Denis said, "I had sense enough to get what I needed, at any rate. Unlike a certain son and grandson who shall remain nameless! Without you, I'd have been an inhuman, heartless freak, living only for my work. With you, I became a man." He bent across the fountain bowl and gently kissed her lips.

"Oh, yes," she said, serious now, "and what a man!" She lifted her hand to push a strand of his blond hair back into place. "It's been a mad and fascinating sixty-eight years, being married to you, mon brave. I don't even want to think about what the future may hold."

Denis put his arm around his wife and drew her close. He was ninety-six years old, but he seemed to be only a shy, appealingly gauche young man in his mid-twenties ... so long as he kept his terrible blue eyes veiled. Research into the Remillard "immortality" gene complex was incomplete, but the consensus was that his body-and those of his descendants-would probably self-rejuvenate indefinitely. The prospect was one that Denis and his progeny almost never thought about, much less discussed, for reasons that were political as well as personal. From time to time some genetic researcher would take another stab at unraveling the bewildering interaction of thousands of genes that produced the immortality effect in hopes of making it available to the rest of humanity; but thus far all their efforts had failed. To the family's great relief, most people had forgotten about this peculiar aspect of the Remillard heritage now that rejuvenation was becoming nearly universal among humans.

"Well, I suppose we'd better socialize," Denis said with reluctance. "Let's try to steer clear of Rory Muldowney, shall we?"

"Heavens, yes." The two of them rose and dusted off their clothes.

There was an inscription carved on the rock above the spring. Lucille studied it, then held out a cupped hand, caught some of the falling water, and sipped from it "There. According to this sign, now I can make a wish at the holy fountain. I wish ... I wish we could all have a few quiet years for a change-without any crises rocking the galaxy or the family." She stepped back to give Denis room. "Now it's your turn."

Obediently, he drank from the spring. "I wish I could do more for the Milieu. Find it in me to be the kind of statesman the Lylmik keep urging me to be." But then he shook his head, pulled out a linen handkerchief, and briskly dried his hands. "No. Abort that wish. It would never work. I can't bear the idea of opening my mind to a telepathic colloquium as the Magnates of the Concilium do. Ma.s.ses of mentalities, exotic and human, all debating and consulting and trying to coerce others to their point of view, everyone knowing the motivation and reasoning of everyone else! No dishonesty-but no room for face-saving diplomacy or decent reticence, either."

Lucille regarded him with concern. "Is that so repellent?"

"It is to me. The Concilium working relationship is wildly chaotic. It's not at all like the order and elegance that characterize metaconcert." He rucked away the handkerchief and adjusted his cuffs. "I realize that I should try to overcome my feelings- but I can't. Perhaps if Unity prevailed amongst the Simbiari and the Human Polity things would be different. As things stand, if I agreed to become a magnate I'd go bats before a single Concilium session wound up."

"Never mind. The work you've accomplished isn't too shabby." Lucille's smile was teasing. "And you can be especially proud of our children."

Denis turned a little away from her, gazing at the nearest danceground where partygoers of three races were jigging hilariously to the strains of "Father O'Flynn." Only the poor gloomy green-skinned Simbiari were ill at ease, standing on the sidelines with gla.s.sy smiles and sipping from beakers of fizzy water.

"Our children," Denis murmured. "They're right over there, most of them. Philip and Maurie and Adrien and their wives, and Sevvy dancing with Catherine. I'd certainly like to wish peace and happiness for them. But there's this d.a.m.nable Hydra thing! We haven't the least notion where those renegade creatures are hiding, and the ident.i.ty of Fury is still a complete mystery. I've had no luck with my own investigations and none of Paul's schemes to uncover the monsters has panned out, either. It seems that all we can do is wait for a new crime having the Hydra modus operandi-and pray that Davy MacGregor or Owen Blanchard or some other hostile magnate doesn't find out about it first."

"Paul and Throma'eloo Lek will see to it," Lucille said soothingly. "And the Lylmik Supervisors are on our side. They know how important the Remillard contributions to the Milieu are."

"They may not protect the family much longer." Denis's tone was grim. "Not with two of our sons becoming more and more vocal in opposing Unity. And now Marc has managed to rock the Human Polity to the core by defying Paul in that d.a.m.ned maiden speech of his before the Concilium. And he doesn't even sympathize with the Rebel separatists!"

