FOR YE WERE STRANGERS
Kerry Lindemann-Schaefer

Thou shalt neither vex a stranger, nor oppress him:
For ye were strangers in the land of Egypt.
EXODUS 22:21
BIBLE, King James Edition



"Francis, you can't go like that!"

"Why not? What's wrong?"

"The way you're dressed. We can't go to the real estate agent with you in a denim shirt and jeans." Pat shook her head in pained exasperation. Francis couldn't tell if she was truly angry or just amused.

"But this is the same way I usually dress," he protested.

"Not if you want to impress people with the fact that we're serious about buying the Atlantic Inn. Don't you have a suit and tie?'

"Actually, no. I think that sort of outfit looks funny."

She took his arm and started leading him back into the Wagners' house. "Come on. Let's see if we can fit you into one of Richard's suits."

"But Pat --"

She stopped and faced him, putting her hands on her hips. "No buts. Can't you see that I'm wearing a dress? I like that even less than you like a business suit, but I'm doing it. Once we own the Inn, we'll wear whatever we please, but we could be in for some difficult negotiations today. As a gay black woman and a newcomer trying to buy a business together, we need all the points we can get in our favor."

"Well, if you think it's really necessary," he replied grudgingly.

"It is. Come on."

Fifteen minutes later, they got into Pat's car. Francis ran a finger around his tight collar and grimaced. "Are you sure this will make a difference? I feel ridiculous."

"You look fine. Very handsome, as a matter of fact. Just be careful how you bend over, because you might split a seam. Richard's a bit thinner than you are."

"Well, he's quite a bit younger than I am too," Francis retorted. He shifted in the seat in a vain attempt to sit comfortably in the too-tight trousers. For the tenth time in as many minutes, he pulled on the sleeve of the white shirt he wore beneath the jacket, to be sure it came down far enough to cover the tattoo on his wrist. He had lived with that tattoo for a long time. Why did the sight of it now bother him so much that he could barely stand to look at it himself, much less allow other people to see it?

The day was hot and humid and he was stifling in the extra layers of clothing, but if this silly outfit would help them get the Inn, he'd follow Pat's advice. Owning a business would surely gain him not only the respect of the local humans, but perhaps even acceptance by the Tenctonese community. Someday, he vowed, he'd make them forget that he had been one of the Kleezantsun#. Someday, there would be a place here for him. Someday --

He shrugged away the wistful hope and contented himself with staring out the window at the trees as they drove the ten miles to Cartersville. Pat seemed uncharacteristically quiet, so he concluded she must be more anxious about this than she wanted to admit. She only got quiet when she was worried about something.

He opened the glove compartment, intending to put a tape in the tape deck. The music might soothe her nerves. She didn't seem to be paying any attention to him, just staring straight ahead at the road and frowning behind her sunglasses.

The first tape he encountered surprised him. Thinking he'd read it wrong, he held it closer to his eyes. BERLITZ SCHOOL OF LANGUAGE -- TENCTONESE SELF-TAUGHT -- TAPE 5.

Pat finally noticed what he was doing. He saw her glance sideways at him, then back to the road.

*How long have you been studying this?* he asked in Tenctonese, wondering how much she had covered in the four previous tapes.

*Last -- spring. When Jane and I -- becoming were --* She switched to English. "How do you say 'friends'?"

He told her. She repeated it, fairly accurately.

*Not bad for a beginner.*

*Say again?*

He repeated himself. This time she got it.

*Thank you. I understand -- more than -- talk.*

He switched back to English, since she was obviously still struggling with the Tenctonese. "Why didn't you ask us to help you?"

"I didn't want you to know I was studying it until I could do more than fumble around."

"Well, I guess we'll all have to be more careful about what we say in front of you from now on," he said, keeping a straight face. "No more snide comments and human jokes."

For a moment, Pat looked surprised. Then she laughed. Good. He must have said it right if she had realized he was only kidding.

"You're pulling my leg," she scoffed.

He'd heard that one before, but couldn't help glancing at the slim brown calves showing below the hem of her dress. Where on earth had they gotten that expression?

"Yes," was all he answered. The road curved slightly and he noticed they were almost into town. He put the tape away and fidgetted nervously in his seat.

After having lived in the area for almost three months, Francis was getting used to the swinging drawbridge they had to cross in order to get into Cartersville. He wasn't even too alarmed when it turned out to be open and they had to wait in a long line of cars on the bridge, with the salty water at the mouth of the Yaupon River flowing implacably not twenty feet beneath them.

What he wasn't used to was the high-rise bridge out to Turkle Island, where the real estate agency was located. The view from the top of the span was lovely -- if you liked to look at miles of saltwater and marshlands.

Well, he was living in a beach resort area. He'd just have to learn to take such things in stride. He let go the death grip he had on the edges of his seat and tried hard to appreciate the beauty of the sound on a clear day in late summer, with boats zipping along and sunshine sparkling on the water.

As the bridge slanted down and they were once again over dry land, Francis found his breath coming a lot easier. He'd never actually been out on the island before, but it was where the better motels and condominiums were located because it fronted on the ocean.

They didn't drive much further before Pat pulled into a small parking lot in front of a row of rather garish offices and stores.

SEAGULL REALTY AND DEVELOPMENT COMPANY the window in front of one of the offices proclaimed in ornate letters.

"Hmph!" Pat snorted as they got out of the car. "Know what a seagull is, Francis? It's the avian equivalent of a rat: a nasty, vicious scavenger that also preys on weaker birds. Its success is due mostly to its ability to live on the trash produced by human beings. Larry Hatfrey chose his company name well."

He thought about that. Actually, he was rather fond of seagulls. They were very tasty. However, Pat was obviously seeing them from a different angle. "I take it you don't like Mr. Hatfrey."

"You take it correctly. But he's the exclusive agent for the Inn, so we haven't got much choice." She took a deep breath and threw her head back. "Let's go."

The first thing Francis noticed about the office was the overwhelming odor of cigarette smoke. Although it was a smell he found definitely vile, he wasn't as sensitive to tobacco as some newcomers were.

A woman looked up at them from behind her desk. She was young and probably quite beautiful, if you took human male preferences into consideration. To Francis' eyes, she wore too much makeup, her hair looked exceptionally frowsy and unkempt, and her blouse was so tight that it must surely be as uncomfortable as the suit he was wearing.

"May I help you?" the woman asked uncertainly.

Pat gave her a bright smile. "We have an appointment with Mr. Hatfrey, but we're a few minutes early."

The receptionist's eyes flickered down to the calendar on her desk. "Oh, yes. Ms. Fisher and Mr. Bernardone." She rose. "I'll just go tell him you're here."

As she headed back towards one of the private offices, Francis noted that her skirt was also too tight for her to walk easily and the heels of her shoes were so high and narrow that he was surprised she didn't turn her ankles.

The young woman minced back across the room in her ridiculous shoes. "Mr. Hatfrey will see you now."

"Thank you," Pat replied cordially. "Come on, Francis."

The odor of burnt tobacco was even worse inside the small office, despite the open windows. A cigarette smoldered in an ashtray on the mahogany desk, surrounded by quite a few burned out butts.

Larry Hatfrey rose to his feet when he saw Pat, a wide smile on his face. "Come in, come in, Ms. Fisher."

His smile flickered when Francis followed her into the office. His eyes widened and then narrowed slightly, but he didn't miss a beat. "And you must be Mr. Bernardone." He indicated the chairs facing his desk. "Sit down, please."

Hatfrey looked every inch the successful businessman. Even Francis could recognize the smart tailoring of his suit, the expensive but not gaudy diamond in his ring. He was obviously well past his youth, but still fit and trim. His voice was resonant, without the drawl of the local human population. And that voice was vaguely familiar, although Francis couldn't recall precisely where he'd heard it before. For some reason, he took an instant dislike to the man.

Francis let Pat do most of the talking. Although he was putting up 70% of the money, he hadn't had much experience with human business technicalities, while Pat had studied such things. She had already arranged for the title search, surveying of the property, and inspection of the buildings. He tried his best to look interested as they dickered over the selling price, then discussed mortgages and financing. It was only later on that he realized Pat had done a very smooth job of talking the price down by almost forty thousand dollars, pointing out how long the buildings had been left vacant and how extensive the renovations would have to be. She revealed nothing of their plans to run the old Inn as anything other than an ordinary motel.

By the time an agreement had been reached, Larry had gone through an entire pack of cigarettes and Francis was beginning to feel twitchy from inhaling so much leftover smoke. Pat's smile appeared a bit frayed around the edges, but she was still putting on her charming businesswoman act. Larry excused himself for a moment so he could, in his own words, "start the ball rolling". Francis hoped that meant they were almost done.

Pat reached over and squeezed his hand, the smile on her face now quite genuine. "We've got it," she whispered.

In the outer office, Francis could Larry order his secretary in a low voice, "We need a purchase and sales agreement on a big deal, so I want our lawyer in on this. Get the Jew-boy over here as soon as I get rid of these -- people."

It was quite apparent that Larry didn't know precisely how well newcomers could hear. While he had spoken very softly, it hadn't been quite softly enough. Francis would have said something to Pat, but he didn't have time. Larry came bustling back into the room, all smiles and cordiality.

"My secretary will get right to work on the agreement. If you could come back --" Larry glanced at his watch -- "oh, say, four o'clock this afternoon, I think we can have everything ready to sign."

Pat stood up. "Four o'clock will be fine, Mr. Hatfrey. A pleasure doing business with you."

"And with you also, Ms. Fisher."

Francis was relieved to get out into the fresh air and sunshine. He hadn't really been worried about the sale. Any real estate agent in his right mind would be anxious to unload the Atlantic Inn just as soon as he found a taker. What he was worried about was their ability to make it a going concern once they had it.

As they got into the car, Pat took a quick look in the rearview mirror, fluffing out her short curly hair with the tips of her fingers.

"You were right about that man," Francis remarked. "He certainly is a seagull."

She laughed. "It would sound better if you said he was a rat."

"Whatever." He went on to tell her of the remark he had overheard. At least it distracted his attention from their return trip over the high bridge.

"Doesn't surprise me," Pat replied. "The 'Jew-boy' is Murray Pearlman. He's only been here a little over a year, but he's got the reputation of being the sharpest lawyer in town. To refer to him that way is an insult, in case you didn't know."

"I am aware of that. Are there many Jews in Cartersville?"

"No. They're almost as rare around here as newcomers. Maybe even more so, considering how many of you have been moving in lately."

Pat pulled up at the traffic light on the mainland side of the bridge. "Well, next stop is the bank. We should have no trouble getting a mortgage, considering the sizable down payment we're prepared to make." Her smile faded and she looked over at Francis, her black eyes troubled. "You sure you want to do this? I mean, it's mostly your money we're tying up, until my house sells. We haven't signed anything yet. We could still get out of it. We're going to be cutting it pretty close, financially. If anything goes wrong and the business doesn't do well, we could lose
everything."

Francis had already weighed the risks through many a sleepless night. He wasn't about to back out now. "I'm sure I want to buy the Inn. Let's go."

When they parked at the bank, he resigned himself to another dull bargaining session.

By evening, everything had been settled. All the papers had been signed and the closing was scheduled for a day in early September. As they drove out of town and back to the Wagners' house, Pat just kept repeating, "We did it, we did it, I don't believe it." She seemed ecstatic, but Francis was just plain tired out and his shoulder ached where he'd been shot several years ago.

"Can I take off this outfit now?" he asked wearily.

"Oh yeah. Sure."

"Good!" He pulled off the tie and squirmed out of the jacket. Then he kicked off the shoes, which had been getting more uncomfortable as the day wore on. "I guess I'm going to have to buy myself a suit that fits properly, if I want to look like a businessman. But I still think they're silly. For instance, this narrow piece of cloth tied around my neck serves absolutely no purpose other than to choke me."

Pat laughed. "I can't wait to get out of this dress too. And these stockings. Ugh!"

Francis was silent for a while, watching the trees go by. "I think that lawyer we met this afternoon is in the Klan."

