow this, but Francis said softly, "It's okay. Do as he says."

"All right, both you terts get in here. If I hear any noise out of you, you'll be sorry." He locked the door behind them, then went over and sat down in the chair opposite Francis, who hadn't moved from the couch. *Let's keep this all in Tenctonese, shall we? Then your friends won't know what's going on and I won't have to do anything drastic in the way of keeping them quiet later. They didn't see my face, so they can't identify me.*

*Fine with me,* Francis replied. Anything to keep Pat out of this. The intruder had no way of knowing just how well she understood Tenctonese. He shifted his burned foot so that it was propped up on the coffee table, in order that he could face the other man more directly.

With his free hand, the gunman peeled the mask back over his head, then smiled coldly. *It's been a long time, Bin Treyma. Do you recognize me?*

*Bin Thanika. As you say, it's been a long time.* Francis tried desperately to hide the shock he felt. He and Thanika Lestrei had been boys together, back on the Ship, before--

He pushed that thought back into the recesses of his mind. *To what do I owe this visit?*

*You've been in the newspapers lately, Treyma. The Order has heard stories about you. The Drevny of the New York City Chapter House sent me to find out what you're up to.*

Thanika's words weren't threatening, but his voice betrayed him. It was too tight, too controlled, as if he were primed and ready to explode at any moment. He clutched the gun at an awkward angle, his eyes darting down every so often as if to make sure it was still pointed at Francis.

Shaken by the knowledge that he had come to the attention of the Order, Francis nevertheless kept up his attitude of unconcern. The last thing he wanted to do was push the other binnaum over the edge and into violence.

He shrugged casually. Familiar pain lanced through his bad shoulder at the movement, warning him that his muscles felt the tension he was trying so hard to conceal. *Why would the Drevny care? I'm not one of his people.*

*Oh, we know that. But you disappeared from sight a few years ago, and now you've apparently chosen to surface here. We did some checking and word has it that you're not only practicing outside the Order, but you're also desecrating our ceremonies by doing it as if you were entitled to practice. That doesn't go over too well.*

*That's my business, not the Drevny's.*

Thanika's voice edged toward shrillness. *The Order cannot be represented by someone like you!*

Easy. Play it nice and easy. Try to put him at ease.

*I'm not representing anything. People know who I am and they know I'm not one of you,* Francis pointed out reasonably.

Thanika settled back in his chair, seeming to draw assurance from glancing at his gun again. *I won't argue with you. Besides, it's really not a moot point. I don't intend to let you live, so you won't be catalyzing any more children anyway.*

Francis wasn't particularly surprised that Thanika wanted to see him dead, but it wasn't at all typical for the Order to commit murder. Perhaps if he could get the other man talking, he might find out what was really bothering Thanika. *The Drevny didn't send you here to kill me, surely?*

*Of course not. I'm only supposed to investigate the rumors we've heard and report on what you're doing. Getting rid of you is my idea. I've been in Cartersville for almost two weeks, mostly disguised as a human, observing what's going on.* He leaned back and crossed his legs. *I was observing the coupling ceremony at the Wells' house last night and I saw the disgraceful performance you put on. That's what made me realize this can't be allowed to continue, regardless of what our Drevny says. I must admit you've got the ceremony down pat. In fact, you actually sounded sincere. If I didn't know you better, I might almost have believed you were a devout Celinist.*

*Thank you,* Francis replied.

Thanika smiled smugly. *I had just gotten to the Inn tonight and ascertained that you and your partner were alone when I heard the human boy coming down the road. Dumb kid didn't even see the cat sleeping under the azaleas. Sometimes I wonder about humans.* He shook his head in mock pity. *Anyway, once I realized what he was doing, I decided I didn't want him burning the building down. That would interfere with my plans for you. I knocked the match out of his hand with a rock, just as you showed up.* He sat up straighter, eyes narrowing. *I could have nailed you anytime while you were chasing him, but I wanted you to realize who it was and why I did it. When you all came in here, I snuck in the side entrance.* His smile faded. *I've been listening to all your pretty speeches, Treyma, but they won't do you any good with me. I haven't forgotten that you betrayed our teacher to the Kleezantsun#.*

Francis caught his breath, fighting the panic that clawed at his hearts. *That was a long time ago.*

*So? Does that change anything?* When the other man didn't answer, Thanika continued harshly, *I'm going to kill you. But first I'm going to make you crawl.*