"Paul should not have taken Marc for granted," Lucille said tartly. "He can't get it through his head that Marc is a grown man now with a vital agenda of his own-and the only Paramount Grand Master metapsychic in the Human Polity."

"Whatever that means," muttered Denis.

"It means he's a force to be reckoned with, my darling. Marc's no Rebel. He believes that humanity must remain part of the Milieu in order to survive, but he also believes in intellectual freedom. That's why he spoke up in opposition to Paul's motion to outlaw the anti-Unity faction. People paid attention because of Marc's rank and the brilliance of his argument. And Paul lost."

"Fury must be delighted! ... d.a.m.n Marc."

"Nonsense. He was only standing up for his principles. I have a certain sympathy for the Rebel faction myself. We didn't ask for the Intervention. The Milieu had to drag us into their marvelous interstellar confederation. And when we agreed to join them back in the beginning, there was never any explicit condition made that we would have to embrace Unity."

"It was implicit. And given the relatively high power of human metafaculties, it's a practical necessity. Luce, I've devoted my life to metapsychology and I'm positive that we must eventually be Unified. If-if I were part of a network of benevolent, coadunate minds, I wouldn't feel so uneasy about the future. And neither would Sevvy or Adrien or the rest of the Rebel group."

"But the exotics don't seem to be able to give us a clear picture of how Unity would affect us." Lucille's voice was troubled.

"Unity is one of the princ.i.p.al goals of human evolution, as Teilhard de Chardin and so many other philosophers have maintained. It just can't be the soul-destroying hive-mentality that its opponents claim. I know too many wise, kind, individualistic United exotics to believe that. Who would ever accuse good old Fred and Minnie of being zombies? Or Dota'efoo Alk'ai and that uxorious husband of hers? Sweet Jesus-the entire Gi race is an argument against Unity as a lockstep mind-meld!"

Lucille giggled. "Do you know Uncle Rogi was propositioned by a Gi last week-and almost succ.u.mbed?"

"No!"

Lucille took her husband's arm. "I'll tell you the whole story. But first I want you to take me into that cute little shebeen down there and get us both a nice drop of Black Bush."

"Whatever you do," Luc warned his little brother, "don't let yourself exert mindpower on the robot horses. They're bugged, and any PK or creative meddling by the spectators will disqualify the entry."

"I understand," said Jack. He clutched the receipt the Poltroyan bookie in the orange-checked suit and green bowler hat had given him. "One places bets according to the fictional handicap information provided in the form-plaque, a.n.a.lyzing past performance of the horse, so-called breeding, and the other factors. It was rather complex, determining the best entrant, but I solved the equation. The winner will be Tipperary Tensor even though he's rated 30 to 1."

"We'll see, wisea.s.s," Luc growled. He had bet on Shillelagh Sprig, the favorite.

The small mechanical equines with their Poltroyan jockeys were at the post, pawing and snorting. A bell chimed and they were off to the screams and plaudits of the crowd, kicking up clouds of dust and moving as realistically as living animals.

At first Shillelagh led by two lengths. Tipperary Tensor was third going into the turn and fell to fourth in the back stretch. The second runner, Knockmealdown, began to overtake Shillelagh Sprig, whereupon Tipperary Tensor's jockey guided him outside the bunched front-runners and plied his whip. The spectators gave a collective shout of surprise as the long shot suddenly pressed forward, pa.s.sed number three, Wild Oscar, and continued to accelerate in the last turn. Thundering into the home stretch, their tiny legs twinkling, Tipperary Tensor, Knockmealdown, and Shillelagh Sprig were neck and neck. But at the finish Tipperary pulled away and was the clear upset winner by half a length.

"I told you so," said Jack smugly.

Luc grunted in disappointment and tore his ticket into pieces. "Self-congratulation at the expense of another person is odious."

Instantly contrite, Jack offered to show his brother how he had calculated the winner.

"It doesn't really matter," Luc said. "What does matter is that you learn how to behave in a polite and kindly manner. It makes no difference how smart and talented you are: if you behave like an a.s.shole you're either thoughtless and immature or acting with deliberate or unconscious aggression. In either case, people won't want to socialize with you."