"Murray Pearlman? Come on now! Are you sure you aren't being paranoid?" she scoffed.

"No, really. He's about the same height and his accent is just like one of the humans involved in the attack on the Wagners. The one who tied my hands." The one who had seen the tattoo on his wrist and reacted as if he recognized what it was. And, now that he thought about it, the one who had at first urged the Klan leader to let Francis go.

Pat's expression turned serious. "I see what you mean. Murray does talk funny. Kind of German, but not quite. He'd be easy to pick out of a crowd, just on the basis of his voice. But why would he be mixed up in this sort of thing? The Klan used to be after Jews, same as blacks."

"I know. But now they're mostly down on newcomers. After all, there was a black with them --"

"I still find that hard to believe," she interrupted.

"Damnit, Pat, I saw his hands! I told you that."

"All right, all right. Take it easy. I'll take your word for it."

"I'm going to identify them all. And I'm going to get them," he said softly, looking straight ahead.

"Francis – " Her voice sounded suddenly afraid.

"Oh, don't worry," he reassured her. "I won't do anything illegal. I haven't even figured out how I'm going to do it as yet. But --" Switching to Tenctonese, he finished coldly, *One way or another, I'm going to get them. All of them.*

Pat frowned. "That's assuming they don't get you first, boss. Be careful."

She reached over and put a hand on his arm. "We're almost home. Don't say anything to Jane about recognizing Murray, okay? No reason to upset her over it, with her being pregnant and all."

He nodded. Pat turned off the main road and onto the dirt driveway to the house.

Jane was waiting for them. She ran down from the porch and over to the car, shouting, "Well? What happened? What happened?"

Pat jumped out of the car, grabbed the newcomer woman around the waist, lifted her off her feet, and spun her in a circle, whooping loudly. Francis watched, deciding this must be some sort of human ritual for expressing joy.

As he hurried upstairs to his room to change clothes, he could hear Pat giving an excited description of their day. He wished he could share in her enthusiasm, but he was having trouble fighting off a vague sense of dread. He was committed to buying the Inn now. Oh yes, he wanted it, and all the things it could bring him, but all his carefully-hoarded money was tied up in the purchase. He couldn't just pack his van and leave if things began going wrong.

Arranging Richard's suit neatly on a hanger, he tried to tell himself that nothing would go wrong. Despite his earlier concern about the Ku Klux Klan, they weren't the ones he feared most. No matter how dangerous they might be, they were only humans. But surely, after two years of running, it was safe for him to settle down. Piedra would have called off her assassins long ago. She must have more important things to occupy her attention by now.

He shivered. If Piedra Frelani's agents ever caught up with him, he would be, as the humans so succinctly put it, dead meat.

He put on his jeans and shirt, automatically pulling the long sleeves down to make sure they covered his wrists. Although Pat kept trying to convince him he'd be more comfortable in a T-shirt in the Southern heat and humidity, he went right on ignoring her advice. She just didn't understand. Not only did he not want others to see the Overseer's tattoo, he didn't even want to have to see it himself. He supposed he could have worn a wristwatch or heavy bracelet if he wanted to do a better job of hiding it, but long sleeves seemed somehow less obvious.

His eyes slid away from his hands, seeking something safer to look at. Until recently, the tattoo had been primarily a nuisance and a danger, concealed mostly for safety's sake. Now it seemed to stand between him and the other newcomers, a jagged barrier between himself and the people he desperately wanted to be his friends.

By the time he got downstairs, the two women were sitting at the kitchen table. Pat had tossed shoes and stockings aside and unbuttoned her dress so far that she could no longer have passed for a respectable businesswoman. Jane was munching on woodchips, while Pat attacked a container of onion dip with a potato chip.

They were no longer discussing the purchase of the Inn, much to Francis' surprise.

"So Richard called from the clinic and asked if I would drop off some medicine for one of his hospice patients," Jane said "Seems everyone else was busy, and Mrs. Pearlman had run out."

"Esther Pearlman, the lawyer's mother?" Pat glanced at Francis with a look that clearly said, "Keep quiet."

"Yes, I think so. She showed me pictures of her son and said he was a lawyer. Mrs. Pearlman's such a sweet old lady. I hate to think she's dying of cancer. Richard says she's got maybe three months left. I liked her. We had a nice talk. And guess what?"

"What?" Pat responded dutifully, taking some more dip.

"I promised to stop by and visit her next week. She's got a bad leg, so she can't drive anymore and she's bored staying home. I said I'd take her for a ride in the country." Jane frowned. "I guess that's all right, isn't it? I know she's sick, but she's still in pretty good shape, so I don't think it would hurt her.'

"Now, don't you worry none about that, honey," Pat assured her. "You can always ask Richard, just to be sure, but I never heard tell of any old folks who were hurt by a little extra attention and fun, even if they weren't all that healthy."

"Maybe you'd like to bring her over for dinner someday?" Francis suggested.

Jane frowned. "I don't know. We got to talking about food. She only eats things that are 'kosher', whatever that is."

Both newcomers looked at the black woman for an explanation, but Pat only shrugged her shoulders and dumped more potato chips out of the bag. "Some kind of Jewish stuff. I don't know the details."

"We could find out," Francis said.

"Yes," Jane agreed with ready enthusiasm. "Then I could make some kosher for her, if she'd come for dinner."She frowned. "I hope it tastes good."

Pat chuckled, but didn't attempt to explain why.


The month before the closing passed quickly. It seemed there were more details involved in becoming an innkeeper than Francis had ever dreamed possible. While they couldn't begin renovations until after the closing, when they would take legal title to the Inn, the plans alone kept them busy in the meantime. Pat's idea to turn it into a vacation resort for amateur naturalists, rather than simply another motel, sounded fine in theory, but had to be translated into reality. She spent hours tramping around the property, laying out trails through the saltmarsh, along the river, and through the woods. She went through the main building and the five outlying cottages, deciding what they could afford to redecorate right away and what would have to wait until after the first season. Francis accompanied her on most of her planning trips, but he drew the line at her saltmarsh explorations. That she could do by herself!

They agreed that Pat would take the manager's apartment. Since it was located just off the main entrance, she would be able to watch the Front Desk area if she left her door open. Francis decided he would move into the cottage farthest from the river. It only had one bedroom, but that was all he needed. The others were larger and would rent for a higher price. Besides, the small one was better insulated and had a woodstove. That would save money in the winter, when the motel was closed down and just he and Pat lived on the premises.

Even before they had signed the final papers, both of them had begun to think of the Inn as home. If they were going to be ready to open by spring, they'd have to get a lot accomplished this winter. Francis tried not to allow himself to think of what would happen if they couldn't make a success of this. On days when he was doubtful, he let Pat's energy and enthusiasm carry him along.

The closing came and went without problems. After that, work began in earnest. Carpenters, plumbers, and other assorted tradespeople bustled around the property, but it always seemed that you couldn't get the one you wanted to be there at the time he or she was needed. Materials ordered failed to arrive when they were supposed to. Delay followed delay and they were soon running behind schedule.

Francis fretted over the delays and complications, while Pat attempted to take everything in stride. However, even her temper began to fray around the edges as the time slipped away and nothing substantial seemed to be getting done.

Since Pat's house hadn't sold yet and the plumbing in the manager's apartment was in the process of being replaced, she was still living at home. Francis had moved into his cottage just as soon as the sale had closed. It wasn't that he was in a rush to get out of the Wagners' house, he told himself, but it would be nice not to have to deal with Richard's constant underlying hostility towards him. He did miss the long evenings spent talking with Jane on their front porch, though. Somehow, he seemed to be too busy to do much visiting these days.

At first, Francis had a tendency to want to tell all the tradespeople precisely how to do their jobs, but he soon found that didn't go over well. He eventually discovered things went better if he simply stayed out of everyone's way, so he concentrated on clearing the grounds around the Inn of the debris accumulated during years of neglect. He also went around cleaning up after everyone, but he was careful to do that when they weren't around. The messy chaos annoyed him no end, but he consoled himself with the fact that it was only temporary.

Since the weather was turning cooler, he decided to start a woodpile for the coming winter. Not only did he have a woodstove in his cottage, but there was a brick fireplace in the recreation room at the Inn. There were so many dead trees on the property that he figured he'd be set for years. Once he got the hang of using a chainsaw and a splitting maul, he rather enjoyed it. Somehow, the sight of all those pieces of wood, neatly cut and stacked between two trees, made him feel warm already.

He built his first fire on a foggy Sunday morning in early October. It wasn't cold enough to really need a fire, but Pat was supposed to be moving into her apartment that day and he figured that a cheerful blaze in the rec room would provide a nice welcome. He brought in several armloads of wood, made a neat pile of crumpled paper and kindling, and was just about to get it started when he heard her car drive up to the front entrance. Touching a match to the paper, he congratulated himself on a job well done -- until the smoke perversely decided to flow into the room, rather than up the chimney.

He was trying to figure out what to do about this problem when Pat came running into the room.

"Francis, what the devil's going on in here?!"

"The smoke won't --"

He got no further. She was already at the fireplace, turning a small bronze handle he had thought to be a decoration. Coughing and laughing at the same time, she began fanning the now-cooperative smoke toward the chimney with a piece of newspaper. "Open the sliders," she gasped. "Let's get some air in here."

He hurried over to the wide glass doors that faced out onto the Yaupon River and slid them open as far as they would go.

Pat was still laughing. "Next time, don't start the fire until you open the damper, okay?"

He nodded, not sure what a damper was but knowing it must have something to do with the handle she'd turned. He'd investigate that later, when the fire burned down.

Behind a low counter at one side of the-room, there was a sink and a bar refrigerator. They had set up a coffee urn on the counter, and it was perking happily to itself. Trying to hide his embarrassment, Francis went over and began fiddling with the cups and spoons.

"Ready for some coffee? It's almost done."

"Sure. In fact, I picked up a box of donuts on my way here, plus some of those seagull wings you like so much. I'll run out to the car and bring them in. Guess I better bring the kittens in too, while I'm at it. They hate to be in their carrier."

She disappeared through the doorway to the office area, then he heard the outer door slam.

He looked around the rec room, wondering nervously if they would ever really see it filled with guests. Pat thought it would make a good meeting place for their field trips and some of the lectures she had planned. But what if no one came? What if they didn't do enough business to pay the mortgage?

Resolutely, he pushed his worries aside, reminding himself to deal with today, not tomorrow. Just now the room was still rather smoky, so he made up two cups of coffee and beat a hasty retreat to the office.

Pat came out of her apartment, carrying a couple of plates. "I've got an idea for the Front Desk," he said. "Want to hear it?"

She helped herself to a chocolate-covered donut. "Sure."

The Front Desk itself was made from a transverse section cut from a cedar log. Along each edge, the bark still clung to the wood, but the top was varnished to a glossy finish. It was almost six feet long and three feet wide and sat on a heavy base containing drawers and file cabinets. Unlike the chest-high counters in most motels, it was truly a desk, meant for someone to sit behind, rather than stand. It was located directly across the room from the door to Pat's apartment.

"If we move the desk over to the corner next to your door, you can keep an eye on things much more easily and come out to greet guests with less hassle," he pointed out.

She inspected the office area thoughtfully, then set down her donut. "Yeah, I guess I could. Here, help me move it over and we'll see how it works."

"I'll do that. It's too heavy for you."

"Now, Francis, don't go getting macho on me," she warned.

"I'm not. It's just that I'm a lot stronger than you are, remember?"

He lifted one end of the desk, twisting it forward on an edge, then moving the other end to match. He could feel the strain in his bad shoulder, so he surreptitiously shifted most of the weight onto his left hand, not wanting to mention it to Pat after what he'd just said.

"A little further back on the left," Pat instructed. "Yeah, that looks even. Let me try it out."

She walked around one end. "The chair can go here." She opened the door. "And my door opens in, so that won't be a problem."

Two small furry animals came streaking out between Pat's legs. "Oh, damn! I forgot about them. Oh well, I guess they've got to learn their way around sometime."

