Jane opened the refrigerator, handing out a carton of milk and a beer. "Now, why don't you two go sit on the porch while I get supper started? I'll join you in a few minutes."

"You got a deal. I hate cooking." Pat headed for the door. "C'mon, Francis. We're not wanted here."

"Oh, but I don't think Jane meant to make us feel unwelcome," he protested.

Pat rolled her eyes expressively, grabbed his arm, and pulled him after her, shaking her head. "Oh, brother! Why didn't they teach you guys slang while they were at it, instead of just proper English?"

He must have missed something again. With the possible exception of human concepts of humor, idiomatic expressions seemed to be the hardest things for most newcomers to grasp.

Out on the porch, Pat threw herself full-length into the hammock, draping one leg over the side and rocking herself as she tipped the beer can up to her mouth. "Man, this beer tastes great! Really hits the spot."

Francis did not ask her which of the spots on his head she thought it hit. He wasn't sure he wanted to know. He perched on the porch railing, listening to the chirrup of insects in the shade of a patch of trees not far away. A small airplane flew by in the distance. By the sound, it was a jet. By the size and shape, some sort of fighter plane. it wasn't the first one he had noticed in this area. There must be a military base not far away.

Pat interrupted his musings. "Francis Bernardone, huh? Not Frank or Fran?"

"No. I prefer Francis."

She shook her head. "Now, why does that name sound familiar?"

He didn't reply. If she didn't know, he wasn't about to tell her. He'd never yet met a human who'd recognized it.

"Ah, I've got it!" she exclaimed, snapping her fingers. "St. Francis of Assisi, right? Bernardone was his last name."

This time he was too surprised to respond.

Pat shook her head and said something that sounded like "Um, um, um". He had no idea how to translate that literally, but it seemed to be an expression peculiar to this area of the country, usually meaning something like, "Well, doggone! How about that?"

"They sure saddled you folks with some weird names," she went on. "Would you believe one of Jane's friends is called Mason Dixon? But then, maybe you wouldn't recognize the reference "

"I have heard of the Mason-Dixon line."

Her black eyes studied him again. "You knew about St. Francis too, didn't you?"

"I looked it up. He seems to have been a most interesting person. But how did you recognize it? His last name is not common knowledge among humans."

She took another swallow of beer. "My mom sent me to a Catholic Bible School for a couple of summers when I was a kid. Cheaper than daycare, back then. It was run by Franciscan sisters and we read this little book about St. Francis.'' She flashed him a bright smile. "Do you talk to birds too?"

"No, I --"

"Francis, I'm only teasing. Don't be so serious."

He drank some of his milk. This human was interesting. He decided he rather liked her.

She shifted position in the hammock, sitting up and letting the amusement fade from her face. "So, you've met the local White Knights, eh?"

"You mean the people in sheets?"

"Yeah." She took another swig of beer. "You know, I remember my mother telling me about some of the stuff they did before I was born. They burned a cross on our lawn once."

"Why were they bothering your family? You're not a newcomer."

"Honey, you don't have our history down too good. The Klan was after black folks long before you all arrived." She lay back again and gave the hammock a push with her leg. "Momma was too uppity. She was one of the first to go into the white restaurants and all, after segregation was made illegal."

"Then why was one of the people who attacked us last night black?"

"Really?! Ate you sure?" Pat sat abruptly upright in the hammock, frowning at him intently.

Francis nodded.

"Somehow, I find that even more upsetting than if they'd all been white. But I guess it's only to be expected, nowadays. Since you newcomers arrived, things have gotten easier for blacks. After all, we may be the wrong color, but we're still human. South Africa ended apartheid a year after your ship landed. Voluntarily, too. Who'd have imagined that, ten years ago?" She shook her head, taking another swallow of beer. "But back to last night. You're absolutely sure one of them was black?"

"Oh, yes. He was the one using the whip."

"What did he look like?"

Francis shrugged, then immediately regretted the motion, as it sent fresh pain across his back.

"Like any other human in a sheet. I couldn't see his face. I only know he was like you because of his hands."

"Could you tell anything else about him? For instance, are you sure it was a man? Did you hear his voice?"

"No. But of the people who spoke, there was only one woman."

"Then why do you think it was a man?

"If you were going to have someone whipped, would you give the whip to a man or a woman?"

"Good point."

"Besides, he was taller than I am."

"That's not saying much. You're not particularly tall."

Francis almost shrugged again, but caught himself in time.

"He was the biggest one of the group. Also, on the heavy side. Not really fat, but what you might call stocky, if I've got the word right."

"What color were his hands?"

"Black. I already told you that."

"No, I mean how black? Darker than I am? Lighter?"

Francis considered that. Pat's skin was the color of dark chocolate, but he'd seen humans in many other shades. "Well, it was nighttime, remember. But I'd say pretty close to your color."

Pat gave a satisfied nod. "Okay. That leaves us with several possibilities."

"Possibilities for what?"

"Not that kind of possibility, Francis. I mean I know several people he might be, just based on what you've said. One of them is a Baptist minister, so I think we can rule him out right off. He's too dogmatically religious for my liking, but he'd never condone that sort of violence. The others who fit that description are mostly ordinary folks. Of course, I don't know everyone in the local black community, so it could easily be someone else entirely." She shrugged. "Now, what about the others? Can you remember anything about them?"

"I can remember a lot about them. What would you like to know?"

"Everything. Maybe we can figure out who these bastards are." She drained her beercan, then crushed it negligently in one hand.

"Would that do any good?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. But I'd sure like to know. Wouldn't you?"

He never had a chance to answer that, since Jane appeared at the door to tell Pat it was time to come fry her hamburger.

When the black woman had gone into the house, Francis stared after her
thoughtfully. "Your friend is an interesting person."

"She sure is," Jane agreed enthusiastically. "Do you know, she's the first human Richard and I met when we came here? We stayed at the motel where she works the night we arrived, before we met the Dixons and were invited to share their house while we looked for one of our own. She was on duty at the front desk and seemed so friendly and helpful, even though we could see her boss frowning at her all the while. We've been friends ever since." Jane gestured vaguely to her left. "She lives down the road a piece, in a house she inherited from her mother. She's all alone. No husband, no children. Isn't that a shame?"

"Um," he replied noncommitally.


Francis hardly dared admit it, but he was enjoying himself. After several days spent recuperating, he offered to make himself useful. Each day after Jane left for the daycare center, he and Richard worked at clearing the brush from the far edges of the yard. There seemed no end of work to do, but it was nice to be outdoors, despite the heat and humidity of early summer and the insects that swarmed around and sometimes stung.

The property had once been part of a farm, but it had been left to grow wild for many years. Most of the trees were second growth, but they had reached a respectable size. While Richard had no intention of removing the trees, or even of destroying the undergrowth and turning all five acres into lawn, he did want to get rid of the catbrier vines that had engulfed everything in their thorny grip and just generally clear away dead wood and other debris.