The threat prompted an automatic reaction of disdain. Francis shook his head. *I'm sorry to disappoint you, Thanika. Kill me, yes. But that's about all you could do.*

*Oh, really? Do you think you're so strong that I couldn't break you?*

*Not at all. It's just that you may hate me, but you aren't someone who can be warped by that hatred into becoming the kind of torturer it would take to make me crawl. At least, for your sake, I hope you're not.*

*I wouldn't be so sure of that, Overseer.* Thanika stretched out his legs in front of him and settled back again, but the gun barrel never wavered from Francis' chest. *However, since I'm not in any real hurry, there are a few things I've been wanting to ask you for a very long time. I hope you'll be kind enough to oblige me with some answers without needing to be persuaded.*

Francis leaned back on the couch, pretending to relax. Much as he wanted to keep Thanika talking, something told him he didn't really want to hear what he might say. *What is it you'd like to know?*

Thanika hesitated, a strange look coming over his face. When he spoke, it almost sounded as if he were pleading.

*Why, Treyma? Why did you go over to them? We grew up together. We were friends. When Bin Dalvi undertook to teach us our traditions secretly, he knew he was risking his life if the Overseers found out. He, and all the others taking the same chance all over the Ship. When they took us for questioning, none of the other boys gave him away. But you never came back and neither did Dalvi. I don't know what happened to him, but the next we saw of you was two years later, and you were one of them.*

Thanika's question raked Francis' soul over hot coals. The memory of that terrible time still haunted him. Piedra Frelani had questioned all the boys, yes, but she'd paid special attention to him. She had gotten it into her head to recruit him for the Kleezantsun#, even though most of the other Overseers thought she was being foolish. For a binnaum to be one of the Chosen was an extremely rare occurrence.

He still had nightmares about the things Piedra had done to him, and the way she had finally broken down his resistance, convincing him to name Bin Dalvi as his teacher. Later on, she had told him it had been the very length of time it had taken her to break him that made her decide he had potential as an Overseer.

Francis didn't especially want to tell Thanika about those days. He never wanted to tell anyone about them. He tried to sidetrack his inquisitor by asking, *Didn't it occur to you that Piedra was only amusing herself with us, Than? If all she had wanted was Dalvi's name, a good dose of the gas would have made any one of us tell her what she wanted. She didn't need to torture us. She just enjoyed it, that's all.*

*That has occurred to me,* Thanika replied. *Nevertheless, you were the one who didn't come back and you were the one who ended up an Overseer. I'm still waiting to hear your explanation.*

Well, if he had to say it, he would make it as simple as possible. *If Piedra questioned you, you know how persuasive she can be. She made me see the advantages of being one of the Chosen and offered me that opportunity. Naming Dalvi was only one of the many things I did gladly, in order to convince her I was worthy.*

*She tortured all of us, Treyma. None of us broke, except you,* Thanika stated coldly.

*How long did she work on you and the others?*

*Two, maybe three, days. It was hard to tell exactly.* Thanika shrugged, as if to pass it off lightly, but from the expression on his face, Francis figured those days still recurred in the other binnaum's nightmares also.

*Um-hm. But could you have held out against her for two weeks, if she had really decided to play with your mind at the same time?*

Thanika appeared a bit uncertain now. *I don't know. But I would have tried.*

*I tried. I didn't make it.* He wasn't particularly proud of that, but it was the truth.

Thanika considered this in silence for a minute. Francis had time to wonder what Pat and A.C. were doing. He hoped they wouldn't try anything foolish, since he was virtually certain Thanika wouldn't harm them if they just kept quiet. He had heard no noises from that direction. Was Pat listening to this entire conversation? He fervently hoped her Tenctonese wasn't good enough to follow the gist of what was being said, if so. There were some things he never wanted her to know about, despite their friendship.

*All right,* Thanika finally admitted, *maybe I couldn't have stood up to that. Maybe I'd have betrayed Dalvi too. But to join them, Treyma? After what they did to us?* He shook his head.

Francis knew he should leave it at that, but something compelled him to try to make the other binnaum understand.

*At first it seemed like the only way to make her stop hurting me, but later on the prospect of being Kleezantsun# looked downright appealing. Given the choice of being a master or a slave, it seemed like all the advantages went with being the master.*

Stop now! Stop! he told himself, but his traitor voice went right on speaking, in a cold monotone that reflected his turbulent feelings not at all.