The small gray-striped animal took one look at Francis, spat, and headed into the rec room, but the solid black one came up to him and rubbed her sleek body against his ankles. Francis wasn't too sure how to interpret that. Was it a sign of feline friendship, or an attempt to trip him? He'd seen cats before, but had never had occasion to interact with them on a personal basis. Pat had acquired these two only last week, when someone had tossed them out of a car onto her lawn.

"This small creature is a tasty-looking little morsel," he said, carefully keeping a straight face.

"Francis, please! Tinker and Slinky are my pets!"

Well, so much for his attempt at humor. "Just kidding. Can't you tell that by now?"

She looked at him, still suspicious. "You sure you folks don't eat cats?"

"Not if it would disturb you. No reason they wouldn't be edible, of course. Except for your irrational human prejudices."

Finally realizing he wasn't entirely serious, Pat grinned. "If I catch you nibbling on either of my cats, boss, I'll serve you up for breakfast. Got that? If you're hungry, go catch a possum. There are plenty of them out in the woods."

Francis leaned against the desk and picked up his plate of raw seagull wings, as Pat turned her attention to her donuts.

"I wish you wouldn't call me 'boss'," he said. "We're supposed to be partners."

"Yeah, but you put up the biggest chunk of the money. That makes you the senior partner. And the boss."

He grimaced. "Well, I don't like it."

They'd had this conversation before, but Francis usually lost. He was beginning to think Pat used the offending word as a term of affection, rather than as evidence of her submission to him.

The black kitten continued to wind itself around his legs, making a raucous noise.

"What's the matter with this creature?"

"Oh, just ignore her. She's begging for some of your food."

Intrigued, he pulled a strand of meat off the bone and held it down toward the cat, who took it daintily from his fingers. She gobbled it up and then resumed making noise, so he gave her another piece, then another, marveling at the appetite of one so small. When the meat was gone, he tossed the bone into a trash can, wiped his hands, and squatted down to inspect the cat creature more closely. Slinky promptly put her forepaws onto his knees and began trying to push her head into his nose.

Startled, Francis drew back. "What does she want now?"

"Pat her. Like this." She demonstrated. "Don't newcomers keep pets?"

Gingerly, he stroked the glossy fur. As he continued to pat her, Slinky flopped to the ground, stretching luxuriously and making another kind of noise.

"This animal is humming at me," he said indignantly.

Pat laughed. "Not humming, Francis. It's called purring." She raised her eyebrows and smiled at him archly. "You like it?"

"Well, uh, yes. It is a rather nice sound."

Chuckling, Pat finished her breakfast. By that evening, they had everything moved in and she was busily arranging her apartment to her satisfaction.


When a shipment actually arrived earlier than expected, they weren't ready for it. Pat stared in consternation as two trucks full of new furniture meant for the north wing of the Inn pulled into the driveway.

"Oh, great. The carpet-layers can't come for a week yet, and this comes today. Where are we supposed to put all this stuff?"

The driver of the first truck got out of the cab. "That's what I was about to ask you, lady. Where do you want it?" He spoke to Pat, but he kept looking over at Francis out of the corner of his eye, as if he'd never seen a newcomer before but didn't want to stare.

Before Pat could answer, Francis suggested, "How about storing it in the hallway in the south wing? We can move it when we're ready." They had spent a good bit of money on this furniture, so he would be glad to see it safely settled in the building, even if not in its proper place.

The truck driver shrugged. "Up to you, pal. I'll put it wherever you tell me to." But he looked at Pat for confirmation.

She nodded.

"Park your truck down at the end of the parking lot and I'll show you the nearest entrance," Francis offered.

It was late morning and he knew Pat had to get ready to leave for the nearby town of Willemton, to meet with the director of the state-run Aquarium located there. She hoped to persuade them to bring some of their very popular field trips to the Inn come summer. The publicity would be of considerable value and it would provide an opportunity for their own guests to participate in the trips. Pat also hoped to make contact with some of the educators on the Aquarium staff, to feel them out on the idea of doing some freelance work for the Inn by leading field trips and nature walks.

The deliverymen were hard at work unloading their crates by the time she was dressed and ready. She came over to Francis' cottage to give him the portable phone, since the only incoming line ran to the office.

"Now, don't forget to feed Slinky and Tinker tonight," she instructed. "Food's in the cabinet to the right of the stove. Half a can for the two of them." When he failed to look up from the newspaper he was reading, she came around behind him and asked, "You listening to me, boss?"

"Huh? Oh. Yeah. Half a can to the right of the stove."

"What's so interesting in the news today?" She leaned over his shoulder, following his gaze to a photo of a newcomer in a police uniform.

"Someone you know?" Pat asked curiously.

Francis abruptly folded up the paper. "No," he said, too quickly.

Pat shrugged and turned away. "I've got to hit the road. Don't forget about the cats."

"I won't, don't worry," he responded absently. As soon as the door closed, he opened the newspaper again. The story said the newcomer police officer had just been promoted to detective, a first for the Los Angeles Police Department.

Francis stared at the grainy black and white picture, his thoughts on the past. He had been in pain from the wound in his shoulder, still groggy from the anesthetic they'd used while working on him, trying hard to be careful what he said while the human detective asked questions. The newcomer officer had stood by the door, just listening. But when the human left, the cop came over.

*I know who you are and I know what you are. And if I can dig up even a scrap of evidence against you, I'll nail your ass to the wall. You understand me?*

He had replied cautiously, *I understand you very well, Officer Francisco.*

Of course, he'd gotten away before that cop had found any evidence linking him to Kheersa's death, much less to anything else. Francis didn't think it too likely that the police would catch up with him, but he wouldn't like to run afoul of that particular officer again.

For the rest of that afternoon, Francis was anxious and on edge, wishing he'd never encountered even that small reminder of his past. He was glad when the furniture trucks finally drove away and he was left alone. Turning on the television, he sat watching nature shows on the Discovery channel. The newspaper lay on his chair, ignored.

Pat wasn't planning to come home until quite late that night, so Francis was surprised when he heard the crunch of tires on the gravel path to his cottage just before sundown. He peeked cautiously through the curtains on the front window, then hurried to open the door as he recognized Jane's beat-up old car.

"Hey, Francis! Long time no see," Jane greeted him cheerfully as she levered her very-pregnant body out from behind the steering wheel. "I brought you a visitor. Hope you don't mind. I've told Esther so much about how my friends bought this place that she wanted to have a look at it for herself."

She bustled around to the passenger's side, opening the door and helping someone out.

Esther Pearlman was a small woman, made even smaller by a painfully-bent back. She leaned heavily on the cane Jane handed her and studied Francis with a pair of lively brown eyes. Her gray hair was sparse and trimmed close to her head.

Jane started to introduce her, but Esther cut her short with a wave of her free hand and a gentle smile. "No need, my dear. I know who this is. You've told me enough about him, after all. I'm Esther Pearlman, Mr. Bernardone, but I'd rather you'd call me Esther, not Ms. Pearlman."

Her voice had the same foreign accent he had noticed in her son, but more pronounced. It wasn't that the words were wrong, but they were spoken with a different intonation and stress pattern. It was obvious that English had not been her native language.

"Yes, of course," he replied politely. "Would you like to see the Inn? It's still being fixed up, but I could show you around."

She smiled again, but shook her head. "I'm afraid I can't walk very well these days. I'll just be content with what I can see from here."

"You must at least come into the main building and take a look at what we've done with the recreation room. It has a nice view of the sunset across the river, and I could put on some coffee."


"Yes, I do think I could manage that," she decided. Resting her free hand on his arm, she added, "With maybe a little help?"

When they reached the office, Esther admired the glossy cedar desk, running a finger along its surface. At the sound of voices, Pat's kittens set up a forlorn chorus from behind the door.

"Jane, why don't you take Esther on into the rec room? I've got to feed the cats," Francis said guiltily. After all Pat's reminders, he had completely forgotten about them.

"Okay. Where is Pat tonight, anyway?"

"In Willemton. She'll be home around midnight."

"Too bad. I was hoping to see her."

By the time Francis had located the catfood and served it to the kittens, Jane had made Esther comfortable in one of the chairs in the rec room and had the coffee going. He went over to help her set out cups.

"What happened to your hand7" she asked. "It's bleeding."

"Oh, one of Pat's cats scratched me." He dabbed at the blood with a paper napkin. "The black one likes me, but the gray striped one seems to think I'm out to get him. Cats are strange creatures."

"So what else is new?" Esther remarked ironically from the easy chair. "I had one once that avoided everyone except my next door neighbor. And that neighbor was deathly afraid of cats."

They talked for a while about feline eccentricities. When that topic had been exhausted, Esther began asking about the Inn. Francis was sorry Pat wasn't there to explain some of their plans more eloquently, but he did his best.

Then something disturbed the normal nighttime noises that had been coming from the woods outside.

"Did you hear a truck?" Jane asked, frowning.

"Yes. And I don't know anyone who drives a truck." Francis walked over to the sliding glass doors that formed the back wall of the room. He pulled the drapes closed, so they wouldn't be visible from outside. "Stay here. I'll go look out the front."

He moved quickly across the dark office area to one of the windows.

Pushing aside the edge of the curtain, he peeked around the corner of the windowframe. Next to the empty swimming pool, in the oval enclosed by the driveway, a large wooden cross flared out in the darkness. Francis could make out several white-robed people running down the road.

He cursed under his breath, then realized Jane had crept silently up next to him. She stared at the cross, eyes wide with fear. The last time she had seen such a thing, her husband had been badly beaten and she herself had come close to being horse-whipped.

*What are we going to do?* she whispered.

Francis unclipped the portable phone from his belt and lifted it to his ear. Not entirely to his surprise, it was dead. They must have cut the wires. He reached down behind the Desk and took Pat's gun out of its drawer, checking that it was loaded and ready for use.

*Take Esther into Pat's apartment and get down on the floor. Lock the door behind you,* he ordered tersely.

*You're not going out there after them, are you?*

*I've got to. No telling what they might be up to.*

*I'll go with you.*

He laid a hand on her shoulder. *No. Not only are you pregnant, but we've got a guest to protect. I need you to stay with Esther. You may have to defend her, or get her out of here fast. They've been known to set buildings on fire.*

*You're a binnaum. I shouldn't let you risk your life --* she began.

*Can you handle a gun? Have you had any experience dealing with dangerous people?"

When she didn't answer, he concluded, *You'd be of more use looking after Esther.*

Jane deferred to the logic of his argument with a brief nod. As she started back to the rec room, Francis headed down the hallway into the south wing of the building. Dodging around the furniture crates filling the hall, he let himself into one of the rooms, then slid carefully out the window onto the dark lawn facing the river.

He moved into the shadows of the trees before circling around to the front. The cross still burned, but there was no one to be seen on the lawn. Had they only done it to scare him, or did they plan something else in addition? He held very still, listening.

The usual forest noises weren't there. Instead, the breeze carried faint whispers from further down the road. He followed them, walking carefully on the soggy dead leaves under the trees.

He caught sight of a pickup truck parked at the side of the road. The white-robed figures standing around the truck were clearly visible. Francis edged closer, hoping to find out what they were up to.

The first voice he could make out distinctly was the one he suspected of belonging to Esther's son, Murray.

"What are you doing with those grenades? I thought you said we were only going to burn the cross and throw some rocks through the windows. We don't need those things."

The answer came in a woman's voice, as she took a small object out of a box in the back of the truck, tossed it into the air, and caught it again. "The hell with throwing rocks. My grenades make for a much better show."

The small man appealed to another Klansman, who stood next to the truck, arms crossed on his chest. "You told me we weren't going to --"

"I changed my mind. Now shut up and listen."

That one had to be the leader. Francis recognized the voice from last time. What's more, that voice sounded terribly familiar.

The leader pointed at a tall figure lounging against the side of the pickup.

"Willy, you go around back and toss some rocks through the windows in the north wing of the building."

"Yes, suh, Ah'll do that," he drawled. "But are you sure you want to --"

"Shut up and do as you're told."

Francis saw the tall man stiffen slightly, but he walked around the side of the truck and began picking up rocks from the side of the road.