The banks of the small creek that cut across the far corner of the property were adorned with piles of old roofing shingles, a few rusting appliances, worn out tires, and even a rotting sofa, amongst other kinds of trash.

*See that mess?* Richard said disgustedly. *This was used as a dumping ground until I fenced off the path leading in from the main road.*

*Maybe I could clear out the back of my van and we could haul this stuff to the county landfill,* Francis suggested.

Richard brightened a bit at that, but then his face resumed its usual melancholy expression. *What's the use? We're only going to have to sell out and leave anyway.*

*As soon as my back is a little better, we'll clean it up,* Francis declared positively. Richard didn't argue.

It was entirely different from the rootless life Francis had been leading. Jane's company was quite pleasant, and he was beginning to feel comfortable with Pat. Sitting on the porch with them and watching the sun go down was his favorite part of the day. His back was healing well and the exercise made him more relaxed than he had been in years.

Ten days went by before Francis knew it. Soon the month of June would come to an end and summer would begin in earnest, when the tourists started arriving at the nearby beach towns.

Early the following week, he noticed that Pat, who never wore any jewelry, had an enamel pin on her collar. Every time he saw her that week, it was still there: a small pink triangle, point down. On Friday, his curiosity got the better of him. It was her day off, so they were driving to the shopping center in her car to do some food shopping when he finally asked about it.

She sucked in a sudden breath, then let it out slowly. still staring straight ahead at the road, she replied, "Francis, I'm gay."

That didn't seem to have any relation to what he had asked. What difference did it make to him if she was carefree and happy? He almost said as much when he recalled that the word had an alternate meaning. Ah! Those who loved people of the same sex. That made more sense, but he was still confused. "So what does that have to do with the pin?"

"The pink triangle is the symbol for the Gay Liberation movement. This is Gay Pride Week. I can't get off from work to go to the march in Willemton, but I promised myself I'd wear the pin all week instead."

"Other humans will understand what it means?"

"Some of them will." Her full lips thinned as she clamped them together grimly. "Too many Americans like gay people about as much as they like newcomers, but for different reasons."

"You humans are strange sometimes. Why should anyone care who you choose as a partner?"

"There are a lot of reasons, but they might not make much sense to you. Just take it from me: they care. Why, until just last year, it was against the law in this state."

"You're kidding!?"

"I wish I were."

"Do you have a partner? I mean, I've never seen you with anyone --"

She looked away. "No, I have no one right now. The only person I really care about -- well, never mind that. She couldn't love me anyway, so it's not important "

Things he'd only half noticed before clicked into place. "You're talking about Jane, aren't you?"

"No! What ever made you think that? How could I -- I mean, she's not gay. I'd never --"

"It's Jane."

She pulled into the parking lot and found a space. Removing the key from the ignition, she pushed her sunglasses up onto her head and looked at him. "Yeah, it's Jane. She's such a sweet kid, so kind and thoughtful. And she never treats me like -- well, you know. Like I was different.'

That sounded like Jane. She'd never yet said a word to him about being an Overseer either. But there was a problem.

"Jane is married."

"I know, and I'd never do anything to hurt her. That includes telling her how I feel. As far as Jane knows, we're just friends, and that's all I ever intend us to be. I'm not even sure if she knows about me. I haven't made a point of telling her I'm gay, but I don't keep it a secret either."

She reached forhis hand. "You won't tell her how I feel about her, will you? Please! Promise me you won't. I don't want to lose her as a friend. Francis, you've got to believe me! I'll never hurt her. Never!"

"If anyone tells her, it won't be me. I promise."

*Thank you,* she said in mangled Tenctonese. Giving his hand a grateful squeeze, she let go and hopped out of the car. "C'mon, let's go see what's on sale today."


On the way home, Pat slowed down the car as they were passing through a densely wooded area. She turned to Francis and asked, "Want to see my impossible dream? It's just a short ride down that road on the left."

"If you wish," he replied, not entirely sure what he was agreeing to.

Pat turned, ignoring the sign that read "Private Property, Keep out". Although it was paved, the road was bumpy and partly overgrown, obviously not well-used.

Suddenly, the road swept around a curve and the trees gave way to open ground. Sunlight glistened off water directly ahead. A lot of water. The curve continued around almost into a hairpin. Francis automatically stepped on a non-existent brake and braced himself against the dashboard.

"Relax," Pat said. "I've driven out here lots of times. I won't land us in the water."

She didn't, but Francis didn't truly relax until the road had straightened out again and begun paralleling the riverbank. As he looked back, he could see that the curve marked a place where an old dirt road joined the paved section. That had probably been the original road from town, before the highway had been built further inland. Perhaps a mile down the river, the bridge leading to Cartersville was clearly visible in the afternoon haze. This was the Yaupon River, then. He remembered it from the map.

He was so engrossed in watching the river that he almost failed to notice the sign on the other side of the street. Overgrown with vines and half obscured by the vegetation in front of it, it nevertheless proclaimed proudly, "WELCOME TO THE ATLANTIC INN".

Magnolia trees filled with fragrant white blossoms lined the road from there on. It swept in an elongated circle past the front of a long two-story building, with small parking areas nestled at various places under the trees. Broken windows and peeling paint told the story of a building that had seen better days. Where there had once been gardens, a few straggly flowers fought a losing battle with the weeds. An empty swimming pool sat forlornly in the middle of the oval formed by the road. The sign marking the office had lost one of its screws and hung crookedly down over the door.

"What do you think?" Pat asked, pulling the car up to the entrance. Not waiting for an answer, she went on, "Get out and I'll show you around."

He opened the car door and stepped out. "It's -- uh -- not in very good shape, is it?"

"Oh, it would take a lot of work," she admitted, "but I could make it into a wonderful place. The property includes most of the land from here to the highway, plus almost a mile along the riverbank. The Inn itself has 40 guest rooms, plus a manager's apartment. There are also five cottages out in back that could be rented. It was a fancy place once."

"That must have been some time ago."

Pat nodded, her enthusiasm not the least bit dimmed as she led him across an overgrown lawn and around the side of the building. A short wing, obviously a later addition, angled down towards the river.

"It's structurally sound," she went on. "I asked a carpenter friend of mine to come out and look it over. It would need some repairs, but mostly cosmetic work. I could make it a going concern, Francis. I know I could. I've got an angle. You see, on the upriver side, it adjoins the White Oak National Forest, so that will never be developed. Downriver there's a saltmarsh, partly on this property but mostly not. That can't be built up either, due to the Wetlands Conservation Act. The tourists will love it."

"Pat, no one's interested in a saltmarsh." Just the thought of using such a thing as a tourist attraction appalled him.