*Piedra convinced me that the strong had the right to rule. Those who were cargo were there because they were weak and inferior beings. I came to believe that. I had to believe it.* He stopped, taking a breath in an effort to steady himself. *Besides, I was young, not even thirteen years old. And I wasn't used to being hurt.*

Gaining control of himself at last, Francis cut himself off before he could begin pleading for the other man's understanding and forgiveness. That would gain him nothing and he knew it.

Thanika changed his tack. *What happened to Dalvi, Treyma? Do you know?*

*Yes,* Francis admitted reluctantly. I know only too well!

The memory was engraved on his mind, as clear now as on the day it had happened.

*********************************

Treyma walked into the room along with the two other candidates, one male, one female, and both quite a bit younger than he was. He knew what he would have to do in order to become an Overseer: take the double-bladed cryth and kill the victim they had chosen for him. The only thing he didn't know was who that victim would be.

He straightened his back as he stood in line with the others. It didn't matter who it was. He would kill his victim without any hesitation. He was finished with being a slave. From now on, he was going to be an Overseer. Nothing, absolutely nothing, would stop him. He had destroyed his weakness, his treacherous ability to care about other people. Nothing could touch him now. He was free. And he was about to become one of the Chosen.

He didn't know the other two youngsters. They had been picked out and trained in the usual way, so he hadn't had much to do with them. He'd been trained by Piedra, after she had--

No, better not to think of that now. He wanted nothing to disturb the icy calm he felt. Besides, all that was over. Once he had agreed to join the Kleezantsun#, she hadn't hurt him anymore. Or at least, no more than had been necessary.

The past two years had been hard, as he'd tried to learn in a short time what the others had had much of their childhoods to absorb. But Piedra's methods had worked. He had wiped all feeling from his mind. He was ready to do whatever he had to do.

Some of Piedra's colleagues had questioned her assessment of him, doubting whether a binnaum could be an effective Overseer. But Piedra had backed him. Now he would prove she had been right.

He watched in stony detachment as the first victim, a young man, was shackled to the floor. The candles flickered and danced in the darkened room, the light glancing off the blades of the cryth as Janek, the senior Overseer for this section of the Ship, placed the weapon in the hand of the female candidate. She recognized her victim; that was clear from the anguished expression on her face. Walking stiff-legged, she crossed the room and knelt. Her arm lifted, then fell. The victim cried out once and was silent. The girl rose to her feet, triumphant.

Treyma nodded his head a fraction in approval. She would be one of his colleagues in the years to come. Good.

The girl was led off, the victim's body cleared away, its place filled by an elderly woman. The boy standing next to Treyma gasped. His mouth worked as if he were trying to say something, but couldn't. The cryth was placed in his hand, but his fingers refused to close around it. Janek spoke to him in a low voice. The boy pulled himself together, grasped the handle and started forward.

Coldly appraising, Treyma judged that he would fail and would revert to being cargo again. The trial was set up that way deliberately; if you didn't kill your victim, the person would be allowed to live. You would never be Kleezantsun#, but you wouldn't be killed either. (Too easy, if it were merely a choice of your life or theirs. Much more revealing of true strength of character this way. If you were worthy of being one of the Chosen, you wouldn't hesitate to kill for that privilege.)

The boy tried. Trembling, he raised the knife. The old woman's lips moved, but Treyma couldn't hear what she said. Not that it mattered. There should be no weakness left for a victim to appeal to.

The boy tossed the knife away and buried his face in his hands. Janek strode over. Grasping the boy by the shoulder, he dragged him to his feet and shoved him disdainfully in the direction of two other Overseers, who took him away.

It was Treyma's turn now. Across the room, Piedra stared at him intently, her face betraying nothing but her body tensed into an unnatural stiffness. He caught her eye, giving her just the fraction of a confident smile. She would lose face badly if he failed. She had gambled on him, hoping to increase her prestige and power if she were right.

He allowed himself to wonder who they had found to be his victim. He was quite certain there was no one he would mind killing. His mother was long dead and his father had been left at the mining colony on Alorak four years ago. He had no brothers or sisters. And as for friends, what friends did he have, besides Piedra?

It was with more curiosity than apprehension that he watched his victim brought into the room. At first, he didn't recognize the young man in the white robe, since he hadn't seen him for two years. When he realized it was Dalvi Valens, his first reaction was surprise.