"Now, soon as we hear the glass breaking, we'll chuck a few grenades into the other wing," the leader continued.

"A few grenades?" the one who sounded like Murray objected. "Those things can do a lot of damage."

Indeed they can! Francis thought. And was it only a coincidence that they planned to throw them into the wing where all the new furniture was stored? With the Inn's finances stretched so thin, he and Pat would be hard put to replace that furniture, much less repair the damage from an explosion. Their insurance would probably cover it, but that would take time to settle, and they didn't have time, if they were going to be open for business by early spring. If word got out to prospective guests that the Atlantic Inn wasn't a safe place to stay --

Francis edged closer to the humans.

A breeze rustled through the pine needles, bringing a very faint wisp of stale cigarette smoke to his keen nose. The smell triggered an unexpected memory of the previous attack: at one point, a young human male had threatened Jane with a bucket of saltwater, then remarked jokingly to the leader, "Guess you won't be sellin' any beachfront property to the slags, huh?"

Francis' fingers tightened on the pistol in his hand as something clicked into place in his mind. He knew who the leader was now, and knowing your enemies is half the battle. No wonder he hadn't liked Larry Hatfrey. He should have recognized him sooner. But why would a real estate agent risk his professional standing to get involved in this sort of thing? Did he simply hate newcomers that much, or was there another reason?

Hatfrey turned on the smaller man who had protested using the grenades, voice oozing contempt. "Since you don't seem to have the guts to do this, why don't you just stay here and keep quiet. Think you can handle that?"

The smaller man made an angry gesture, but he had obviously lost the argument. The woman standing on the back of the truck handed down several grenades to the leader.

Francis decided this had gone far enough. Firing his gun into the air, he shouted, "Freeze! Police!" Then he ran noisily through the woods, bounded across the road, and fired another shot.

As he had hoped, they panicked. The tall man jumped into the cab of the truck. He started the engine and roared off down the road, as the leader leapt onto the back with the woman. Left behind, the smaller man fled into the bushes.

Pale moonlight caught the license plate on the truck as it sped away, allowing Francis a quick glimpse of the numbers and letters. He couldn't make them all out, but it ended in "22".

Easily aware of the location of the man who had fled because of all the noise he was making thrashing through the undergrowth, Francis was in no hurry to catch up with him. He walked out to the side of the road where the truck had been, stooped down, and picked up a round object that had fallen to the pavement. If the pin had been pulled, it would have exploded long before this. He stuck the grenade in his hip pocket and headed back into the darkness beneath the trees.

His quarry was neatly entangled in catbrier vines, the tough half-inch thorns having caught firmly in the skirts and short cape of the white robe. Cursing, the human pulled frantically at the vines in a vain effort to break free.

Francis stepped up behind him, prodded him in the back with his gun, and said menacingly, "Hold still or die."

The man froze. Francis grabbed the back of his robe and dragged him roughly out of the catbrier, oblivious to the way the thorns tore through skin as well as fabric. The human cried out in pain, but didn't attempt to struggle. His robe hung in tatters, with splotches of blood beginning to soak through in places.

"To the main building," Francis ordered harshly, giving him a shove that almost knocked him to his knees. "Move!"

Despite his effort to terrify his captive, Francis really wasn't all that angry at this particular Klansman. After all, this one had wanted to throw rocks rather than grenades, and hadn't been one of the more vicious people in the earlier attack on the Wagners either. Francis would have preferred to have caught the woman, or the tall man, whom he suspected of being the black man that had whipped him on that previous occasion, both the height and the voice having been the same. But most especially, he would have preferred to have caught the leader.

Besides, if his captive was the one he believed him to be --

Francis left that thought unfinished as he marched the stumbling figure past the burning cross and towards the entrance to the building.

"Jane," he called as he opened the door, "it's safe to come out now! I've taken one prisoner and the others are gone."

Pushing the man into the office, Francis switched on the lights. Locks clicked in Pat's door and Jane peeked cautiously around the edge. Seeing the bedraggled, white-robed figure spattered with mud and blood, she grinned suddenly. "This is what I've been terrified of for so long? He doesn't look like much now, does he?"

Then she ducked back into the other room and reappeared with Esther.

The man started violently when the old woman came into view. Taking a step toward her, he exclaimed, "Momma! What are you doing here?"

Esther's face went white. Then she pulled away from Jane and struggled around the desk toward Francis' captive. She wrenched the pointed white hood off his head.

"0y, gevalt! My son!!" she exclaimed. Her face contorted with sudden fury and she slapped him hard. "You are with those -- those -- !!" Her English failed her and she lapsed into a torrent of foreign words that neither of the newcomers understood. The meaning, however, was abundantly clear.

"Momma, stop it!" Murray finally shouted at her. "The Ku Klux Klan aren't Nazis. They are good Americans. They are defending our freedom and our purity against these -- aliens."

She shook the white hood in his face. "This, you call defending freedom? This, you call purity?" She tossed it to the floor and spat on it. "This I call filth. I have seen it before, Moishele."

He quailed before her fury, protesting lamely, "My name is Murray, Momma."

"Your name is and always has been Moshe Avram ben Chaim v'Esther," she retorted.

Francis noted with surprise that these particular humans seemed to have two sets of names, just as the Tenctonese did. He stood off to one side, watching the vehement interaction going on between the two humans and studying Murray closely. He was perhaps in his fifties, his graying hair disheveled, his face showing a long scratch down one cheek. Faced with his mother's indignation, the lawyer didn't present the same air of confidence and competence Francis remembered from the closing on the Inn.

Murray drew himself up in an attempt to recapture his lost dignity. "Momma, enough! You're making a spectacle of us in front of our enemies."

Esther continued to glare at her son. "These people are not my enemies. They are my friends."

"Yeah, sure. Tell that to Miriam, who's dead because of one of these creatures you call friends."

"That was an accident, Moshe, a car accident. The newcomer didn't kill your wife deliberately."

"Don't tell me accident! He was drunk, and driving a stolen car."

"It was still an accident." She closed her eyes and her voice trembled. "The newcomers were created by the Holy One the same as we were. You should know better than this. You know what happened to us --"

"I'm tired of hearing your stories, Momma. We're not in Germany now. The Nazis are gone."

She nudged the white hood on the floor with the toe of her shoe. "Are they, Moshe? Are they really? Or have they just changed the style of their uniform?"

Murray glared at her. "You don't know what you're talking about, Momma. Some of the best people in town are in the Klan." He turned to Francis and sneered, "We don't want slags in Cartersville, and we don't want slag businesses here. You may have bought this place, but you'll never keep it going." He crossed his arms, an arrogant smile on his lips.

Esther sagged back against the desk, exhausted by her brief tirade.

Jane hurried over and wrapped an arm around her waist. "Come inside and sit down," she urged.

Francis gestured with the gun he still held pointed at Murray and they followed the women into the rec room.

"Why, Moshe? Why would you do such a thing?" Esther asked wearily, the fire gone out of her now.

With an uneasy glance at Francis and the gun, Murray replied, "I have to follow orders, if I want to be part of it. They've got to respect me, or they'll think all Jews are cowards."

His voice was full of anger, but Francis thought he heard a plea for understanding underlying the words. "Momma, I'm tired of being an outsider. I want these people to accept me as one of them. Can't you understand that?"

If she can't, I surely can, Francis thought, startled to hear his own feelings on the lips of his enemy.

Esther shook her head and said quietly, "Unless you first accept yourself, you will not be accepted by others."

For a moment, Francis thought she was addressing him. His eyes jerked away from his captive to study the little old lady slouched in the chair, but the gun never wavered from Murray's chest. But I have accepted myself, he wanted to protest. I know who I am. I'm not hiding anything.

But Esther's attention was on her son, not Francis. The two of them seemed to be engaged in a staring contest. Finally, Murray lowered his eyes.

"We wouldn't have done any damage," he said, in an effort to dismiss what had gone on. "We were only trying to scare him. Throw a few rocks maybe."

Dismissing the uncomfortable feelings Esther's remark had stirred in his mind, Francis pulled the grenade out of his pocket and set it on the coffee table. "This is a rock?"'

Esther closed her eyes and winced, then said coldly, "You might have killed someone." She made a little gesture in Jane's direction. "A pregnant woman. Or perhaps your own mother."

Murray's face changed, slipping from anger to concern, then back again. "You weren't supposed to be here, Momma. You have no business --" He faltered at the look she gave him. Despite his attempt at bravado, Francis thought the man wasn't altogether comfortable with what he had done. Good. Where a sense of guilt exists, there is also a chance for remorse. He had discovered that truth for himself, the hard way.

"It is you who has no business here," Esther said. "I know we've had our disagreements over the years, but I never thought it would come to this. A Jew should know better. These people were persecuted just as we were."

"Not all of them, Momma." He turned to Francis, his voice hard and bitter. Too late, Francis realized his right sleeve had been pushed up during all the excitement and his tattoo was clearly visible. The gun in his hand only made it look more vicious.

Murray smiled implacably. "Shall I tell you about your 'friend'? The tattoo on his wrist doesn't mean the same thing as the one on your arm."

Francis bit the inside of his lower lip but kept silent.

"I am aware of that," Esther said. "I know about him. Jane has told me." She lifted her chin and stared at Francis. He wanted to look away, but forced himself not to.

"If Jane has forgiven him, so have I," she pronounced at last, turning back to her son.

Murray snorted. "You would maybe have forgiven Hitler or Himmler or Eichmann if they told you they were sorry?" he replied acidly.

"No. Not if they said it. Only if they lived it." Glancing once more to Francis, she asked, "You know what my son is referring to?"

He knew a good deal about the Nazis. It was one of the first things he had read up on after he'd gotten out of quarantine.

"Yes," he answered shortly.

She nodded. "I thought so. I've read about your people also. The parallels are too obvious to be ignored."

The perplexed expression on Jane's face made it clear that she had very little idea what they were talking about. Perhaps that was just as well.

Seeing that his argument had failed to achieve its objective, Murray changed the subject, much to Francis' relief.

"So all right, you got me. Are we going to stand here talking all night? Why don't you just call the police and get this over with?"

"Well, for one thing, you folks cut the phone wires," Francis pointed out. And for another thing, I don't particularly want to get involved with the police if I don't have to, he thought to himself. Was there some other way out of this? After all, no real damage had been done, other than a few patches of scorched grass under the burning cross. And how could he disgrace Jane's friend by turning her son over to the police? There had to be a better way to resolve this mess.



"You let him go?! You just let him go?!" Pat exclaimed when she learned what had happened. "Boss, are you crazy? We had him dead to rights, and you --"

"Now, take it easy. How could I have the man arrested with his sick mother standing right there? Besides, he really hadn't done anything much."

She gestured at the blackened wood still standing upright on the lawn. "Burning a cross isn't much? Francis --"

"No, it isn't much," he interrupted, "compared to what they could have done. Now just calm down and listen a minute, will you? I had my reasons."

Pat slumped down on the front steps of the Inn. She had gotten home well after midnight, noticed what was left of the cross, and banged on Francis' door demanding an explanation. He hadn't been able to convince her to wait until morning, so he had told her the story as briefly as possible, while she walked over to inspect the still-smoldering wood. He had even told her of his suspicion that Larry Hatfrey had been the leader of the attack.

"All right. What are your reasons for letting Murray go?" she said, relenting.

"That man wasn't comfortable with what he had done, despite what he said. I told you about the way he argued with the others when they brought out the grenades. When his mother bit into him--"

"Lit into him, boss."

"Whatever. He was ashamed. He tried to hide it, but I could tell. If I'd turned him over to the police, he'd have gotten off pretty easy, but he'd have been angry and resentful. I figured if I let him go, he'd be likely to think things over, maybe reevaluate his involvement with the Klan."

Pat sighed. "So you decided to turn the other cheek. Or don't you know what that means?"

"I know. I have read the Bible."

Her eyebrows lifted. "You have? That's more than most Christians have done."

He shrugged. "I felt that letting him go was the best thing to do." His lips quirked into a slight smile and he looked at Pat sideways. "Besides, he's still got to deal with his mother, doesn't he?"