"That's what you think. The Willemton Aquarium has a hiking trail through theirs. It draws something like a half million visitors a year."

Francis shuddered at the thought. Humans did strange things for recreation, but he hadn't realized they liked to walk in saltmarshes.

They rounded the far end of the building and he found himself uncomfortably close to the river, which washed up against a low wooden seawall. He stopped short, but Pat continued walking.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"You said there's a saltmarsh. Is that saltwater?"

"Maybe. The river hits the ocean just a little further along. Probably depends on the tide. Wait a minute and I'll find out."

She walked over to the wall, stooped down, and dipped her hand in the water. Then she licked her fingers.

"Yeah, tastes pretty salty to me. Guess you don't want to come over here and look at the view, do you?"

He shook his head. She came back and they continued around the building.

"No one would want to stay here," he said positively. "Why, I'll bet you even have to look at the river from most of the rooms on this side."

She laughed. "Francis, I wasn't planning to advertise this as a Tenctonese resort. Humans will love it."

He didn't look entirely convinced.

"You don't get it, do you?" she went on. "What I'd do is market the Inn as a place for naturalists' vacations. We'd have 1ectures on marine ecology, bird-watching walks, canoe trips up the river, stuff like that. Ecology is a big thing nowadays. People would come to learn, not just to sit in the sun until their skins are fried. We're close enough to the beaches that we'd draw some of that trade, of course. But most people would come to stay right here. There could be field trips to museums, historical talks by some of the locals who remember the old days. There's so much I could do to make this into a popular resort." Her enthusiasm faded. "If I had the money to buy it, that is. Even if I sold my house, I could barely cover half the down payment."

She shook her head. The bright dream she'd conjured up turned back into weeds, dust, and peeling paint as they approached their car from the opposite direction.

As she fell silent, Francis looked around. It was indeed a lovely and peaceful location, if you didn't mind the proximity of the river. Given enough money, what Pat described did seem like a possibility.

"That would be quite an enterprise," he said carefully. "Do you think you could handle such a thing?"

"I've got a college degree in Hotel and Restaurant Administration," she replied, almost as if he'd insulted her by asking such a question. "I should be managing a motel, not working behind the front desk." Then she sighed. "But management jobs are hard to come by around here, especially if your skin is the wrong color."

"You should go somewhere else where you'd have more opportunities.''

She shook her head. "This is where I grew up and, like Jane and Richard and their friends, this is where I want to call home." Casting a wistful glance over the main building, she removed her sunglasses and wiped her eyes with the back of one hand. "Well, no use crying over what you can't have. Let's get going. Jane'll be home by now."

As they got back into the car, Francis did some mental arithmetic. If half the down payment on the Inn was equivalent to the price of an average house in this area, he had enough money to make the entire down payment himself.

He dismissed such an absurd notion with an impatient frown. Why on earth would he even think of such a thing? He had no interest in owning a dilapidated inn on the shore of a salt-infested river. It was only Pat's enthusiasm that had made him entertain such a ridiculous idea in the first place.

The sound of the car doors slamming sent up a flurry of birds from the trees. Pat took the curve at a slower speed this time. They drove the rest of the way home in silence.


Almost a week later, Francis sat contentedly on the screened-in section of porch with Jane, watching the rain fall steadily from a darkening sky.

*Richard wanted me to go into town and list our house with a real estate agent today,* Jane said softly. *I couldn't bring myself to do it. I don't want to leave.*

*Even considering the Klan?*

Her lips drew together into a grim line. *Especially considering the Klan,* she said. *This is my home. This is where I want to live.*

*There are other places. Safer places.*

She stood up abruptly and walked over close to the screen, where water sheeted down from the overflowing gutters. *You sound like Richard,* she said bitterly. She turned to face him. Suddenly, she didn't seem young and vulnerable anymore. There was a fierceness to her eyes and a taut resolution in her voice. *I'm through with being scared and I'm through with being intimidated. By anyone. Do you understand?*

Brave words. How long would they hold up, if put to the test? he wondered.

*I want to stay here,* she went on. *I want to raise my children here.*

*You don't have any children,* he pointed out reasonably.

*1 could have. I'm almost into my first cycle.*

*Do you plan to conceive?*

*No, damnit, I don't!* She turned back to the rain, crossing her arms angrily on her chest.

That sort of response was not quite what he'd expected. Reminding himself that he might well be sliding on thin ice, as the humans put it, Francis kept his mouth shut. If Jane wanted to talk about it, she could, but it might be best if he didn't pry.

*Richard thinks we should wait,* she went on, more calmly now. *Besides, the nearest Binnaum Order is located way up north in a place called New York. We don't have the money to go there. Even if we did, we couldn't both get off from work long enough. And we could hardly ask someone to come all that way, just for us.* She gave a heavy sigh. *Maybe next time things will be better. We'll try again then. Besides, we've got enough trouble here, without a child to worry about. At least that's what Richard says.*

*Is that how you feel about it?*

She shook her head. *I'd like to start our family right away, even though we've agreed we'll only have two. All day long, I work with human children. They're nice, but I'd really like my own.*

*Aren't there any Tenctonese kids in daycare?*

*No. Mostly just couples or single people have moved here so far. Very few of them have had children.*

*For the same reasons you just gave me?*

*Yes.* She turned around to face him, her arms falling to her sides. She almost said something, but then she blinked and looked away.

No, don't let her ask me. Please!

She didn't have to ask. He could see the question in her face, but she was trying so hard not to put it into words.

Francis stood up and turned away.

*Did I say something wrong?* Her voice sounded like a little girl lost in the darkness that was falling softly around them.

*No.* He turned back to face her. *Tell me something?*

She nodded.

*Why have you never so much as mentioned my being an Overseer? In all the time I've been here, you've never brought it up. Why?*

*I'll answer that if you tell me why you provoked the Klan leader into having you whipped in place of me.*

Her response took him entirely aback. When he didn't answer, she went on, *Oh, Richard refuses to admit that's what happened, but I know better. Why?*

*I -- uh -- I just thought you'd both had enough,* Francis managed to stammer. *If they'd whipped you, Richard might have done something rash. I didn't want to see you both get killed.*

*Why not? We're nothing to you. On the ship, you could have ordered our deaths. Why did you risk your life for us?*

*I didn't, really

*You did,* she persisted. Then she smiled. *You can't answer my question, can you? That's all right.*

She took a step closer to him and raised one hand as if she were going to try to touch it to his temple. When he drew back, she frowned slightly and abruptly changed her gesture, laying her hand flat on his chest. *I'll answer yours anyway. As far as I'm concerned, it's what's in your hearts that counts, not what's on your wrist.*

Francis flinched at her words, but forced himself not to pull away from her. Such a response was not something he had met with often. He was just beginning to see the depths that lay behind this young woman's cheerful exterior.