"But Marc is rude to me rather often-and to others as well- and no one ostracizes him. People may get angry with Marc, but they still admire him. I can tell. I do it myself."

"Marc is different." Luc spoke bitterly. "Marc's magic. He doesn't have to play by the rules like the rest of us poor chumps."

"What do you mean by that?" Jack demanded. "Is magic some kind of super-coercion?" Open your mind Luco and let me a.n.a.lyze the thought!

NO! ... Oh well maybe later. I'm jealous of him you know and I have other mixedup feelings about him that you're not ready to understand.

They were trudging side by side to the bookie's stand for Jack's payoff and the racecourse was becoming more crowded by the moment. All at once Jack halted and stood staring at a group gathered around Tipperary Tensor and its jockey, who were being adorned with green carnations and orange roses.

"Look. There are Marco's four friends. Can I tell them that I won?"

Luc tightened his lips fastidiously. "Well, if you must. But I don't really care for their company very much. That Boom-Boom Laroche is a vulgar barbarian, and Pete Dalembert acts so snotty and superior."

"Marc's going to make Pete the Chief Executive Officer of his new private CE laboratory," Jack said casually. "And Shig Morita will be in charge of development and manufacture."

"What?" Luc was thunderstruck. He grabbed his little brother by the arm and swung him into an alcove behind the saddling enclosure. "Marc is leaving Dartmouth College?"

Jack nodded. "I heard him bespeaking his friends. They had a thought-screen up, but it was easy for me to get around it. Marc is tired of having the college threaten to limit his CE research. He asked Alex Manion and Boom-Boom to work with him, too, but they said they have to do some other things now. They said they'd think about joining Marc later."

"But what the h.e.l.l is Marc going to do? Where will he work?"

"He has lots of money in his trust. He's going to move the E15 project into a place near Seattle as soon as we get back to Earth. I hope he'll still let me help with the design modification. I've got a really neat idea for improving the SIECOMEX."

"This is going to cause big trouble," Luc said, "in the family and outside it. You'd better not say anything about Marc's plans to anyone else. Let him make the announcement when he's ready to." And let him take the flak!

Jack's eager face fell. "Why should there be trouble?"

"Just remember what I said. Come on, we'll get your winnings and see if we can place a bet on another likely long shot with a different bookie. They'll be on to you pretty soon, but we can probably manage another winner or two before they warn you off."

Atoning Unifex had exhorted Its fellow Supervisors not to miss the St. Patrick's Day party, promising that it would have an unusual and important climax. The Lylmik might have overseen the affair from their own enclave, of course; but their leader had strongly urged a material manifestation and they had eventually agreed to attend wearing Poltroyan bodies and the bogus Irish costuming sported by true members of that race. As they had done on previous occasions, Noetic Concordance and Asymptotic Essence a.s.sumed female form while h.o.m.ologous Trend and Eupathic Impulse became males. The s.e.xuality of Poltroyans was so similar to that of the Earthling bodies they had worn before that the four ent.i.ties felt reasonably comfortable.

"Have fun," said Atoning Unifex, "and keep a sharp eye out for impostors." With that It withdrew to Omega knew where, leaving Its four colleagues bemused but resigned.

"What was that supposed to mean?" Impulse inquired grumpily.

Noetic Concordance adjusted her wig's orange curls, which had become entangled in one golden earring. "I suspect we'll find out. You don't suppose that the Hydra creatures have been presumptuous enough to invade Orb?"

"By the Prime Entelechy! Surely one jests!" The bluish-violet cheeks of pretty little Asymptotic Essence faded to a grayish lavender.

"If the monsters are here," h.o.m.ologous Trend said, "we'd better get along and find out what they're up to. If we can find them, that is. They're getting devilishly clever at screening."

"What good will it do to spy them out," sighed Eupathic Impulse, "when Unifex has forbidden one to interfere? It's maddening, enough to discourage one from contemplating the situation at all until bifurcation is imminent."