He had thought the other binnaum long dead. Once he had named Dalvi as the one who was secretly teaching the boys about Tenctonese tradition, he had assumed that his betrayal had meant the man's death. That had obviously not been the case. Dalvi must have been kept in isolation all this time, in anticipation of this day.

Piedra. Had this been her doing? He wouldn't put it past the woman. But no, it couldn't have been Piedra. She wanted him to succeed in this trial. She wouldn't have deliberately chosen as his victim the one person he might actually hesitate to kill.

Keeping the panic out of his eyes, Treyma looked at Piedra. She met his gaze steadily, seeming to understand the question. Then her eyes flickered past his shoulder and she nodded her head fractionally in the direction of Janek.

Treyma clenched his fists and bit the inside of his lip. This was Janek's doing. No matter, there was no way out: his victim was Dalvi. So be it.

Janek was beside him now, offering the cryth. The senior Overseer's mouth quirked upwards on one side in a sardonic smile. Doubtless he found the situation quite amusing.

Treyma lifted his chin and matched the big man stare for stare as he took the knife from his hand. Its weight felt good against his palm. He'd practiced the use of the weapon; was in fact quite adept with it. Strength flowed up his right arm from the shining blades, strength and power.

For a fleeting moment, he wanted nothing more than to drive those blades into Janek's hearts.

He stifled that thought, but not before its very intensity had cut a fine line of doubt across his determination.

Treyma's eyes lingered on the black tattoo on Janek's wrist as the man dropped his hands to his sides. That tattoo meant freedom from the gas, and from slavery and powerlessness. That was what he wanted. That was what he would have.

He strode across the room and knelt next to Dalvi.

The other binnaum seemed only now to have recognized him. Dalvi glanced wildly around the room, trying to make sense of the situation. He looked at the tunic Treyma wore, the black design matching those of the Overseers. His eyes fell on the cryth and he seemed to understand.

Treyma knew he should raise the knife and get it over with quickly. But too many memories churned beneath the enforced deadness in his brain. Dalvi's gentle words. Dalvi's arms around him when he cried over the hopelessness of it all, the other binnaum's fingers against his temples. Dalvi teaching him the traditions and how it should be, would be again, someday. The old rituals and formulas, repeated and committed to memory, between the tasks they were supposed to be doing. Words forced through a gas-fogged brain over and over until they began making sense. Meaning, and connectedness to something other than the constant misery of existence. Stories of Celine and Andarko, and the other revered ones who had done great deeds and thought great thoughts.

All this stayed Treyma's hand as he stared down at his erstwhile teacher. Shame as he recalled how he had betrayed that teacher's identity to Piedra. (Never mind that she had tortured it out of him. Never mind that he had held out for endless days. And when he finally broke, never mind that she had said she'd known it all along, but only wanted to hear him say it. Never mind all that. The fact was he had broken and betrayed someone he'd loved.)

Loved? No. He couldn't love. Love was weakness, and he had to be strong. He raised the knife.

Dalvi's eyes went wide. *Treyma, no,* he whispered. *For your own sake--* His voice trailed off when he saw the look on the young binnaum's face. He closed his eyes. *May the Infinitely Holy have mercy on you. And may you return one day to the ways of love.*

*I have learned to kill love,* Treyma said tonelessly, driving the knife into the other man's breast. Blood welled up around his hand, drenching his sleeve, but he held the blade of the cryth until Dalvi's hearts no longer pumped and his struggles had ceased.

Then he stood up, to accept Piedra's congratulations and Janek's sardonic smile.

*************************************

Francis abruptly realized he had been sitting with his eyes closed, lost in yesterday. Thanika shifted position impatiently opposite him, frowning.

Francis cleared his throat. The only way he could get the words past his lips was to say them flat out, coldly and clinically, as if they didn't matter. *Yes, I know what became of Dalvi. I killed him.*

*You what?! Why?! How could you?!*

From the rage that was rapidly superseding shock on the other man's face, Francis knew Thanika must be about ready to pull the trigger. Somehow that thought didn't bother him nearly so much as the echoing memory of Dalvi's last words.

*It was what I had to do to prove myself worthy of being an Overseer,* he replied tonelessly.

*Kill Dalvi?!*

Say it just as if it's only a piece of information, with no possible connection to you.