*If you truly want a child, I could help.* He hadn't realized he was going to say it until the words were already out.

She dropped her hand. *Thanks, Francis. I appreciate that. But we're strict Celinists. Richard would never agree to do it without the proper ritual.*

He hadn't figured on that. *I know the ritual,* he said hesitantly. *I've never done it that way, but I was taught how.*

Hope flared in her eyes, but died away quickly. *I don't think Richard would even consider such an arrangement.*

*Talk with him, Seliessa. If he doesn't agree, it will be as if we had never spoken of it. All right?*

She smiled and nodded.

Now what had he gotten himself into?


Richard was neither pleased by nor grateful for his offer. He was furious.

Francis had gone to bed early, leaving Jane to wait up for her husband. He was already asleep when Richard shoved the bedroom door open, crossed the small room in a few strides, and grabbed Francis by the front of his pajamas, yanking him out of bed and pushing him up against the wall.

*How dare you?!*

*Richard, it was not my intention to offer offense. Jane said she wanted to have a child --*

The other man didn't let him finish. *Not here, not now, and not with you.*

*That wasn't what she said.*

By this time, Jane was in the room and trying to pry her husband's hands loose. *Let go of him. He didn't do anything.*

*Oh no, of course not. He's entirely innocent. He just wears that tattoo for decoration.* Richard lifted him almost off his feet and slammed him into the wall again. Francis winced as his shoulder hit the wall, but he didn't offer any resistance.

*Stop it! You'll hurt him!*

*Good,* the young man replied, too calmly.

*Richard, what's gotten into you? You know we mustn't ever attack a binnaum.*

*He's an Overseer.*

*Not anymore,* Jane persisted. *And right now, you're acting more like one than he is.*

*Jane, face reality. You know full well that the Overseers are still working against us, and against everything that's good and decent in this world. What makes you think this one is any different?*

*He is. That's all.*

*That's not good enough for me.* Richard's eyes narrowed. *How about it, pal? Are you going to try to tell me you walked off the ship and suddenly became a new person?*

*No,* Francis replied. *It took several years before I decided there were other possibilities open to me. I know what the Overseers are doing. I am no longer affiliated with them in any way.*

*Oh? And what did you do before you quit?*

*You don't have any right to ask me that. What I did, why I did it, and why I stopped doing it, is not your business.*

*I'm making it my business.*

Francis shook his head. *You cannot.*

*Richard, he just told you he's not part of that anymore,* Jane pointed out. *Isn't that enough for you?*

*It's enough to keep me from tearing him into very small pieces with my bare hands. It's not enough to make me like him, or to make me want him involved with our children.*

Jane moved around behind her husband. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she snuggled against him. *You're acting like a human male. If we had a child, it would be ours. You know it doesn't make any difference who the binnaum is.*

*Not even if he is an Overseer?*

*Was an Overseer, dear,* she corrected.

Richard tried to shrug her off. *Same thing.*

*No,* Francis said quietly. "Not unless you're still a slave?*

For a moment, he thought Richard was going to attempt to make good on his threat to tear him to pieces. The young man's hands twisted the fabric of Francis' pajamas tighter around his neck and his eyes flared hatred. Richard was trying hard to get control of himself, struggling against a murderous rage. Francis devoutly hoped he'd win the battle because he didn't want to have to defend himself against this tormented youngster.

With a strangled moan, he pulled Francis away from the wall and threw him towards the bed. Richard sank into a chair, covering his face with his hands, as Francis caught his balance before he could fall backwards, sitting down cross-legged on the rumpled sheets.

*Andarko!* Richard whispered faintly. *I might have killed you.*

You might have tried, Francis thought, but said nothing aloud.

Jane stroked the sides of her husband's head. *It's okay, it's okay,* she murmured.

After a moment, he caught her hands in his own. *No, it's not okay. I shouldn't have done that. Any of that.* He took a deep breath and looked at his wife. *You really want this, don't you?*

*Yes. We're going to stay here and make this our home,* she replied firmly. *We're going to raise a family here. One way, or another.*

He finally looked over at Francis, his blue eyes troubled. *Have I just scared you off?* he asked.

*I don't scare easily.*

That was the wrong thing to say. Richard's eyes turned hard again. Then he looked back at Jane, putting an arm around her waist. *If it's what you want, darling, all right.* He glanced up at Francis. *But that doesn't mean I like it. You understand?*

*Yes.*


The following morning, Francis decided he might better keep out of Richard's way. Besides, he wanted to find out a couple of things. Getting directions from Jane before she left for work, he set off in his van for the Cartersville public library shortly before the time when Richard usually got up.

The town was almost ten miles away. He was approaching the outskirts of Cartersville when the drawbridge loomed before him, its low concrete sides seeming but fragile protection from the water below. This was the mouth of the Yaupon River, only a short distance from the sea. If he went over the side --

He almost panicked and jammed on the brakes before he could reach the bridge. Then he forced his foot back onto the accelerator. Nonsense. This was perfectly safe. He wasn't going over the edge. Besides, it wasn't much more dangerous for him than it would be for the humans and they drove across all the time. If one of their cars plunged into the water, they would drown. Perhaps a little less painful than what would happen to him, but just as deadly.

Fixing his eyes on the far shore and gripping the wheel too tightly, he kept going. Fortunately, the section of the bridge that could swing sideways to allow boats to go through showed no signs of wanting to open just then.

The downtown section of Cartersville was on Yaupon Sound, with row upon row of docks filled with pleasure boats. Front Street ran along behind the docks, crowded with people and garish with gift shops, seafood restaurants, and other essentials of the tourist trade

Mercifully, the library was located several blocks back from the waterfront. Francis parked in the lot. Taking off his sunglasses, he briefly considered putting on the wig he kept in the van. Along with his reading glasses, it was an effective disguise that he'd often used in his travels, making it just that much more difficult for anyone to track him down.

He decided against it. After all, for the past six months he'd had no reason to believe anyone was after him. It seemed dishonest and cowardly to try to pass for human when such a thing really wasn't necessary. He slid his reading glasses into his pocket because he'd need them, but he left the wig behind.

Getting out of the van, he strode around the library building to the door, only glancing once down the street at the expanse of saltwater glistening in the late morning sun. He shivered despite the heat, entering the building with relief.

Why would any newcomers want to live this close to the sea, if they had a choice?

Recalling himself to the reason for his visit, Francis looked around the library. Locating the encyclopedia section, he dug out all the volumes covering the letter K and started flipping pages.

All the articles agreed on the basics. The Ku Klux Klan began as a secret society in the South shortly after the end of the American Civil War. Its original purpose during the Reconstruction Era was to try to keep political power out of the hands of the newly freed and enfranchised blacks, using violence and various forms of intimidation. It was moderately successful in this endeavor, reaching the height of its power in the years between 1868 and 1871. As Reconstruction came to an end, the Klan lost its primary reason for existence. By 1877, it had been disbanded.