Pat gave a short laugh. "You've got a point there, boss. I've only met Esther a few times, but she's quite something, isn't she?"

"She is indeed."

Pat looked thoughtful. "Well, who knows? Maybe you did the right thing, after all."

For a few minutes she was silent, staring up at the half moon in the sky. "Boss," she said at last, "nobody at the Aquarium will work with us." She shook her head. "I just don't understand it. I spoke to everyone on the staff, and they all said they didn't have time. I suppose that may be true, but when I had dinner with the director, he kept changing the subject and looking uncomfortable. When I finally pinned him down, he claimed we were too far away for the field trips. When I pointed out that they often came to the beach on Turkle Island, he said that was only because there were no beaches closer. Then he said the Aquarium wasn't allowed to plan activities on private property, which is a flat-out lie. They use the pool at the Holiday Inn for their snorkeling classes."

She shook her head again, her shoulders slumping. "There's something strange going on here, Francis, but I don't know what it is. I'm offering them some good opportunities to reach the public. Why won't they take us up on it? I just don't get it."

"Where does the Aquarium get its money? Other than from the state, that is?"

She shrugged. "The Aquarium Society does fund-raising. Sometimes a local business will put up money for a specific project. Why?"

"Oh, just a hunch. Didn't I read an article in the paper about Seagull Realty building them the sea otter tank that just opened?"

"Yeah, boss. It's a nice exhibit too, even if Hatfrey's responsible for it. But what does that have to do with--" She stopped abruptly, her gaze fastening on the remains of the burned cross. "Nah, boss. They wouldn't do something like that. Not the Aquarium."

"Not even if one of their most generous contributors just happened to suggest that it would very much displease him if the Aquarium worked with the Inn?" he asked softly.

She frowned and shook her head. "I don't believe it. Hatfrey's a bastard, but I can't see him mixed up with the Klan. He's too clever a businessman for that. You're barking up the wrong tree, boss."

"Maybe. But I'm after people, not trees."

"You know what I mean."

"Yes, I do," he admitted, smiling.

"Seriously, you should have made Murray tell you the name of their leader before you let him go. Then we'd have been sure."

"I suppose I should have, but I was so certain I knew that I didn't think of asking. I'm still certain."

"Well, I'm not. Like I said, Hatfrey's too smart for this. Besides, what does he stand to gain by it?"

"Maybe he just hates newcomers."

"Uh-uh. That man does nothing if it doesn't show a profit, boss, believe me. And I just don't see what's in it for him."

"Neither do I. Yet."

Pat looked at her watch. "It's almost 2 AM. Let's get some sleep, huh?"

"Excellent idea," he replied. "But what are we going to do about the field trips and all?"

"I'll figure something out," she said, wearily. "If we have to, we can lead them ourselves. You wanted to learn about the local ecology, didn't you?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. But I'm not sure I'd be any good as a tour guide."

"We'll see, boss. We'll see." She stood up and stretched. "Good thing they didn't blow away our new furniture."

Francis glanced at the remains of the cross. "Thank heavens for small flavors," he said wryly, deliberately using the wrong word.

"Favors, boss. Favors."

"Whatever."


The following morning, Pat came back from showing her house to yet another prospective buyer. She jumped out of the car and raced over to where Francis had just finished clearing away what was left of the burning cross. He was still raking up the scorched dead grass when she grabbed the rake and stopped him, demanding "Guess what?"

"What?" he asked obediently.

"I just signed a purchase and sales agreement on my house! Not only that, but it's going to a newcomer, a single woman by the name of Scarlett O'Hara." Pat chuckled. "Wonder if she'll meet up with someone named Rhett Butler someday?"

Francis tried to figure that out, but drew a total blank. Pat grinned at the perplexed look on his face.

"Well, you may have read the Bible, but I guess you haven't read GONE WITH THE WIND yet, huh?" she asked.

"No. Should I?"

"Wouldn't hurt. I've got a paperback copy somewhere on my bookshelves. I'll see if I can find it for you." She released the rake. He picked up the heap of dead grass and began carrying it around to the compost pile, with Pat following him. "I think you'll like Scarlett. She looks about your age and she's very interesting. She's been travelling around the world. I'm supposed to meet with her tomorrow to straighten out a few details. Want to come along?"

"Pat, are you attempting to manufacture matches? If so, you shouldn't do that for me."

She laughed. "Don't worry, I'm not being a matchmaker. I just like her, that's all. And I wanted you to like her also."

"Well, if you're sure you're not--"

"I'm not. In fact," she concluded archly, "I'm more likely to make a play for her myself than try to turn her over to you."

"Pat," he said sternly as he dumped the armload of grass, "are you sure that's what you want?"

"Relax. Just kidding."

But Francis didn't think she was kidding, not entirely. He knew Pat was strongly attracted to Jane, but had sworn never to act on her feelings, since Jane was married. If she liked one newcomer --

He dismissed such speculations, telling himself that now he was the one trying to manufacture matches when it was none of his business.

When they got back to the front of the Inn, Pat suddenly grabbed his arm. From the look on her face, something was bothering her. He stood still, waiting.

"I stopped to see Jane on my way back, to tell her the news."

"And --?"

"She told me about this pod transfer business. She said she'd like me to be there, when the time comes."

"I think you would find it interesting." He frowned slightly. "I just wish they weren't going to do it at home. It really should be at an ejection center, where there are trained attendants around to help if something goes wrong. Especially since this is Jane and Richard's first time."

"The Dixons will be there. They've had several children, and they feel sure they can handle it."

"So are you going?"

"Yes, of course." She was silent for a minute. "How come they haven't asked you?"

"Oh, that's not unusual. The binnaum isn't normally involved in a pod transfer."

"But you're their friend too."

Francis just shrugged. If Verna and Mason Dixon were going to be there, he wouldn't have wanted to attend anyway. He had steered clear of them as much as possible ever since he'd found out they knew him from on the Ship. He still couldn't recall what, if anything, he'd done to them personally. There had been so many people, after all. But whatever it was, it couldn't have been good.

"If you were going to have a baby," he said, "would you invite everyone who was a friend? Or just a few special people?"

"Well, since you put it that way--"

Francis patted the hand that she had forgotten to remove from his arm. "Tell Jane you'll attend. It must mean a lot to her, or she wouldn't have asked you."

Pat nodded, biting her lip. Then she hurried away towards her apartment.


A little over a week later, Francis was abruptly awakened in the middle of the night by someone pounding on his door.

Pat stood in the doorway, moonlight bright on the shoulders of her silver-gray jacket. A gust of wind blew her collar up around her cheeks. There was a frantic look in her eyes.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I mean, Jane just called. She says it's time, I'm supposed to come --" Without finishing her sentence, she thrust the portable phone into his hands. "Keep an eye on things until I get back." She turned and began running toward her car.

Francis took off after her, barefoot and clad only in his pajamas. "Pat, wait a minute!"

She had already started the car. Rolling down the window, she asked impatiently, "What?"

"Listen, if anything goes wrong, tell them to call me. I've had a lot of experience with this sort of thing and I could help."

She gave him a strange look. "I thought you guys weren't usually involved with transferring pods."

"We're not. But I learned --" How could he tell her he had been part of the experimental breeding projects on the ship, and knew very well the mechanics of pod transfer and birth? If he said that, he'd have to tell her the rest of it too, and he didn't want to do that. "Well, never mind how I know. Just take it from me that I do. If something goes seriously wrong, call me. If everything's fine, don't even mention I told you this. Okay?"

"Okay."

She put the car in gear and drove off. Francis stifled an urge to call after her to slow down before she hit the hairpin curve in the road. She knew that. Besides, she wouldn't hear him at this distance anyway.

Picking his way more carefully now along the pebble-strewn path, he returned to his cottage and took a look at the clock. The display read 4:18. It was no use trying to go back to sleep, so he got dressed, clipping the portable phone to his belt. He tried to read a book, but found he didn't know what he was reading. He was too busy worrying. If only Jane and Richard were at a proper ejection center, instead of out here in the middle of nowhere. He laid the book aside and stood up, pacing restlessly back and forth across the room.

Suddenly, the cottage seemed too small and confining. Throwing a jacket over his shoulders, he went outside into the blustery wind and the moonlight. If only he knew what was going on. If only Pat would call -- no, if she called, that meant something was wrong. Better the phone shouldn't ring. But he was very fond of Jane, and even of Richard, despite the young man's hostility toward him. He wanted so desperately for this particular child to survive and prosper. It was terribly important to him, more important than any other child had ever been.

Francis tried to tell himself that was ridiculous. No binnaum could afford to be too involved with any child. There were literally thousands of children that he had catalyzed. A good many of them were adults by now. Why should this one matter?

For some reason, his feet had taken him around behind the Inn, where the Yaupon River flowed slowly along not fifty feet from the building. He sat down cross-legged on a bed of pine needles. Resting his fingers on his temples, he propped his elbows on his knees, closed his eyes, and tried to summon the image he used to clear his mind and calm his emotions. But the star-filled void of space wouldn't come tonight. Instead, he kept seeing the river that lay before him, with the almost-full moon hanging above it. With a sigh, he quit trying to force himself into a meditative mood and just opened his eyes and stared at the river.

Why was this child so important?

Because it was the first since he came to earth? No, that wasn't true. There had been others. He had made a considerable amount of money by letting Piedra sell his services, mostly to other Overseers among her underworld acquaintances, people who didn't want to bother with the ritual and ethics of the Order. Some of them had been pretty weird, but he had been paid well to cater to their special interests. He wasn't particularly proud of that, but at least the females had been willing.

It had been different on the ship.

Resolutely, Francis dismissed that from his mind. Now was not the time to consider what he had done in those days. He was too upset already.

The portable phone at his belt remained silent. Good. No news, in this case, was definitely good news.

The nagging thought returned. Why this child? What was so special about it?

He tried to consider the situation clearly. People would see Richard pregnant, and later see the baby, and it would remind them of him. It might well start them thinking they wanted children of their own. That being the case, they might come to him. This child could be his foot in the door, as the humans put it. It might make him really a part of the Tenctonese community, at last.

No, that wasn't entirely it either, although it was part of the reason. There had to be something more.

Then he saw the answer and was surprised he hadn't realized it sooner. This was the first and only time he had catalyzed a child the way it should be done, with the proper ritual and attitude. He'd done it right, at last.

He smiled. After all those years, he'd finally done it the way he'd been trained to. Dalvi would have been so proud --

Dalvi. The cruel glint of light on the double-bladed knife Francis held in his hand. His erstwhile teacher shackled to the floor in the victim's position.

Francis hunched over, his fists clenched and pressed against his temples. No. He would not think of that. He would think of his success with the Wagners' baby instead.

Drawing a deep breath, he forced himself to lower his hands and sit up straight. This time, he had not broken all the rules, all the standards of simple decency. This time, he had done it the way it was supposed to be done.

His tentative smile of satisfaction faded. He had no right to be proud. If the Order knew he was doing this, they wouldn't be pleased, to say the least.

But why should he care? He wasn't part of that. He never would be. He wasn't worthy of it, not after the things he had done.

Confused and hurting, Francis bowed his head and again closed his eyes.

-- And remembered another time of confusion and pain, and an old woman's voice saying gently, *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.*

No, Kheersa, he argued with the memory. Yesterday is not so easily dismissed.

He stood up and walked over to the low bulkhead that ran along the side of the river. He rarely approached this close to the sluggish brown water. Depending on the tide, it might or might not contain a lethal amount of salt, this far from the ocean.

Francis stared at the reflection of the setting moon on the water. It almost seemed he could step on that silver path and walk over to the other side.

Watching the glistening sparkles, he wondered what was happening at the Wagners' house by now. Everything would be fine. He was just worrying too much, as usual. But he really wished he could know.

A voice whispered in his mind, Richard's voice: *We thank Celine for this day.*

Then Jane: *We thank Andarko for the future.*

Then the old woman spoke to him again, cutting in on the ritual. *You'll notice nothing is said of the past, Treyma.*

*May we all be one,* the others replied. Francis even thought he heard Pat join in the response in her halting Tenctonese.