*Kill whoever it is they tell you to kill. Usually it's someone you know and have reason to care for.*

Thanika shook his head, unable to quite take in that explanation. *And if you had refused?*

*I would have gone back to being cargo.*

*That's all? I mean, I could perhaps understand if it meant your life or his, or if they would have killed Dalvi anyway.*

*That's not how it works,* Francis said, feeling as if he were explaining the obvious. *That wouldn't have proven anything.*

*I see. So you bought your admission to the Kleezantsun# with Dalvi's life? It doesn't occur to you that that was a rather high price to pay?* he asked sarcastically.

You don't understand, do you? Francis thought sorrowfully.

*Thanika, you have no idea what it was like. At the time, I'd have done anything to be accepted as one of the Chosen.*

Thanika thought that over for a minute. *And now, Bin Treyma? How does that choice seem to you now?*

That was the easiest question he'd been asked so far this evening.

Francis spread his hands in a helpless gesture and said softly, *What would you like to hear me say? That I'm sorry? That I regret my past? That I'm not like that anymore? Would any of those answers satisfy you? Would they bring Dalvi back to life? If they would, consider them said. Does that help any?*

*No! Words won't erase the past. It isn't that simple.*

Francis leaned forward, his feigned calm threatening to crack into desperation. *Do you seriously think I don't know that? Is there anything I can do to make it all right, Than? If there is, tell me and I'll do it. I haven't been able to think of it yet.*

*Oh, there's something you can do, Overseer.* The other binnaum raised the gun until Francis was looking right down the barrel. *You can die.*

*We can all die,* Francis responded gently. *That's not much of a solution.*

*There's only one solution to someone like you.*

Maybe he's right, Francis thought, a sick shiver running through his brain. Pull the trigger. Get it over with. Then I won't have to endure this awful guilt any longer."

Aloud, he only asked softly, *Is that what your Drevny said?*

*No,* Thanika admitted. *I think he'd be satisfied if you would stop making mock of our ceremonies and beliefs. If you must catalyze children, do it like the abomination you are, not as if you're one of us.*

Despite the black despair in his hearts, something compelled Francis to keep talking.

*The people here are Celinists. They want the ceremonies. It's important to them. And you may not believe this, but it's important to me, too.*

Thanika dismissed that last statement with a contemptuous snort. *You didn't have such scruples on the ship. It was well-known that you were part of Piedra's experiments involving the production of children by artificial means, not to mention the various forced breeding programs some of the Overseers liked to play around with. Do your Celinist friends know about that?*

*Some of them do,* Francis admitted uneasily. Mason Dixon and his late wife, Verna. Hatred still burns in Dix' eyes every time he looks at me.

*What about the ones who don't?* Thanika persisted. His eyes flickered briefly sideways to the storage closet. *Do your human friends know?*

Celine! If Pat is listening, she heard all that!

Seeing the expression on Francis' face, Thanika smiled triumphantly, knowing he had scored a telling point. *And do people know what you did after the Ship landed, Treyma? Do they realize you continued to work for Piedra and her gang of Overseers even then? Would they still be your friends if they knew?*

Francis sat frozen in his own misery. Would Pat turn away from him, if she realized the full extent of his involvement on earth, when he no longer had even the threadbare excuse that he had had no choice? He had mentioned it to her once, but what if she found out all the details? And what about Richard and Jane and the others?

*I don't know,* he said at last, his voice barely above a whisper. *I pray they would.*

Thanika's expression turned cold. *I think you'd better pray about something else right now, Overseer. I've wasted enough time talking.*

Francis tried to pull himself together. *You don't want to do this, Thanika. It will make you a murderer, just as I am.*

*Justified vengeance isn't murder.* The tension had gone out of his voice now, replaced by a cold assurance.

Francis tried another tack. *How will you explain my death to the Drevny?*

*Easy. I was in the process of investigating you when you were unfortunately shot by one of these Klu Klux Klan terts who seem to be out to get you.*

*That's Ku Klux. No "'l' in the first word,* Francis corrected automatically. He deliberately didn't tell the other man that Pat and A.C. couldn't help but know he had been killed by a newcomer, not a human. Thanika wasn't a professional assassin or he'd have taken that into account. But pointing it out now might panic the would-be killer into eliminating them also.