"There are hints of a stupendous skew in the noogenetic curvature," Essence noted balefully. "One hesitates to predict calamity, but ... see for yourselves." She projected a complex probability graphic.

h.o.m.ologous Trend was more equanimous as he modified the equations to produce a more happy result. "The Hydras and Fury have taken on the aspect of strange attractors and may prove to be even more maleficent than we originally supposed. Or again-thus!-they may not. There is always a chance that the dynamic they introduced will paradoxically advance the Protocol of Unification rather than cause its disintegration."

"One can only continue to have confidence in the judgment of Unifex," Concordance declared. "It is so much older and wiser."

"And capricious," grumbled Impulse. "Oh, very well. Let's get along to the shindig."

No sooner had they arrived at the party than they were dragooned into joining an overly energetic group dance. Twirling and prancing with humans, Gi, and legitimate Poltroyans through one merry tune after another, they found themselves unaccountably exhilarated. When the set ended and the pipers and fiddlers bowed and skipped off to refresh themselves, the four Lylmik applauded as enthusiastically as the rest of the dancers before staggering to a table outside one of the taverns and ordering a round of green creme de menthe.

"How strange," said Noetic Concordance, "that rhythmic, repet.i.tious physical activity should be pleasurable to so many different races."

"Well, one may resonate for the fun of it in Lylmik form," Eupathic Impulse noted, "even though some may deem it childish."

"It's not quite the same," Asymptotic Essence said. "The rhythmic irregularities and changing tempi of dancing have an appeal all their own." Her ruby eyes twinkled at her partner. "You dance very well, you know."

"A paragon of agility compared to this one," h.o.m.ologous Trend added, with a ponderous laugh.

Noetic Concordance sipped her sugar-laden liqueur appreciatively. In a Poltroyan body, one had Poltroyan tastes. "There is also an indefinable delectation in dancing with a partner of the opposite s.e.x, even though that person exhibits more enthusiasm than expertise."

h.o.m.ologous Trend toasted her ironically.

"Have any of you perceived lurking Hydras?" Eupathic Impulse inquired of his colleagues. The responses were negative. "Or the ent.i.ty called Fury?" Again, the disguised Lylmik shook their heads. Thus far, the oscillations in the mental lattices were entirely benevolent.

"There's the boy Jack," Essence said, giving an imperceptible nod. "Haring about with his Uncle Rogi now that Luc's gone off to celebrate with some older chaps. The child seems psychologically sound in spite of his horrendous mutation. I'm glad we had the family bring him to Orb so the Quincunx could look him over."

"One had the oddest feeling examining him," Noetic Concordance admitted. "That powerful young mind-unaware of our scrutiny and yet having such ... appealing affinity."

"One knows what you mean," said h.o.m.ologous Trend softly.

Concordance called up a memoreplay of the experience, which they all studied once again. "Is this ent.i.ty the only one who experienced a warm reiteration of Fa-Time when contemplating the immature human?"

"I felt it," Trend said.

Essence only frowned, picked up a green pretzel in her enameled talons, and nibbled it thoughtfully.

"Curious," said Impulse. "Very curious indeed. If my fading recollection is accurate, there is no physical similarity whatsoever between newly generated Lylmik and the anomalous Jack."

"No," Concordance agreed. "And yet, of all members of the human race-of all other races-this boy alone reminds one of us in the fundamental structure of his mentality. The girl Dorothea Macdonald, for instance, has suboperant metafaculties equal in potential to Jack's but her mental patterns are fully human. Jack's emotions and actions are human, but he thinks differently."

Asymptotic Essence uttered a disbelieving gasp. "Does one suggest that the Lylmik physical aspect might once have been similar to Jack's disembodied brain? Or does one dare to carry the conjecture even further?"

"Not at all," said Concordance. "No member of our ancient race recalls our origins. To speculate is idle. Nevertheless one might ask what relationship young Jack, this prochronistic mutant with the most extraordinary mind his race has ever produced, has to us ... and to the rest of humanity."

"One cannot respond to that yet," Trend said, after finishing off his minty b.u.mper. "But one is certainly ent.i.tled to one's suspicions."

They sat without communicating for some time, scanning the scene and gently probing those minds that were unguarded, while the party grew more and more uproarious. The aether was a cacophonous babble. Even the Simbiari had begun to loosen up and numbers of them, dazed from overindulgence in carbonated water, were heedlessly dripping emerald mucus into the shamrock patches. A kilted marching band of humans, led by a heavily perspiring Rory Muldowney, tramped twice round the square playing "Amran na bFiann," "Garryowen," and "Mick McGilligan's Ball."