He was really worried now. He was more or less used to arguing with Kheersa. She was, after all, only a memory. But this was different. Memories were all right, but he wasn't supposed to remember something he hadn't seen.

He got even more frightened when he seemed to see Kheersa standing on the moonlit path across the river. He blinked, but she was still there.

For a brief moment, she regarded him with the slight smile he last remembered seeing on her face when she had died. Then she was gone, and the river ran down to the sea alone.

Francis sank down on the damp earth and just stared at the place where she had been. There were tears running down his face, but he wasn't sure just why. The moon disappeared behind the trees on the far side of the river. The sky behind him began to brighten with the coming of dawn.

When the phone rang, he almost jumped out of his skin. Fumbling with the antenna, he pushed the button and said tensely, "Hello?"

"It's me, boss. Don't worry, they're okay. Dix says it's a boy." Her voice sounded strange.

Francis whispered a prayer of thanks that he hadn't even realized he still knew.

"Francis? I didn't catch that. You there?"

"Yes, yes. I'm here. Thanks for calling. You coming home now?"

"Yeah. I guess so." She still sounded dazed.

"I'll put on some coffee. It's almost morning."

"Okay. See ya."

When Pat got out of the car, she just stood there in the early dawn light, as if she had forgotten what to do next. She looked at Francis blankly as he came over and took her arm.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"Yeah. Just kind of blown away, I guess." She shook her head as if to start her brain functioning again. "Jeez, that was weird."

Typical human reaction, Francis thought. At least she didn't sound revolted or disgusted.

She gave a short laugh, then her eyes focussed on him. "Sorry. I guess it's not weird to you, is it?"

"Not exactly. Come inside."

He led her into the recreation room, where the coffee urn perked cheerfully. Pat sank down onto the couch, as Francis set out cups and got some half-and-half from the fridge.

"Can you -- do that?" she asked quietly.

"Do what?"

"Incubate a baby, like Richard."

"No," he said, smiling slightly. "Not my job."

She thought that over for a moment before answering. "Are you ever sorry you can't?"

Francis was well aware that he had a lot of conflicts over who and what he was. However, this wasn't one of them, so what could he say that would make this clear to his troubled human friend? "You're gay. Are you ever sorry you can't have children with a female lover?"

"You want the truth?"

That made little sense. Why would he have asked, if he wanted her to lie? "Yes, of course."

"All right. Most of the time it doesn't bother me at all. I like kids and every so often I think it might be nice, but actually having children --" She shrugged. "Well, that isn't really a big thing for me."

"Then you know how I feel about it." The coffee was ready, so he made up two cups, adding the extra spoon of sugar he knew Pat liked. He handed her a cup, then sat down on the couch next to her.

"Maybe --" Pat began thoughtfully. She took a sip of the hot liquid, then began again. "Maybe you newcomers are lucky. You should have seen the look on Richard's face." She shook her head. "Very little connects human males to the next generation. Certainly nothing like that. Perhaps if it did, they would be more involved with their children. And maybe they wouldn't treat women the way they do."

Francis didn't feel qualified to even begin to respond to that. He just leaned back and stirred his coffee.

Pat sighed heavily, then frowned. "Then again, maybe it wouldn't matter. Maybe the two things aren't connected at all. I mean, you don't incubate babies, and yet you never treat me different just because I'm a woman."

He sat up, troubled. "Oh? Am I supposed to?"

"God, no! Please don't."

"Why not? What's so awful about the way men treat you?"

"Well, they tend to act as if women were some other species or something, rather than human beings essentially like they are. And if you have sex with a man, he usually starts thinking like he owns you. He wants to control what you do, expects you to kowtow to him -- that sort of thing."

Now, that hit him closer to home.

"Strange. That's somewhat like we – I mean, the overseers -- treated the slaves."

She gave a short, bitter laugh. "Exactly. And that's what I don't want."

He leaned back again. "Okay. It's just that you had me worried there for a minute that I was doing something wrong."

Pat laughed again. And then she couldn't seem to stop laughing, setting her cup on the table and holding her sides.

Francis watched with growing concern. It couldn't be that funny. Maybe she was just working out some of the tension she'd undoubtedly felt watching the transfer of the pod.

Then the laughter turned to tears and she was sobbing.

"Pat, what is it? What's wrong?"

"I love her, Francis," she finally managed to say between sobs. "But she loves Richard." She wiped futilely at her eyes with the back of one hand. "I hate myself for feeling this way. I know I shouldn't. But I can't help it."

Francis handed her a paper napkin. "You're not doing anything wrong. We can't help how we feel, only what we do." That didn't seem to provide much consolation, so he added, "Sooner or later, you forget, and the pain stops."

She raised her head, looking at him strangely. "Does it , Francis? Does it really?"

It seemed she was asking more than just whether or not she'd get over her futile love for Jane.

"Well, it hurts less, at any rate," he responded uncomfortably.

Pat seemed to accept that. She blew her nose and wiped her face. *Thanks.* Before he had a chance to reply, she put one arm across his chest and gave him a hug.

If he'd realized her intentions, he'd have evaded her. He steeled himself to endure the human gesture of affection. At least such things weren't too discomforting to him, since they lacked any real depth of intimacy.

Very soon, Pat drew away from him, running her fingers through her hair and straightening her clothing.

"Oh, brother," she said shakily, reaching for her discarded cup of coffee. "What a night!"

Francis silently agreed with her. They sat together, drinking coffee and watching the beginning of another day.


The weather turned suddenly cold and rainy, forcing Pat to concentrate her efforts on indoor renovating projects. Painters were working in some of the rooms in the north wing, with a crew of carpet-layers right behind them. Having learned his lesson earlier, Francis stayed out of the way.

As the Descent Day holidays approached, he decided to throw a party, inviting the entire Tenctonese community to the Inn. He didn't actually expect everyone to show up, of course, but he hoped some of them would. He felt it would be rude not to invite the Dixons, but he was fairly certain they would stay away. At Pat's suggestion, he even invited Esther Pearlman.

Francis was no little bit surprised when about half of his invitations resulted in positive RSVP'S, including the one he'd sent the Dixons. At that point, he began to wonder if the whole thing had been a mistake. He had hoped to show off the Inn and at least make himself better known to the community, but with the number of people coming, he wasn't sure he and Pat would be able to make a success of it.


On the evening of the party, Francis finished dressing and hurried over to the main building, getting to the entrance just as the Wagners pulled up in their car, with Esther in the back seat.

Richard was in the last stage of incubation, with the baby due anytime now. Francis hadn't tried to see much of Richard during the last few months, since he knew the other man's feelings about him were ambivalent, to say the least. Now he was surprised when Richard gave him what was almost a smile as he got out of the car.

*May the earth stay firmly under your feet,* Richard said, the usual greeting for this time of year.

*And yours,* Francis replied cautiously. "How are you doing?"

"Oh, I'm fine. Kind of enjoying this, as a matter of fact." He glanced at his wife, who was in the process of helping Esther out of the car. "Jane's been spoiling me rotten."

"Enjoy it while you can, young man," Esther said, straightening her beige wool skirt and taking a firm grip on her cane. "Once the baby comes, you two will both have other things to think about."

Jane hopped back into the car and drove it around to one of the small parking lots scattered amongst the trees, leaving them standing together at the entrance. Before it could become awkward, Esther put her free hand on Francis' arm and they began moving slowly towards the door.

"I'm starting my paternity leave next week," Richard said, addressing Esther and patting his distended belly. "I'm not much use at the clinic like this, so I figured it was about time."

Jane had caught up to them by now. She linked her arm with her husband's and grinned wickedly. "How much you want to bet he'll have the baby on his very last day on the job, just to get the maximum amount of time off?"

They laughed. Francis was extremely pleased that Richard had come to the party. He couldn't help but hope that if the others saw a pregnant man, it would start them thinking about having children also. After all, he could take at least a little bit of credit for Richard's condition. That should earn him, as the humans said, brownie points. (Whatever they were.)

Esther made a shooing motion with her cane, announcing, "You two go on ahead now, and leave us older folks to bring up the rear."

Esther stood still a moment, watching Jane and Richard get swallowed up in the bright light and conversation as they went in the door. She sighed.

"They make a nice couple, don't they? So happy. My first husband and I were like that, a long time ago, before --" She sighed again, the wistful look fading into gentle sadness. Then she gave a little shrug and continued walking.

"Does your son know you're here?" Francis asked, hoping to change the subject.

"Oh, yes." She shook her head. "Poor Murray. He just doesn't understand why I won't do as he says and act like a proper old lady should when she's dying, instead of hanging around with you folks."

"Your son --" he hesitated, wanting to find a way of saying it that would not give offense "-- seems to me to be uneasy in his heart, as if he has lost touch with the road he should be on."

"So what else is new?" Esther said softly as they finally gained the door.

After seeing his charge comfortably settled in a chair, Francis mingled with the arriving guests , taking people on tours of the newly-renovated wing of the building and telling of the plans for developing the Inn as a naturalist's vacation spot. He had gotten Pat to write him up an eloquent description of all that several days ago, then memorized it as a precaution against going completely blank when faced with so many new people to talk to.

The Dixons arrived late, but he saw them come in out of the corner of his eye, as he was adding a fresh log to the cheerful blaze in the fireplace. He turned away as Pat went up to greet them, grateful for her tact and swift appraisal of the situation.

Meanwhile, he beat a hasty retreat to the makeshift bar to get a glass of milk. Hoping to keep out of the way of the Dixons, Francis was rather surprised when a Tenctonese woman he didn't recognize caught sight of him and deliberately excused herself from her companion to come over. If Jane was pretty in a youthful sort of way, this woman had a more mature beauty. She wasn't one of those skinny, half-starved creatures that human standards called lovely.

And she was no shy, retiring beauty either. She strode directly over, holding up the back of her hand for him to touch in greeting. "Hello. You must be Francis, since I know everyone else in this crowd."

He was immediately suspicious. She had to know about him; they all did. Why was she being so friendly?

He touched her hand politely, managing to say, "Uh, yes. I'm Francis." Seeing Pat heading their way, he suddenly felt pretty sure he knew who this was. "Are you by any chance Scarlett O'Hara?"

She nodded enthusiastically. "Sure am."

Pat had finally reached them. "Francis, I want you to meet the woman who bought my house --" she began.

Scarlett draped an arm around the black woman's waist. "Relax, honey. I already did all that."

"Oh." Pat looked a bit discomforted at Scarlett's bluff assurance. She disentangled herself from the other woman's grasp, apologizing, "Gotta go. Couple of new guests coming in the door."

"Pat's told me a lot about you," Scarlett said, taking Francis' arm and leading him over to the buffet table, which was spread with both newcomer and human snacks. "She says you've traveled around a lot."

"Yes, I have." He picked up a canapé that looked as if it might be chicken gizzard wrapped in a thin slice of raccoon.

Scarlett took a plate and began filling it with food. "Ever been to Disney World?" she inquired.

"Well, no."

"Silliest thing you ever saw." She shrugged. "How about the Big Apple? Did you get there?" At Francis' blank look, she added, "You know. New York City."

"Oh. Yes, I've been there. Briefly."

They spent the next half hour swapping impressions of places they had visited. Francis found it extremely easy to carry on a conversation with this woman. She had a way of making a person feel at ease. Besides, she did most of the talking.

He was listening to Scarlett describe in dramatic detail what she had done when an airline was so foolish as to have lost her baggage on her way to somewhere or other when he overheard a snatch of conversation that caught his immediate attention.

"They said on the news tonight that the KKK will be holding a march in Willemton next month to protest the proposed amendment to give us the right to vote."

"In Willemton?!"

"Yeah. On the day before Christmas, one of the big human holidays. They're expecting people from all over the state."

"Oh, great! Just what we need!"

Indeed! Francis thought to himself. He considered trying to get away from Scarlett in order to find out more details, but decided there was plenty of time for that later on. He didn't want to risk hurting his talkative new friend's feelings by leaving her in mid-story.