It reappeared again in 1915, as a fraternal organization devoted to perpetuating white supremacy. Although retaining the original name, it was essentially a new organization. This time, Roman Catholics, Jews, and foreigners joined blacks as targets for Klan terrorism. Its influence spread beyond the South, peaking in the early 1920's. After that, it began to wane. In 1944, the Klan was again officially disbanded when the federal government went after it for non-payment of back taxes.

Its third incarnation took place in 1946, as a result of increased civil rights for blacks and other minorities after World War II. The 1954 Supreme Court decision mandating school desegregation spurred it on, as did the passage of the Civil Rights Act ten years later. Although the federal government attempted several times to crack down on the Klan, it continued in existence throughout the 70's and 80's, with sporadic bombings, shootings, and murders, making common cause with various other white supremacist and neo-Nazi organizations.

That was as far as the encyclopedias went. Francis figured he could fill in the rest for himself. With the arrival of the newcomers, the Klan had chosen to forget past differences and spread to include all humans, in the face of the obvious threat presented by the aliens.

The Klan wasn't really much different from the Purists he'd encountered on the West Coast. This just happened to be the way the same prejudice was expressed against a different historical background.

He copied down the titles of three books listed in the articles then went looking for them on the shelves. Two weren't there, so he would have to ask Jane or Pat to reserve them for him, since he wasn't a local resident and therefore wasn't entitled to a library card. He found an old and very worn copy of "The Clansman" in the fiction section, so he sat down in a chair in a corner and started reading, trying to ignore the stares, angry looks, and occasional sotto voce comments his presence elicited from the other patrons.

He soon found himself so caught up in the author's blatantly virulent prose that everything else faded from his consciousness. Even the thunderstorm that swept in from the ocean barely disturbed him, except when the library lights flickered off for several seconds.

When he had finished, he closed the book, took off his glasses, and stared thoughtfully out the window at the clearing sky.

He could understand how such an organization could come to exist, especially in the beginning. He could even understand the particular fears and insecurities it fed on, in each time period when the Klan reappeared. But humans never seemed able to stop this sort of bigotry. He'd read of many other similar occurrences. You'd think they'd learn and take steps to prevent it, but no. It happened over and over again throughout their history.

Treyma, he scolded himself, enough of this. Humans have no monopoly on evil, and you of all people have no right to play holier-than-thou.

Replacing the book on the shelf, he left the library and headed home.


It was early July when they finally got around to clearing the junk away from the creek on one of Richard's rare days off. Pat was off also, so she 1ent a hand, mostly by gathering up the smaller stuff while the two much stronger newcomers handled the heavy items. After five trips to the dump, they were all exhausted, sweat-soaked, and filthy, but the worst of the trash was gone.

They had barely gotten back to the house and cleaned up when Richard's beeper went off.

"Great," he said, hanging up the phone. "There's been an accident on Highway 28. A couple of newcomers were involved, so I've got to go to the hospital to check on them."

"Anyone badly hurt?" Pat asked, still drying her hair with a towel.

"Doesn't sound like it. More of a bumper-folder than anything else."

"Fender-bender is the proper term, I think," Francis corrected softly.

Pat punched him lightly on the arm. "Hey, you got one right for a change!"

"Uh -- thanks."

If he got it right, why had she struck him? Strange.

"Well, whatever you call it, I've got to get going," Richard said. "Tell Jane I may be late for dinner."

"Don't worry, she'll be late too. Staff meeting today, remember? Those things go on forever."

After Richard left, Pat and Francis went out on the porch. The afternoon had turned cloudy, but it wasn't raining yet.

Pat picked up a magazine and began fanning herself with it. "Whew! If the humidity gets any higher, we'll be needing scuba tanks just to breathe!" She looked at Francis and shook her head.

"Aren't you roasting in that shirt? I mean, I'm about ready to melt and I've hardly got anything on." She gestured at her halter top and brief shorts.

"I'm okay."

"You got something against T-shirts?"

"Yes. They don't have long sleeves."

She thought about that for a minute, then decided not to pursue the subject.

He sat down in the hammock, flexing his right arm and rotating his shoulder in an effort to relieve the ache.

"You okay?" Pat asked.

"It's nothing. Guess I should have taken it easier while we were moving all that trash."

Pat pulled her chair over next to him. "Let me massage it a little and loosen up the muscles before they get stiff."

"Oh, you don't have to --"

His half-hearted protest was ignored. Her hands were already on his shoulder, her strong fingers kneading expertly.

"Relax. I'm not going to hurt you." Then, after a minute. "Is this what you call relaxing? You're stiff as a board."

He still didn't say anything, but he tried to focus on loosening the muscles in his damaged shoulder.

"That's a little better. Someday maybe you'll tell me how this happened, huh?"

"The bullet entered from the front, broke two ribs, then fractured the scapula on the way out. An inch lower and it would have hit my lung," he said matter-of-factly. "My shoulder blade's held together with pins. The doctors said I'd be lucky to be able to use the arm at all."

"That's what happened. I asked how."

He stiffened almost visibly under her hands.

"Guess I asked the wrong question. Maybe you won't tell me. Don't worry about it. Curiosity may have killed the cat but it doesn't hurt us humans."

"Killed a cat? When did that happen?"

"Never mind. I just mean I won't ask again. Let's talk about something else." Taking her own suggestion, Pat let her voice drift into a lighter tone. "You know, I used to have trouble telling you people apart. Never realized how much we depend on hairstyles to recognize each other. It was kind of hard at first, but then I figured out the trick. Instead of just looking at your faces, I go by the size and pattern of spots also. You, for instance, have relatively few roundish spots along with a number of squiggles, while Richard has a lot of rather jagged spots running front to back. Some people have one particular odd-shaped spot I can recognize them by. Females tend to have smaller and more numerous spots than males. Once I got the hang of it, I never got anyone mixed up again."

"I'm surprised more of the other humans haven't figured that out by now."

"Oh, some of them have, but they may not know they're doing it." Still keeping her voice casual, she went on, "Jane invited me to some kind of a ceremony next week."

"That's nice. Will you be able to attend, or will you have to work?"

"I'm not sure. I'm still deciding if I really want to be there. She told me what happens."

This time it was her turn to give away her feelings involuntarily. Her fingers tightened on his upper arm, digging in harder than was necessary.

Francis jumped to a conclusion and decided to test its accuracy. "You're jealous of me."

"No, I'm not. That's ridiculous." She stopped short. "Well, yeah. I guess I am. You get to make love to her, while I can't."

"Love has very little to do with it. This is simply the way our females become pregnant."

"My mind understands, Francis. It's just my heart that doesn't. Don't worry, I'll get over it. It's not a problem. Really."