*I don't care what they call themselves. If they get the blame, so much the better.* The other binnaum rose to his feet. *Stand up, Overseer. I don't want to shoot you while you're sprawled out on the couch.*

A memory of another time and another place, where Francis had been holding the gun and an old woman had faced him down by calmly inviting him to use it.

Leaning back on the couch, Francis forced a slight smile onto his lips. *Sorry to spoil your sense of drama, Than, but I think I'll stay right where I am. If I'm going to die, I'd rather be comfortable.*

*You don't believe I'll shoot you, is that it?* Thanika said, obviously angry at Francis' attitude. *Well, you'd better start taking me seriously. I almost killed you once already.*

This was news to Francis. *Oh? When?*

*Who do you think put that bullet through your shoulder? It would have gone through your head, if you hadn't slipped and fallen down that ravine. Once the women had gotten to you, I didn't dare try again.* At the astonished expression on the other binnaum's face, Thanika gloated, *You didn't know that was me, did you? You see, I'm not as harmless as you think I am.*

*No one driven by hatred is harmless.* But Francis was far more shaken by that bit of information than he let on. He had always assumed that shot had been fired by the assassin Piedra sent after him. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined it had been Thanika Lestrei. The odds had just shifted, and not in his favor.

*Do you still think I'd hesitate to kill you?* the other man asked.

All right, he'd started playing it this way and he would play it out to the finish. He'd do as Kheersa had done and gamble his life on the possibility that there was enough good in the other person to keep him from firing that gun. And if it didn't work? Well, this was as good a way as any to die.

Looking Thanika straight in the eye, he replied softly, *Not at all. I believe you have every intention of killing me.*

*Aren't you going to say something to try to dissuade me?*

Francis shook his head. *Why bother? We've already established that that would be useless. I can't and won't deny what I did. I'm sorry for it, but I realize that isn't enough to make up for it. I am ready to accept any action on your part that will make up for it. If vengeance is that important to you, then take it.*

Francis kept his expression dead calm as his gaze locked with Thanika's. This would either work, or it wouldn't. He meant what he had said. He wasn't going to try to stop Than by force. It was his life, and he'd rather risk it trying to face Thanika down than attempting to wrest the gun from his hand. If it didn't work and his past had finally caught up with him, then so be it.

Touching his hands to his hearts, crossing them and touching again, then touching his temples, Francis whispered to himself the invocation of Celine and Andarko. Then he started reciting in his mind the traditional prayers for someone who was about to die.

It was a fairly long sequence and he had nearly reached the end by the time the other binnaum finally reacted.

Thanika lowered his revolver with a curse. *Damn you, I can't do it! I could only shoot you that other time because I saw you aiming a rifle at an old woman. I can't do it now, like this. I thought I had the courage for it, but I don't.*

Francis drew himself back from the contemplation of death and tried to make his mind run in its usual track again. It was almost a shock to realize he was still alive.

*Bin Thanika, thank the Infinitely Holy that you can't. And don't ever call the ability to do murder 'courage'. You should know better than that.*

*Yes, I suppose I should.* Putting the safety on, he stuck the gun into his jacket pocket. *I'm going back to New York to make my report. I still hate you, Treyma, and I'll get revenge someday, one way or another. That hasn't changed.*

*I didn't expect it to.*

Thanika let himself out through the rec room door, fading into the darkness. Francis bowed his head and allowed himself to relax at last. *But I wish it had changed,* he murmured. *Oh, I wish it had!*

His reverie was interrupted by Pat's voice calling softly, "Francis? is he gone?"

"Uh, yeah." He stood up unsteadily, then limped over to the closet. "I'm coming to let you out of there now."

But he wanted to hesitate longer, unwilling to find out exactly how much Pat had overheard.

Francis unlocked the door. The humans had apparently managed to untie their wrists, but wisely hadn't dared do anything further to free themselves while Thanika had been there.

Steeling himself against the look he expected to see on Pat's face, Francis was taken entirely by surprise when A.C. was the first to come out of the room. The boy had barely cleared the doorway when he turned to the newcomer and asked sheepishly, "If I promise to quit the Klan, will you forget about what I tried to do tonight?"

"Uh-- "

"Yes, of course we will," Pat answered decisively, stepping out to join them but not looking at Francis.

"Wait a minute! Why would you quit? What's going on here?"

A.C. looked even more sheepish, if that were possible. "I need to think some things through. Maybe courage isn't quite what I thought it was. And maybe being a man isn't quite what I thought it was either."