Then Jane was at his side, grabbing his arm and pulling him over next to Esther's chair.

"Attention, everyone!" she announced loudly to the crowd. When the buzz of conversation died, she continued, "Richard and I have decided to take Esther Pearlman as our Descent Day #dork." Smiling broadly, she leaned down to hug the old woman.

Esther, obviously forewarned of what such a thing involved, simply replied, "I'm honored."

Francis hadn't really made up his mind if he wanted to participate in the holidays to that extent. He had never bothered to choose a #dork before, although he had heard of the custom. It would make sense for him to take Pat, but that would probably embarrass her more than anything else.

Slinky rubbed her face against his ankles, purring. As he bent down to feed her a chunk of raccoon, he reflected that the cat would also make a perfectly good #dork. Then he saw Tinker sitting on the back of a chair in the far corner of the room, watching the goings-on with evident disapproval. The gray-striped kitten blinked his yellow eyes disdainfully as his sister gulped down the piece of meat, seeming to imply that he couldn't be troubled to make a fool of himself for a mere morsel of food.

Francis approached the aloof feline carefully, mindful of the claws that had left their marks across his hands more than once. Arranging the leftover bits of raccoon along the far edge of the plate, he held it in front of Tinker, picking up Slinky as he did so to keep her from horning in on her brother's meal.

Pat came over to him, raising one eyebrow in surprise when the kitten actually accepted Francis' offering.

"I think," he said casually, "that I'll take Tinker as my #dork."

"Tinker? Why not Slinky? At least she likes you."

"Maybe I can win the little bugger over to my side."

"Fat chance, boss."

"It's worth a try."

Pat shrugged and murmured, "Up to you."

Then Scarlett caught his arm and led him over to the bar to refill their glasses. His back to the crowd, he heard Esther saying to Richard, "I'll bet everyone will be glad to have a new baby around. Maybe some of the other young couples will be inspired to follow your example."

Exactly the conclusion Francis had hoped people would come to. He couldn't have put it better himself. He was feeling almost confident enough to speak up and offer his services to any interested parties, but concluded it might be wisest not to push it, when Dix broke into the conversation, speaking loudly enough to make it clear he wanted to be overhead.

"Some example. If an Overseer is the best we can do for a binnaum, I'd rather not see any children at all."

Francis was shocked, but tried not to let it show. For the life of him, he could not remember what he must have done back on the ship to make Dix hate him so. It had been just his luck to run into people who knew him personally in such a small Tenctonese community as this. Verna and her husband had recognized him the minute they had laid eyes on him. What were the odds of that happening? he wondered unhappily. Then he refused to wonder exactly what he had done to earn their enmity. He wasn't sure he wanted to remember. He turned slowly away from the bar and towards his adversary.

Esther laid a hand on Dix's arm, trying to placate him. "Now, you know you don't mean that. A child is a child, after all."

"I most certainly do mean it, Ms. Pearlman. And I'm not the only one who'd rather not have this -- person -- involved with their family. Didn't the Tranes just leave for New York City, to find a real binnaum?"

"The Tranes can afford it, Dix. Most of us can't," Jane pointed out. "Besides, we need someone here in the local community. Why should we have to travel that far in the first place? It doesn't make sense."

"The binnaums have always lived like that, for their own safety and that of the entire community. Would you have them change the traditions simply for our convenience? It was our choice to live in this out-of-the-way place. The Order isn't responsible for what we choose to do."

Francis couldn't keep out of it any longer. "The Order is responsible for serving the community, regardless of what that entails."

Dix gave him a scathing look. "Will you now enlighten us as to the responsibilities of the Order? I wasn't aware you were even a member."

"Leave him alone, Dix," Jane said.

"Why?" He turned on the crowd of people, most of whom had stopped their conversations to listen to the argument.

"Look at us. We're here at a Descent Day party hosted by someone who has no reason at all to celebrate this holiday, and we're talking about wanting him to be the binnaum of our children? Have we all gone crazy?"

Dead silence in the rec room now. Not even the tinkle of ice cubes in the glasses. Everyone stared at Dix.

The big newcomer walked over to the bar to confront his host. "How about it, Bin Treyma?" he asked sarcastically. "What have you got to be thankful for on Descent Day?"

Taken back by the sudden challenge, Francis automatically reached across with his left hand to pull down his other sleeve. Dix caught his wrist, smiling viciously.

"It won't do any good to conceal the tattoo. We all know it's there. So answer my question, if you can. Why should one of the Kleezantsun# be beholden to the earth?"

Francis shook off the other man's hand with a deft twist of his wrist, meanwhile struggling to keep his anger under control. Dix was spoiling everything. How dare the man make a fool of him at his own party, in his own home? Dix had no right to do this to him.

(Kheersa's voice: *Oh? And what right had you to do to Dix whatever it is he hates you for? Temper, Treyma, temper. Rude it may be, but his question deserves an answer. What do you have to say?*)

"I am beholden to the earth for the chance to start a new life," he said softly, his voice carrying easily in the continued silence. "And for the chance to walk in the ways of Celine and Andarko."

"Pretty words, overseer," Dix retorted. "Too bad I don't believe you mean them."

What do I have to do to make you believe me? Francis wanted to scream, but didn't.

Dix turned away. "C'mon, Verna. We're going home."

"Dix --" his wife began to protest.

"Come on, I said!"

The party began to break up soon after the Dixons' exit, much to Francis' dismay. He tried to tell himself it didn't matter if people didn't like him, but he knew it was a lie. He'd had such hopes for this party.

As the Wagners were getting Esther's coat, the old woman waved Francis over to her side to give her a hand getting to her feet. As he hoisted her carefully out of the chair, his sleeve pulled up to show the edges of the tattoo, but he couldn't pull it down without releasing his grip on Esther's waist with the other arm. He turned his head, so that at least he wouldn't have to see it.

Esther's sharp eyes caught the small gesture and she said softly, "Stop looking away, Francis. It is only that which you yourself cannot accept that can stand between yourself and others. Nothing else has that power."

He steadied her on her feet and gave her her cane without replying, as Jane and Richard helped her on with her coat. She kept ahold of his arm as she limped slowly towards the door, then stopped and said, "Since you've been kind enough to include me in your holidays, I'd like to include you in mine. Chanukkah comes up in the near future and I'd like you all to come to a little party at my house."

"Esther," Richard asked gently, "are you sure you're up to having a party?"

She shrugged and waved her hand to take in the room. "Oh, it won't be anything this elaborate. Just you two, Pat and Francis, the three hospice volunteers who've been so nice to me, and my son and grand-daughter. If I don't feel well enough to do it, I'll let you know. But for now, will you all plan to come?"

They assented willingly.

After everyone had left, Pat and Francis tidied up the rec room, collecting all the eating utensils and bringing them into Pat's kitchen to wash.

"Well, the party wasn't exactly an unqualified success, was it?" she asked, hands buried in sudsy dishwater.

He kept his face neutral, not wanting to show how much he had been hurt. "Could have been worse."

She glanced at him, then nodded. "I suppose it could," she finally allowed. "At least no one tossed any grenades in the window this time."

They both laughed shortly over her reference to what had occurred during the coupling ceremony last summer.

"I get the distinct feeling," Pat continued, "that Mr. Dixon just might hate you more than the Klan does. Am I wrong?"

"I'd really rather not talk about him, if you don't mind."

She handed him the cut-glass punchbowl. He took it carefully and began drying it as she picked up another platter.

"Francis, may I ask you something? Don't worry, it's not about the Dixons."

"Sure. What?"

"Did you ever want to be something other than what you are?"

Stupid question, he thought angrily. Don't you know by now how much I'd give not to have that tattoo on my wrist?

But no, that couldn't be what she'd meant. Pat wouldn't ask such a dumb question.

"I'm not sure I know what you're asking," he said.

"Do you ever want to be an ordinary male, instead of a binnaum?"

Oh, was that all? He nearly sighed with relief.

"Do you ever want to be a man?" he asked in return.

She considered for a while, handing him another wet pot.

"Well, in some ways, that would make things easier for me. But no, I don't. I'm gay because I love women, not because I want to be something I'm not."

"Then you know how I feel. I don't particularly want to be an ordinary male." He dried the pot and set it aside, then added, "Although in some ways, I suppose it would be easier. Closer to what's considered normal, anyway."

She chuckled.

"What's so funny?"

"That your idea of normal is to be able to be pregnant like Richard."

"There's much more to it than that. I meant that he can get married and have a family, regardless of how the children are born."

"Sorry," she said contritely "I guess we were thinking of things in different terms."

"So what else is new?" he asked, using Esther's distinctive intonation.

Pat started laughing again. This time he joined her.


For the rest of the Descent holidays, Francis showered Tinker with food, toys, and attention, but it didn't do any good. The kitten continued to regard him with contempt. Francis was beginning to suspect the ungrateful creature of being an unreconstructed Purist at heart.


Unlike the transfer of their pod, Francis heard nothing about the eventual birth of the Wagners' baby until after it was all over. He was just as glad not to have been involved in any way and was perfectly content simply to find out they were all well and doing fine. They had named the boy Sandovyn but Pat promptly dubbed him "Sandy " in English.

When it came time, they asked him to officiate at the muak#ti-buti ceremony. For that, he had to borrow Jane's prayerbook and brush up on the ritual, since he'd never actually done it before. He was no little bit worried about how it would go, especially since Verna and Dix were to be there.


"Sorry we're late," Pat apologized. "Something came up at the Inn and we just couldn't --"

"No problem," Jane replied, closing the door behind them.

Francis took off his coat and smoothed the creases out of his formal robe. The deep blue fabric was faintly lustrous in the light coming down the hall from the Wagners' living room. The Dixons would be in that room, along with Richard and the baby. Remembering his last disastrous encounter with Dix, Francis closed his eyes briefly and prayed for calm as he followed Jane and Pat into the light.

Sandy's cradle hung in its frame in the center of the room, but the baby wasn't in it. Verna held the child in her lap, wiggling her fingers and trying to convince him to smile.

As the rest of the adults came in, Sandy's fretful cries punctuated the small talk Jane and Pat tried to keep up. Dix sat next to his wife. He said nothing, but his eyes never left Francis and the veiled hatred never left his face.

Taking a deep breath, Francis asked casually, *Are we ready to begin?*

*One minute,* Richard replied, touching the baby's temples with his fingers in order to soothe and quiet him.

Francis opened the prayerbook and stared down at the script so he wouldn't have to watch Richard with the baby. It still made him uncomfortable to see anyone using the touch.

Piedra's words echoed through his head. *It is our resistance to love that gives us our strength. If you love, if you care, then you can be hurt. You can be made to feel mercy, and turn aside from what must be done.*

But he had known that touch as a child. The Kleezantsun# hadn't recruited him until he was on the verge of maturity, which was usually considered too late to wipe out his earlier training. Except that he had cooperated, had himself agreed with Piedra and tried hard to wipe that love from his soul. Love was the virtue of slaves, not of masters, and he was to be a master.

Francis jumped when Jane laid a hand on his arm, abruptly calling him out of the past.

*You okay?* she asked softly.

*Yes. Just -- uh -- finding my place.* He flipped the pages of the prayerbook to the muak#ti-buti ceremony. He almost had it memorized, but wanted the words available in case he forgot something.

Propping the book open on a table where he could refer to it if need be, he went to stand next to the cradle, which now held the baby. Looking at the adults facing him, he began somewhat nervously, *We gather here to welcome the child of Neerav and Seliessa Lenchka into our community. Sandovyn shall be a new link in the chain which binds past generations to the generations yet to come. A new life has come into our world; a new child has come into this family. Neerav, Seliessa, it is your part as parents to provide care and guidance for your son. But we as a people are asked to do more than this. We are charged to teach our children four things: Love, Spirituality, Honor, and Tradition.*

He paused for a moment, glancing at the four newcomers before him. Pat stood discreetly off to one side, watching.