"Then you'll come?"

"Yeah. I guess so."

"Good. I just wish we could do it properly, though."

"What do you mean?" she asked, puzzled.

"Well, there's stuff we should be wearing -- "

"Stuff?"

"Robes."

"No problem. I'm a whiz with a sewing machine. Make most of my own clothes, in fact. You just tell me what you want, or better yet, draw me a picture, and I can whip it up for you in no time. Unless it's something real fancy. That might take me longer."

"Well, not terribly elaborate."

"Fine. We can drive up to Willemton tomorrow. They've got some good fabric shops there." She went back massaging his shoulder, the pained expression gone from her face. She seemed quite content now that she had found a way to contribute to Jane's happiness.

This was an extraordinary human indeed.

"Pat, why do you hang out with us?"

"You're my friends."

"Yeah. But you must take a lot of – flak? Is that the word?"

She nodded, so he must have gotten it right.

"Aren't you afraid of the Klan?"

"Aren't you? And Jane and Richard and the others?"

"If we want to live here, we don't have a lot of choice. You do."

She sat back in her chair, wiping the sweat from her face with a purple bandanna that hung from the waistband of her shorts.

"Jane and Richard have been real fine to me right from the moment they arrived. I was the one who told them this house was up for sale. Once we became practically neighbors, we just seemed to find ourselves together a lot. When my mother died last winter, Jane took time off from work just to stay with me. Momma and I were real close. I was in bad shape, but Jane just kept talking to me and holding me until I couldn't cry anymore. She encouraged me to tell her about all the good times Momma and I had had together." She stared into the distance, her eyes turning shiny and wet. "None of my human friends did as much for me. I don't forget people who treat me with kindness and decency." Her forehead creased into a frown. "And I don't desert them, either. I know how much real friends are worth these days. Some people don't know what anything's worth, if it can't be bought with money."

Two jets flew over, the noise of their engines momentarily Putting a stop to the conversation. They were vicious-looking things, but graceful in their own way. It must be quite interesting to fly something like that, Francis thought, but he never expected to have the opportunity.

After the jets were gone, Pat started making plans for what she would buy in Willemton tomorrow. By the time Jane got home, the black woman had converted Francis' rough sketches of the ceremonial robes into sewing patterns, complete with measurements and estimates of the amount and kinds of fabric she'd need. Francis just shook his head in amazement and watched her work things out. He couldn't have done that if his life depended on it.

She declared positively that she'd have everything ready by the time it was needed.

The week passed slowly but peacefully. On the night scheduled for the Presentation ceremony, an early evening thunderstorm lashed the countryside with its short-lived fury as people began arriving. The entire Tenctonese community had been invited, so if everyone showed up, the house would be overflowing. Pat had gotten there early, bringing a half dozen folding chairs she had scrounged from somewhere. She had helped set up everything for the expected visitors before cleaning up and changing into her good clothes for the evening.

The rain washed some of the humidity out of the air, but it was still going to be a hot night.

Francis paced back and forth in the hallway at the top of the steps, dressed in the one formal robe he owned. Perhaps only a few people would come. Or they'd all come, but they'd all hate him. They must know who he was, even though he'd met very few of the local newcomers in the time he'd been here.

Or maybe he'd do something wrong and they'd all think he was stupid. Or maybe he'd trip on his robe as he walked into the room. Or maybe --

*Celine!* he whispered to himself. *Enough, already! You know how to do this, even if you've never actually done it before. And besides, you really don't have to do much of anything tonight. Save the stage fright for tomorrow.*

He forced himself to stand still, listening to what was going on downstairs. Judging by the noise level, a good number of people had shown up. They weren't boycotting him, at any rate.

After what seemed an eternity, he heard Richard begin the ritual, then Jane's voice as she announced that they would now collect the seeds.

That wouldn't take long. He walked carefully down the dark stairway, waiting for his cue to enter the living room.

"At this time, we are honored and pleased to present the Third One, who has blessed us by consenting to be the Binnaum of our next child: Bin Treyma #Sendra."

Arranging his face into what he hoped was an expression of calm goodwill, Francis walked into the room -- and into a crowd of people he was sure would prefer to see him dead.

It was terribly silent as Jane touched the palm of her hand to his forehead. She smiled as if she were unaware of the cold hostility of most of the other newcomers, but that was certainly not true. She knew very well what she was doing.

Encouraged by her trust, Francis went around to the others. One or two faces seemed familiar, but he couldn't attach names to any of them. Except Pat, of course. She was the only human there. She touched his forehead just as the others did, with only a slight hesitation to betray her nervousness.

One couple's reaction nearly destroyed his composure right then and there. They were older, nearer to Francis' age than most of the other guests. The man was tall, with a body that showed a strength most of the younger people would have been hard put to match. They greeted him according to procedure, but as he walked away, he heard the woman whisper to her husband, *It is him, Dix.*

Francis couldn't catch the man's soft response, but he had seen the look on his face. They knew him from the ship. There was no other explanation. He sat down. To Francis' great dismay, when Jane introduced the guest who was to be honored by being the one to wash his feet, it was the man who had recognized him.

After that, things went from bad to worse. When the formalities were over and Jane tried to introduce him to Verna and Mason Dixon, the tall man turned on his heel and strode away. Alarmed, Jane hurried after him.

Dix's wife was not so rude, so Francis found himself standing alone with Verna. He had the insane urge to ask her what it was he had done to her on the ship, but he knew he couldn't possibly say that. In an effort to make polite conversation, he asked casually, "How did you and your husband come to move here, Ms. Dixon?"

She looked at him and hesitated for so long that he thought she wasn't going to answer at all, but she finally did.

"It was because of the name the humans gave my husband," she said, her voice cold. "After finding out what it referred to, he insisted on looking up all the information he could about the South." Gazing fondly in her husband's direction, Verna almost allowed herself to smile. "Dix is a regular Civil War buff. That's how he got it into his head that we had to live here, after we saw our youngest daughter married and on her own."

So far so good. Now what could he say? "Do you like it?"

"If the humans would leave us alone, I'd like it fine. But it's the same anywhere, unless we stay in our ghettoes. I guess it's to be expected."

She frowned and one delicate hand clenched into a fist. "But if I ever get my hands on the person who tossed a brick through our window, I'll see that he's in no shape to throw anything ever again. It smashed a lovely antique mirror that had been a gift from a dear friend."

"I'm sorry."

"I suppose I should be glad no one was hurt." Her voice was more natural now, as if she'd managed to forget who she was talking to. "If they'd attacked us the way they did Jane and Richard, I know Dix would have tried to fight back. He has a terrible temper."

"You don't fight bare-handed against automatic weapons."

"Dix would."

Then he would die, Francis thought grimly, but didn't say it aloud. Instead, he pointed out, "Don't the humans have a saying to the effect that discretion is the better part of valor?"