Pat put an arm around the boy's shoulder and smiled at him, but Francis could see the tension around her eyes. "And maybe having the courage to admit that is the first step towards becoming a real man."

A.C. grinned. "Or a real woman, huh?"

"Yeah," Pat agreed, giving him a slap on the back as she released him. "Now get out of here. It's late and people will be wondering where you are."

A.C. headed for the door, leaving the newcomer staring after him in surprise. Then Francis remembered he might well have a bigger problem than just the boy on his hands.

"Uh--Pat--?" he started to ask.

She turned away, her eyes fixed on a point somewhere across the room. "Yes, I understood most of what was said, if that's what you want to know. I translated a lot of it for A.C. I suspect that's what led to his change of heart."

"I don't get it."

"As I told him what was being said, I'm afraid I slanted the truth a little," Pat said bitterly, still not meeting his eyes. "You've won a couple of people away from the Klan. I guess I thought I could do it too. I deliberately gave A.C. the impression that you were owning up to your past misdeeds because you profoundly regretted what you had done and were willing to take the consequences. I tried to make you seem like a hero, so maybe he'd get a better idea of what real courage is." She laughed shortly. "Looks like it worked."

But if her ploy had worked so well, why was she standing with her back to him and her fists clenched at her sides?

"Pat, please tell me what's wrong," he said, foreboding slithering coldly up his spine.

She turned to him abruptly, black eyes blazing. "Even as I was telling it to A.C., I realized it was a lie! It wasn't what you said, Francis. It was the way you said it. Just as calm and cold as you could be, as if none of it bothered you in the least. As if you really weren't sorry at all!"

"No, that's not true--"

"Don't make it worse by denying it! I thought I knew you pretty well. I thought you were being honest with me about regretting what you had done, and all the rest of that. But tonight, talking to him --" She shook her head in disgust "-- you didn't even sound ashamed when you admitted you murdered that teacher of yours, just so you could become an Overseer!"

This was nothing like any of the possible reactions he had anticipated. It was so far from the truth that Francis was taken completely aback.

"You don't understand --" he finally managed to say.

"There's nothing to understand! You gave us all that 'Oh, I'm so sorry' routine, but when you were talking to someone you knew you couldn't fool and you didn't think I could tell what you were saying, what you really feel came out! You lied to me, Francis. And that's the one thing I can't forgive."

"No, Pat. I never lied to you," he said, willing with all his soul that she would believe him.

"Don't give me that!" she snapped. "Our whole friendship is built on a lie. You're not sorry about your past at all. The only thing you're sorry about is that it's over!"

"I quit all that," Francis tried to object. "I left Piedra of my own free will --"

"Did you really? Or did she just get sick of having a binnaum for a playtoy? Besides, you weren't in any hurry to leave, once you were here on earth. You told me you stuck with her for over a year."

"I explained about that. I --"

"Oh yes. You were afraid." Her voice dripped sarcasm. "Afraid, Francis? You, who faced down poor Bin Thanika without turning a hair? Am I supposed to believe you went from being a monumental coward to being a hero, practically overnight?"

Yes, he thought. Yes, because that's the truth. And because there's a big difference between facing Thanika Lestrei and facing Piedra Frelani. But he couldn't say that, because then he'd have to explain more about Piedra.

"Well, if you think I'm impressed by your cold-blooded heroics tonight, you'd better think twice," she went on. "I may have fooled A.C. into thinking you're a hero, but you sure didn't fool me."

"I wasn't trying to fool anyone," he replied haughtily. She was carrying this just a little too far. His nerves, already lacerated by the run-in with Thanika, were rapidly fraying. The throbbing pain in his burned foot wasn't helping matters any either.

She snorted. "What did you do on the Ship, Francis? Seems you've been pretty vague about the details, haven't you? How many other people did you murder besides Dalvi?"

His incipient anger detoured into confusion in the face of this new accusation. "I -- don't know. I didn't --"

"Didn't what? Keep count? Damn it to hell, what kind of a monster were you?!"

Barely controlled rage twisted Pat's face into the visage of a ferocious stranger. He backed away in surprise.

"You -- don't want to know," he choked out, unable even now to overcome his pervasive sense of guilt.