*Who are to be the teachers of the Four Pillars? Who are the ones who will take the responsibility of imparting these things to this child, so that the light of Andarko and Celine will shine in the hearts of Sandovyn for all of his days?*

He crossed his hands to touch his hearts, uncrossed and touched them again, then touched his temples and spread his hands, palms up. Then he drew his hands together and looked to the others, waiting to see who had chosen each Pillar.

Richard came forward first. Laying his gift on the embroidered cloth covering Sandy's lower body, he said, *In your life, I shall be the one who teaches you about loving others as you love your universe.*

Dix came next, crossing to the cradle and not even glancing at Francis. *In your life, I shall be the one who teaches you about the journey and sacrifice of Andarko and Celine.*

Then Verna. *In your life, I shall be the one who teaches you of your past as a Tenctonese.*

And finally Jane stepped forward. *In your life, I shall be the one who teaches you the importance of being honest.*

As each person returned to their place, they crossed their hands, palms down. Francis had gotten so involved in watching them that he lost track of what came next. Realizing everyone was now waiting for him to go on, he glanced hastily at the prayerbook. But it was still open to the previous page and they had gone beyond that. Embarrassed, he was about to reach down to turn the page when he heard another long-forgotten voice from the past. Dalvi Valens, one of the many who had secretly taught the young binnaums on the ship what their role in Tenctonese society should be: the rituals, the standards, the rules that should be followed, the ethic that should be upheld. Dalvi, only a scant decade older than the boys he taught, risking his life to hand on the tradition.

Again, he saw the flash of light on the double-bladed dagger clutched in his hand.

Francis pushed that aside. The voice, only the voice. That's all he would remember now. The voice teaching the ritual for welcoming a child.

Crossing his hands, palms down, Francis began shakily, *In your life, we shall love and teach you. To learn is a great blessing, but to teach --* His voice broke on the word. He had to clear his throat before he could go on. *To teach is a greater blessing still. Honor to those who have taken on this commitment. May these four be one in fulfilling this trust, and may Celine and Andarko guide them in carrying it out.*

There, he had gotten through it without faltering.

*In the name of the Infinitely Holy, so let it be,* he concluded.

*So let it be,* the others responded in unison, just as Sandy began to wail crossly. While Richard and Jane bustled over to pluck the baby from its cradle, Francis sank down into a chair and reminded himself to stay on guard. He had enemies here. Dix stared at him implacably, but said nothing.

Pat perched on the arm of the chair, remarking softly, "Nice ceremony, boss. I even understood most of it. Sort of like a baptism."

"Uh -- yeah. I guess so." Francis was still caught up in Dix's stare. He fidgetted and automatically checked his right sleeve to be sure it covered the tattoo. Then he realized what he was doing and stopped.

Verna appeared next to him, holding out a glass of sour milk in his direction.

"Here," she said, ignoring her husband's dark frown. "You look as if you could use this."

"Thanks," Francis managed to reply.

Pat stood. "Think I'll go get me a beer from the fridge. Be back soon."

Francis sipped his milk and wondered why Verna had come over to him. He couldn't think of a single thing to say to her.

*You really don't remember, do you?* she asked, so softly he wasn't sure he heard her.

*No,* he replied, not meeting her eyes. *I'm sorry.*

Her lips quirked into an ironic half-smile. *Sorry? For what? For what you did, or for not remembering you did it?*

*I don't know.* That sounded stupid. *Both, I guess.* That didn't sound much better. What was he supposed to say? He stared at his hands and kept quiet.

She didn't move. *It was the breeding program. You are, in a manner of speaking, the binnaum of our two children.* Her voice was flat and toneless as she went on relentlessly, *Dix was never able to love them, he hated you so much. You were what no binnaum should ever have been. You took a sacred trust and made it into an abomination.*

With a small smile, Verna turned on her heel and walked away, leaving Francis shaking so badly he almost spilled his glass of milk onto his robe.

Fortunately, we was able to convince Pat to leave soon after that, although she wanted to stay and visit.


The night of the Chanukkah party was the first time Francis had ever been in Esther's house. He was impressed. It looked like something out of the previous century, being in the oldest section of Cartersville, just a block back from the waterfront. Some of the furnishings were genuine antiques, but even what was obviously new was still old-style, so that it fit into the ambience of the house.

He and Pat had been greeted at the door by a teen-age girl who introduced herself as Esther's grand-daughter, Becky. She showed them into the living room, where Esther sat in a wheelchair, holding Sandy on her lap and talking to Jane and Richard. Murray stood off to one side, next to a glass-fronted china cabinet.

Esther looked up at their approach. Her eyes were sunken and dark, the wrinkles in her face more deeply graven than usual.

"Ah, my last guests are here. Good. We can begin now." Despite her cheerful words, it was easy to see she was failing rapidly.

Giving Sandy into Richard's keeping, she turned to her grand-daughter. "Rebecca, push me over to the menorah, if you please."

Becky struggled to maneuver the wheelchair in the crowded confines of the room. There weren't many people, but they filled the small parlor completely. Besides the Wagners and Esther's family, three humans unknown to Francis sat in various chairs around the room. He knew that the other hospice volunteers who had been caring for Esther had been invited, so he assumed that's who the humans were.

When Esther had been positioned to her satisfaction next to a small table set up before one of the front windows, she picked up a brightly-embroidered velvet cap from the table and arranged it on the back of her head. "It is my custom to wear a yarmulke when I pray," she told them. "If anyone else wishes to, I have extras, but it is not required."

Becky chose a purple satin cap and settled it on her long dark hair. Although Esther glanced questioningly at Murray, he remained standing against the wall. Two of the other humans also decided to follow Esther's lead, but they looked definitely self-conscious about it.

"For those of you who are not Jewish -- and that seems to include almost everybody -- there are a few things I would like to explain," Esther said. "I'm a Reconstructionist. I take from our tradition that which seems to me right and good, and I discard the rest."

She smiled gently. "I think I should warn you that I am not typical of all Jews. Some say the truth has already been divinely revealed . Others say we must ourselves be a part of the never-ending search for truth. Others have chosen to drop their Judaism entirely. And others have made still other choices. But, one way or another, we must all come to terms with our tradition and we must all make our own choices. We differ mostly over how and on what basis those choices are to be made."

She spoke with an effort, pausing often to catch her breath. When she had finished, she nodded at Becky, who went around the room turning off some of the lights and lowering others. Murray edged over to his mother as this was going on. "Momma, you shouldn't be doing this," he said in an undertone. "You're only tiring yourself out."

"Shah, Moishele," she replied sternly. "Some things are more important than an old lady's comfort. Let be."

Frowning, he retreated to his spot by the wall.

As Becky finished her task, Esther gestured at the small candelabra on the table. "At this darkest time of the year, we celebrate Chanukkah. Each night for eight nights, we light one more candle in the menorah. In the midst of darkness, we kindle light. In the midst of despair, we commit ourselves to hope and life."

She glanced at the window behind the menorah before continuing her lecture. "The light must be in a place where it may be seen by others. This is important, as hope must not be kept only to oneself.

"But freedom is also a theme of Chanukkah. This holiday commemorates a long-ago struggle of our people against those who sought to oppress us. It is said that when the rebels finally prevailed over their foes and recaptured the great Temple in Jerusalem, they searched for some of the holy oil, that they might cleanse and rededicate the Temple. They found but one bottle, which would last for only one day, but it would have taken eight days to make more of the special oil needed for the lamp. Nevertheless, they lit the lamp, perhaps trusting that their good intentions would take the place of the oil they lacked."

Esther smiled. Strangely enough, it was the same sort of knowing half smile Francis remembered so clearly on Kheersa's face. Did all Elders learn to look that way? he wondered.

"It is said," she continued, "that the oil lasted for eight days." She gave a little shrug. "Well, perhaps it did. But whether or not such a miracle actually happened, we celebrate tonight a greater miracle: that a people could have the courage to fight against overwhelming odds for their freedom, and that the struggle, at least that one time, was successful.

"There are many customs that have developed around Chanukkah in different times and places. Small gifts are often given to the children of the family on each night. Certain foods are served. New customs have also appeared. It is my practice to set aside each night to be dedicated to a different --" She hesitated, frowning. "How do I explain this to those of you who know nothing of the Kaballistic Tree of Life? Well, never mind. While the candles burn each night, I meditate on certain ideas. Tonight is the final night, when all the candles will be kindled. The idea for this night is that of grounding all the previous insights and meditations in reality, bringing them to earth and finding ways to make them happen in this world. Those who wish to share this practice with me may sit and watch the candles burn. For anyone who does not
choose to join me, there's food out in the kitchen." She glanced at her son, who stood in stony silence. "Rebecca even made latkes from my recipe, Moishele. I think you'll like them."

Esther gestured for her grand-daughter to come up to the menorah and light a match. The girl held the flame to one of the candles, which stood above and slightly away from the rest. She blew out the match and took the candle in her hand. Esther chanted something unintelligible in Hebrew, then translated it for them. "Blessed be You, Holy and Unnamed One, Who hallows us with commandments and commands us to kindle the lights of Chanukkah."

She went back to the Hebrew chant, then repeated in English, "Blessed be You, Holy and Unnamed One, for the wonders that happened to our ancestors, in those days, at this season."

She nodded at Becky, and the girl lit the other candles from the one she held in her hand, going from left to right. Esther sang a song in her failing voice, with Becky trying hard to follow her. All Francis could remember was the first couple of words, which sounded something like "Ma-oz Tsur". Murray, a faraway look in his eyes, joined in on a line. Then, realizing what he was doing, he scowled and clamped his lips shut.

When the song was finished, Esther settled herself as comfortably as she could in the wheelchair and closed her eyes with a deep sigh. Murray made a beeline for the kitchen, with several of the other humans following him. Francis sat down cross-legged on the floor and fell into his usual position for meditation, propping his head with his fingers against his temples and resting his elbows on his knees. Pat and Jane sat down next to him, but Richard, who was holding the baby, went over to the couch on the far side of the room.

The light from the candles threw flickering shadows on the walls, and the flames reflected in the window glass behind them, bright against the darkness outside. For just a moment, Francis saw in his memory the crackling flames that he had twice seen engulfing a burning wooden cross. He wondered whether these small specks of hopeful light blazing in Esther's window would have the power to overcome the blazing cross, or whether they would fall before that threatening symbol. Or, worse, add their heat to its hatred.

He dismissed that image, turning instead to Esther's words of explanation. Preserving the best parts of their ancient traditions seemed like an approach the newcomers might be able to use in adapting to life on earth. He had known people who clung blindly to anything that they thought was Tenctonese, as well as others who wanted nothing better than to be like the humans in all ways. He turned the concept every which way in his mind, wondering how it might be applied to the newcomers' situation.

As the candles flickered out one by one, the room grew darker. There was only one left when it occurred to him that Esther's words might apply to him also. Although he had scrupulously followed Celinist tradition in catalyzing the Wagners' child, he had also been flagrantly breaking that same tradition by doing such things outside the Order. And he fully intended to go on doing it, if the community would accept it. But, even leaving his past aside, would they accept him, as long as the Order refused to sanction what he was doing? But wasn't it a good thing to have children, that they otherwise wouldn't have been able to? Did the rules that may have worked on Tencton work as well here on earth? Should they be changed? If so, by whom, and with whose approval? What should they keep, and what should they toss away?

He had just begun formulating the questions when the final candle sputtered and died. Esther gave a deep sigh and turned to her grand-daughter, asking her to switch on the lights in the room. When the girl had finished, she added, "Get me the silverchest from the cabinet, please."

When Rebecca had complied with the request, Esther opened the flat, polished box, inspecting the contents closely. She picked out a small object that tinkled softly as she moved it.

"Richard, would you bring the baby over here?"

Annoyed at being disturbed, Sandovyn prepared to cry.

"Hush now, boychik," Esther scolded him. "I've got something for you, something you'll enjoy, if you're anything like a human baby."

She held the dumbbell-shaped object in front of Sandy's eyes, shaking it to produce a rattling sound. The baby blinked a few times, then reached for the silvery thing. Esther placed it in his hand and his fingers closed around it.

"That is for you, child. For Chanukkah. And to remind you of an old lady who will neve