Verna almost smiled again, then caught herself. "Tell that to my husband." Her expression turned cold. "Are you planning to stay in this area?"

"No. I'm just passing through."

"But you've been here for over a month now. I thought perhaps you might be thinking of settling down permanently."

He shook his head. "I can't."

"Oh. Too bad." But her voice told him it wasn't too bad at all. He was wondering how to answer that when Pat appeared next to him. He introduced the two women and used their conversation as cover to slip away and go to the refreshment table set up in the hallway. He did his best to be inconspicuous, but it wasn't easy.

It was getting late and a few of the guests had left when he heard Jane's voice, uncharacteristically angry. He drifted over to where she stood with Richard near the front window, surrounded by a half dozen people.

*But we can't just leave,* Jane protested. *That's what they want us to do. Can't you see that?*

*If we stay, someone will get hurt. We have no choice,* a woman argued.

Jane objected. Someone else replied. Dix stood next to Richard, glowering. Jane spoke up again. Someone shouted her down. Richard whispered in her ear, frowning. She shook her head and pushed him away, saying sadly, *You're as bad as the rest.*

Francis could keep quiet no longer. He had to give Jane some support. *You're all still thinking like slaves if you're so ready to give up your homes without resistance.*

Everyone got quiet. Then Richard turned on him, blue eyes blazing. *How dare you say that? You don't know the first thing about being a slave.*

*No? Where do you think the Overseers come from?*

When no one said anything to that, Francis went on, *I knew someone once who told me that the strongest chains are the ones inside your head, because they continue to hold you even when your body is free.*

*Pretty words, Overseer,* Dix drawled, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall. *But pretty words mean nothing without action to back them up. My wife tells me you don't plan to be here for long. You're nothing but a drifter. You don't have to live here and face what we face day after day. All you'll do is get us to stir up trouble, then you'll leave. So butt out.*

There were angry mutters of agreement from the others.

Francis didn't know how to answer that, since it was essentially true. He shouldn't have said anything. It was up to them to decided how to deal with the Klan, not him. And yet, their resentment hurt. Much to his own amazement, he realized he felt something for these people. He actually cared what happened to them. Could that be possible, after so many years of not caring what became of anyone but himself?

Panic edged into his mind. Long ago, he had learned not to care, at a cost he didn't want to think about. He must be just imagining things. Besides, it wasn't even a sincere emotion. If he truly did care, he wouldn't be planning to leave. He'd have to stay here and join in the struggle, and he couldn't do that, even if he wanted to. There were people who might catch up with him if he settled down.

He left the accusation unanswered and turned away. Pat grabbed his arm and asked what that had been all about. "Tell you later," he promised.


The following day took at least an eternity to pass. Early in the afternoon, Pat's car threw a plume of dust as it bounced up the dirt road to the house.

"Jane's not home from work yet," Francis said as he came down the stairs.

Pat was already in the living room. She pulled the drycleaning bag off the robes and held them up, declaring proudly, "Ta-da! Here they are. What do you think?"

Francis squelched the flood of emotions that rose in his mind before anything could show on his face. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he inspected Pat's handiwork. "Beautiful. Exactly right."

She beamed at the praise, then held the red robe at arm's length in front of her. "This will look so nice on Jane, don't you think?"

"Uh -- well, yes. I suppose it will."

He wasn't used to thinking in terms of it looking nice on someone. It was simply what the female was supposed to wear, that's all.

Something in his voice must have given away his nervousness, because Pat stared at him sharply for a moment before she draped the robes carefully over a chair. "What is it, Francis? You look as if you're scared to death of something."

"No. I'm just a little worried about -- how it's going to go tonight."

She smiled at him archly. "According to Jane, this isn't exactly the first time you've catalyzed a child."

"No, of course not. I've coupled with lots of females before, although not in the last few years." He dismissed that subject hurriedly, not daring to think about it too much. "But I've never tried to do it as it should be done, even though I learned the proper rituals long ago. Besides, I'm not really supposed to be doing this --"

He'd already said far more than he had intended, so he cut himself short.

"I think I understand." Pat laid one hand on his shoulder. "I saw the way people looked at you last night. To put it mildly, some of them don't much care for you, do they?"

"That's putting it mildly indeed," he concurred.

"They should know better than to judge someone that way --"

He stopped her. "This is different, Pat. I truly am guilty of doing the things they hate me for."

"But --"

"There are no buts." He turned away from her, walking over to the window. "I'd like to be alone for a while. Okay?"

"Okay. See you tonight."

Her footsteps receded toward the door, then stopped. "Don't worry so much, Francis," she said softly. "You'll do fine. I know it."

Then she was gone and he was alone in the room, with the robes draped neatly over the chair next to him.

Was he really going to go through with this? Did he dare? He should never have agreed to it. It would have been just as effective in private. He should have refused. He should have –

*Oh, come on, Treyma,* he muttered to himself. *If we're discussing "should have", you should have left the day after you got here. You can't run out on Jane and Richard now. It means a lot to them.*

Fool! a voice whispered softly in his mind. It means a lot to you too. Admit it.

*No. It's just that I promised -- *

Twice a fool, not to recognize your own feelings.

*All right!* he replied, exasperated with the conversation he was having with himself. *Yes, it means a lot to me. These young people like me. Why, they're even beginning to trust me! Why shouldn't I want to make them happy?*

Is that all? whispered the implacable voice.

*No, that isn't all,* Francis admitted softly, gathering the robes into his arms and trying not to look at the one he was going to be wearing. *But I don't have the right. I betrayed --*

The voice in his head took on an old woman's tone, a woman that he knew all too well, even though she had been dead for close to two years.

Bin Treyma, the past is over. What are you now, today? And what do you wish to be tomorrow? That is all that truly matters.

Francis closed his eyes, his fingers tracing the pattern stitched
into the robe. *This is what I wish to be, Kheersa,* he whispered brokenly. *I just don't know if I dare.*

Try, Bin Treyma. Try.

And the voice faded into silence.

*All right then, I will,* he replied with grim determination. *And may the Infinitely Holy have mercy on me.*

He took the robes upstairs and laid them out on the bed. Then he seated himself carefully on the floor and tried to remember the meditation sequences he had been taught. After all those years, he wasn't very good at it at all.

By the time evening came, Francis was in a state of near panic, suppressed into the appearance of dead calm. He was sure he had done everything correctly thus far. He had put on the robe, but hadn't been able to look in the mirror. He had heard people arriving for the last half hour, so they must be about ready to begin the ceremony.

Floorboards creaked in the upstairs hallway. Jane rapped once on his door and said quietly, *Time, Francis. I'm going down now.*

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Touching his hands to his hearts, he crossed them on his chest then touched his temples in the standard invocation sequence. That done, he pulled the hood up over his head and started out of the room.