"Ah, but I do. And Thanika already told me, remember? In addition to your other duties, you were involved in some experimental breeding programs, right? Now why do I get the impression that your subjects were somewhat less than willing participants in your 'scientific' research? Assuming there was anything even remotely scientific about it, that is."

"Oh, there was," he said, clinging to some hope of explaining his actions. "We were trying to find more efficient ways to produce children. We tried all kinds of things."

Now it was her turn to back away. Eyeing him as if he'd just turned into some sort of noisome object, she asked coldly, "Are any of those things you'd like to tell me about in more detail?"

Silence, as Francis realized he should have kept his mouth closed.

"No answer, huh? What were you, some kind of a rapist?"

Worse than that, Pat. Much worse.

He hung his head, unable to reply.

"Is that what Verna and Mason Dixon had against you?" she persisted. "Is that why they hated you so?"

"Pat, don't do this to me," he begged.

"Don't do this to you?! What did you do to them?"

He closed his eyes and shook his head.

"Then maybe I should ask Dix," she said scornfully. "Maybe he'd tell me the truth about you, since it seems you haven't -- Overseer."

In spite of himself, Francis winced at the epithet that was also the truth. Pat, I trusted you. I cared for you. I told you what I dared not tell anyone else.

But he couldn't say that aloud.

"Well, have you nothing to say for yourself?" she demanded.

No excuses came to his lips, for he had none. All he could do was stare at her in misery.

"My god! And to think I trusted you! I went into business with you!" She looked at the walls of the Inn as if they were about to fall in and crush her. She ran out into the Front Office.

Francis heard the door to her apartment open, then slam shut. He stood staring at the empty place where Pat had been, her accusing voice echoing in his mind. Then he started shaking.


The following day, Francis limped painfully over to the Inn, hoping he'd be able to set things straight with Pat, but she refused to speak to him at all.

Scarlett O'Hara and Gypsy Rose Lee had offered to help out in Housekeeping over the holiday weekend, knowing how short of staff the Inn was. When the two Tenctonese women showed up later that morning, Francis figured Pat must have asked them to come in a day early in order to make up the rooms that he should have been working on with her.

Francis decided discretion might indeed be the better part of valor, so he made himself scarce during the busy holiday weekend. Although the swelling was beginning to go down in his foot, he still couldn't walk well enough to be useful, so he didn't feel particularly guilty about doing nothing.

Sitting alone in his cottage with his foot propped up, he brooded over what had happened. In unguarded moments, the chance recollection of some remark Thanika had made would send a fresh wave of self-loathing crashing down over his mind. His feet cramped with anxiety and once he actually vomited into a nearby wastebasket.

When Sunday afternoon finally arrived and the last guests had been loaded into their buses and sent off, Francis expected Pat to come over any minute to talk things out with him.

As the shadows lengthened toward evening and she still hadn't appeared, he trudged over to her apartment and knocked on the door.

"Who's there?" came the muffled response.

"It's Francis. We need to talk."

"Go away."

He pushed the door open and stepped inside. "Damn it, Pat, we have to talk --" he began.

Pat had a suitcase on the couch and was rapidly filling it with clothes, tears running down her face.

"What are you doing?" he asked, stunned.

She stopped and looked up at him. "What does it look like I'm doing? I'm leaving. I don't want anything more to do with you."

"But -- but -- the Inn --" he stammered. "We're partners --"

"Are we? Partners trust each other. We don't, not anymore."

"You can't leave."

"No? Just watch me ." She resumed her packing. "Get out, Francis. Leave me alone. I'll be gone in a couple of hours."

"But where will you go?" he asked, hardly able to believe what he was hearing.

"Scarlett's. I've got an open invitation to stay with her anytime."

"But what will happen to the Inn?"

Her lips twisted into a mocking smile. "In the immortal words of Rhett Butler, 'Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn."'

They had watched that movie together on HBO only last week, laughing about some of the quaint ideas it portrayed. The memory of that shared time sent a pang through his hearts, even as his anger began to burn.

"Pat, don't --"

She strode over to the door and jerked it open. "Just do me a favor and get out, will you? You've done enough damage already."

So have you, Francis thought bitterly as he stalked out of the apartment, wrenching the knob from her hand and slamming the door behind him.

How dare she? After all he'd done for her, all the money he'd invested in the Inn. Why, she'd still be a two-bit clerk at that rundown motel where she used to work if not for him!

How could she have so misinterpreted what he had said to Thanika? What was wrong with humans, anyway?


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