The shining green satin cutaway tailcoat and knee britches worn by the Dirigent of Hibernia were getting a bit rumpled toward the finish and his top hat slid askew; but he was a fine figure of a man for all that, big and broad-shouldered, only a little gone to pot, with a goodly turn of leg in his white silk stockings.

When the parade ended, music struck up again on the dancing grounds. Humans and Poltroyans began howling with laughter as a chorus line of Gi tricked out in green-dyed filoplumage and funny hats performed a travesty of Irish step-dancing to the tune of "Finnegan's Wake." The tall hermaphrodites tipped and tapped neatly with their oversized avian feet, batted their huge eyes saucily, and wound up their act to riotous applause with a dazzling flourish of external genitalia.

Over on the village green the original pair of Rebel conspirators, Annushka Gawrys and Owen Blanchard, were surrounded by a triumphant group of like-minded magnates celebrating the defeat of the gag bill. Unexpectedly, Annushka had come to the party accompanied by her aged and unrejuvenated mother, the metapsychic pioneer Tamara Sakhvadze. All evening long the distinguished old lady had enjoyed the adulation of a host of admirers. Among those attending her at that moment were Davy MacGregor, his sister Katharine, the Poltroyan magnates Fritiso-p.r.o.ntinalin and Minatipa-Pinakrodin, the new Dirigent of Okanagon, Patricia Castellane, and the slightly winded guest of honor himself, now drinking steadily from a large Waterford tumbler of neat Tullamore Dew.

For some reason Paul Remillard had come to this final party of the session unaccompanied by a female friend. The four Lylmik Supervisors watched with increasing interest as he mingled with the throng, flashing his inimitable smile and looking splendid in an iridescent magenta dinner jacket. He was slowly making his way toward Tamara.

A Poltroyan dressed as a serving lad came up to the Lylmik table. "Will ye have another round of likker?" he inquired. "The tavern's got usquebaugh, heather ale, porter, stout, mead, and green beer. And if ye feel peckish I can offer the specialities of the house! (It all comes from Orb's central provisioning depot, you understand, but we've gone to great pains to program authentic Irish fare!) There's grand corned beef sandwiches loaded with tasty nitrites, mulligatawny soup or Dublin coddle with hot griddle bread, Irish stew, colcannon, champ, and pickled salmon. If ye fancy a sweet there's flummery, spotted dog, tipsy trifle, gooseberry fool, or carragh?n mousse."

"Spotted dog?" Essence murmured qualmishly.

The purple-faced leprechaun laughed. "Faith, and 'tis only a cake with raisins in it."

Trend said, "I don't believe I'm up to the consequences of serious alimentation."

"We'll just have heather ale and some dulse to munch on," Noetic Concordance told the server. He bobbed his head and presently returned with the drinks and a snack bowl of seaweed.

Two pipers and a concertina player launched into an infectious version of "The Irish Washerwoman" right there in front of the tavern, and numbers of the patrons left their tables to dance in the street.

Eupathic Impulse said, "One could sit here comfortably for the rest of the evening waiting for the climactic event promised by Unifex."

"Not on one's life!" said Essence, rising and seizing her partner's arm. "Let's dance!"

"I really don't want to leave the party, Uncle Rogi," Jack protested. "Something interesting is about to happen. I'm sure of it."

"It's late, Ti-Jean," Rogi said. "You've had enough, and so have I." The old man pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut, fending off a headache. "I shouldn't have drunk all that poteen after the hurley game. Filthy stuff-it sneaks up on you. First the glow, then the mule kicks you in the skull."

Jack remained prudently silent. He knew better than to offer a redactive cure. Uncle Rogi never let other people into his head. The two of them pa.s.sed a tavern where people were jigging in the street, then found a jaunting car and climbed in. As the driver cracked his whip and they set off for the tube station, Jack looked back with keen interest.

"Guess what, Uncle Rogi! There are four Lylmik dancing back there-disguised as Poltroyans."

"I'll be d.a.m.ned," said the old man. He exerted his nearly useless farsight but saw nothing unusual. "You sure?"