At the bottom of the stairs, Pat stood waiting for him, holding a lighted candle. Since Jane and Richard had no children, she had been asked to escort him. She gave him a smile that outshone her candle, then stepped forward into the dimmed living room, saying clearly the Tenctonese phrase she'd probably been practicing all day: *Bid welcome to the Binnaum.*

People responded, but Francis didn't really hear them. Jane was lying on the bed, which had been placed in front of the back window. Richard looked very elegant in his white robe, but his face still showed his conflict over the entire situation.

Vastly relieved that his own emotions weren't written as clearly in his expression as Richard's were, Francis walked over to the other man and stood in front of him.

Whatever his misgivings, Richard said nothing. He reached up to lower the veil over Francis' face.

Suddenly a woman's voice cut through the silence, coming from outside the house: "Try screwing this, slags!"

There was a ripping sound as something came flying through the screen on the open window. It hit the bottom of the bed, bounced once, and landed next to Jane's head.

It took Francis barely a split second to recognize the object as a hand grenade. His mind hadn't fully processed that information before he began reacting. In one continuous motion, he scooped up the grenade in his right hand before it had fully come to rest and tossed it out the back window. He threw himself down on top of Jane, hoping to protect her from the blast.

Then the explosion shook the house. Glass shattered and flew around them. The room went completely dark as guests and candles were knocked to the floor.

As soon as the noise subsided, people were on their feet, checking on each other and stomping out flames from the few candles that had remained burning. Someone screamed shrilly. Others ran out the front door.

Francis lifted himself off of Jane as Richard picked himself up from the floor. The young man was cursing steadily under his breath.

*Easy,* Francis said. *It's all over. I don't think anyone was badly hurt.*

Despite his effort to sound calm, he had started to shake. The realization of how close they had all come to being killed was only now working its way into his mind. He sat down on the edge of the bed. Pressing his fingers to his temples, he propped his elbows on his knees and closed his eyes. Summoning his usual image of star-filled space, Francis let the empty void suck the fear out of his mind.

Pat came over next to him, putting an arm around his shoulders. "You okay?" she whispered.

"I will be in a minute."

"How did you do that so fast? I'd still have been standing there staring at it and trying to figure out what to do."

Her voice destroyed his concentration, but he had control of himself now. He sat up straight.

"You have to learn to react without thinking. Besides, I can move faster than you can anyway," he added quickly, not wanting her to wonder exactly how he had learned to react that way.

Dix came back in the front door, followed by several others. *No one out there now,* he reported tersely to Richard. *I'm afraid that bomb blew some branches off your trees.*

*That's all right,* Jane said firmly. *It could have done a lot worse.* She was sitting up, the red veil knocked awry.

Someone struck a match and began lighting the surviving candles. Dix surveyed the flickering shadows. *Anyone hurt?*

*Nothing but cuts and bruises. Verna's got a nasty slash on her arm though,* a voice replied.

Richard went over and knelt by the injured woman, as Dix hurried after him.

*There's a first aid kit in the kitchen,* Jane reminded them.

As things returned to normal, everyone looked around uncertainly at the mess of
glass and toppled furniture. A few people began picking things up.

Someone handed Richard the first aid kit and he began bandaging Verna's arm. *I knew we shouldn't have tried this,* he said softly, as if he were talking to himself. *I knew there'd be trouble.*

The muted background conversation whispered similar sentiments.

"Francis," Pat said very softly, "get up and do something. If you don't, this is going to fall apart."

"How do you know? You don't even understand what they've been saying."

"I don't have to. I can tell by the looks on their faces. They're scared. Come on. Get up."

He let her pull him to his feet. She was right. Couples clung to each other dazedly. Several people looked as if they were ready to head for the door. Dix glowered, whether at him or at the absent grenade thrower it was impossible to tell. Finished with Verna, Richard stood up and looked around as if he didn't know what to do next.

Francis smiled. As if it were an entirely ordinary action, he shook the dust and shards of glass off the skirt of his robe. *Where were we?* he said into the tense silence.

*You expect us to go on with this, after what's happened?* Richard demanded.

*Of course. If we don't, we give the victory to the ones who attacked us. Isn't that so?*

He was looking at Richard, but his words were addressed to Dix and the others as well.

For a long moment, no one said anything. Out of the corner of his eye, Francis could see Pat standing next to him, understanding nothing of what was being said, but trying to look proud and fierce and unintimidated, as if one hand grenade more or less was nothing to be bothered about.

It was Jane who tipped the balance. She rearranged her veil and laid back on the bed. *He's right, Richard. Let's get on with it. I'm ready.*

Richard nodded numbly and took his place next to her.

Francis looked over the disarrayed and bedraggled group of newcomers as they prepared to resume the ceremony. A tentative sort of determination had begun to replace the fear on their faces. Here and there, people threw back their shoulders and met his gaze with hope in their eyes.

Something hard and cold cracked in Francis' mind, and he was suddenly drowned in a rush of feeling for these people, feeling so intense it was almost like pain. He shuddered, wanting to curl up into a ball and press his fists to his temples.

As quickly as it had come, the intense surge of emotion ceased. But he remembered how it had felt, what he had realized in that brief time.

He wanted to see these people make it in their new homes, wanted to see their little community do well and prosper. He'd like to see their children grow up, free and happy on their own land. And he wanted to be a part of it, instead of a wandering stranger, always looking over one shoulder for the doom that might or might not catch up with him. He was sick of running.

So he decided to stop, whatever the consequences

Richard's hand was shaking as he reached to lower the veil over Francis' face. Francis caught the other man's wrist before he could complete the motion. The sleeve of his robe had fallen back so that his Overseer's tattoo was clearly visible.

*Richard,* Francis said, *I'11 stay here, if you will.* Then he looked up, adding firmly, *All of you.*

He let go of Richard's hand, but made himself look unwaveringly into the other newcomer's deep blue eyes.

Your move, Richard. What's it going to be?

Richard looked down at his wife, searching for her eyes under the veil that obscured her face. After a long moment, he nodded. *I can't speak for anyone else, but Jane and I aren't going anywhere,* he said. Others agreed, tentatively at first, but then with growing assurance.

"I don't know what you said, but it worked," Pat whispered in Francis' ear.

"You know that motel you want to buy?" he whispered back. "There's a way we could do it. I'll talk to you about it later."

Her smile was blinding. "You got a deal." She stepped back and away, realizing everyone was staring at them now and waiting to proceed.

Richard's hand still shook as he lowered the veil in front of Francis' face, but the expression in his eyes was different now. Francis lay down next to Jane, trying to wash the remaining tension out of his thoughts so he could concentrate on the business at hand. As the others gathered around the bed, he banished all the night's events from his mind, letting only peace and clarity remain.

When they turned their backs, he turned to Jane.