"We had a long talk. If he was the cause, he knows it."

"I'm glad I'm not him!"

"And he's glad he's not you."

Valleroy fingered the grave marker. "Tell me, why the two kinds of markers?"

"The trefoil is used to mark the graves of martyrs."

Valleroy whistled. "So many!"

"All gave themselves for our principles. It is a high price to pay in any currency. They will not be forgotten."

Uncomfortably, Valleroy changed the subject. "How much of this land is part of Zeor?"

"In that direction," said Klyd, indicating the south where Gen Territory lay, "all the way to the river. Over there, the hills mark our border. On the other side of the court buildings lies the city^ of Valzor. From Valzor to the river, only our fence line marks Zeor's border."

"But only this small portion is cultivated."

"We expand every year, but it is slow because of the law. We can take in only those we can feed. And there is a head tax on every Gen we keep. That money goes to support the pens. The number of Simes who join us is very small. But in spite of it all, we grow. One day, all the Territory will be disjunct. There will be no fences, no borders and no perverts." He took a deep breath, as if gathering himself back from the fringes of a distant dream. "But that day is a long way off, and we have a job to do today, this First Day in the Death Count of Feleho Ambrov Zeor."

As they took the path back toward the court, Valleroy said, "I went by the stables this morning. Our houses will be ready about now. You run a tight organization."

"That's what it takes, Naztehr," answered Klyd, striding ahead to walk alone as had the others. It was a strange custom to Valleroy, but he honored it as he had all the others. No doubt the meanings would become clear to him one day. He followed, glancing up at Grandfather's sparkling windows, certain the old man was watching him despite being nearly blind.

Dressed in Zeor's traveling livery, with sturdy mounts from the Zeor stables, they took the road across the fields of Zeor northwest toward what Klyd called a main highway. When they reached it, about noon, and turned due north toward Iburan, Valleroy was a little startled to find that the highway was a graveled road laid along what must have been a way of the Ancients. It was either straight or very gently curved, and it went exactly where it wanted to, even biting deep into hills to stay level. The surface was a strange, powdery substance apparently designed to dry quickly and to provide good footing for horses without trapping wagon wheels. Only in the center of the wheel ruts was the gravel base exposed. The Gens, thought Valleroy, could certainly learn a thing or two from the Simes about road building.

They rode steadily, side by side, as they passed an occasional wagon or fellow rider. Once they had to leave the road while two heavily laden grain wagons passed each other. And more than once their blue Zeor cloaks attracted stares of curiosity or lips curled in open disgust.

Every other Sime they passed was armed with the Sime weapon-of-choice, the long supple whip curled at his belt. These juncts raked disdainful glances across Klyd's bare hip while the channel ignored their attitude with a patently false innocence.

Along this major artery, on both sides, farmhouses dotted the landscape, with occasional clusters forming small towns. Valleroy saw the green pennant flying over one such cluster and knew that it signified the presence of a Pen. In the far distance, on the slope of a hill behind the pennant building, he saw green-clad workers harvesting grain-Gens raising their own food, breeding stock.

Tales rose out of his childhood to haunt him. He asked, "Is it true that they use drugs to make Gen women bear more children in the pens?"

Klyd threw him a sharp glance, obviously sensing Valleroy's roiling emotions. He pulled off the road, dismounting and loosing his horse to graze before answering. Valleroy followed suit. They had been riding steadily for hours. He was hungry enough to eat despite the memory of the funeral.

"Those Gens are well treated," said the channel as he dug his lunch out of a saddlebag.

"Well treated?" snorted Valleroy.

"Certainly. They are valuable property, aren't they?" Klyd took the canteens and settled down among some rocks overlooking a placid pool on the edges of a stream. Only the sound of an occasional rider marred the stillness of a warm, Indian summer afternoon.

At Valleroy's incredulous look, Klyd continued, "It is only during the last few months, after they are marked for distribution, that their health and welfare is no longer important. Even then, they are well fed."

"You're as bad as all the rest of them! You talk righteously about disjunction, and then discuss them"-he waved toward their backtrail where the green pennant could barely be seen over the rise, unconsciously imitating the Sime gesture-"as if they were just cattle!"

Imperturbably taking a bite of a roll of black bread, Klyd chewed and swallowed methodically before answering. "Those people are nothing more than animals." At Valleroy's indignant rise, the channel gestured impatiently. "Sit down and eat. Maybe you'll learn something if you can be quiet long enough to listen."

Sullenly, Valleroy sat and bit into his roll. The cake-like bread was moist with flakes of nut meats and chunks of fruit throughout. He found the canteen filled with a rich, syrupy drink that satisfied hunger without filling. Between bites, he said, "I'm listening."

"Those people over there"-Klyd gestured toward the distant pennant with a graceful tentacle-"are not and never have been your people. They were born in the pens. They have no language to speak of... no culture... and no art. They have no religion, and little in the way of morals guides their behavior. They are almost literally animals."

Klyd paused to let that sink in while he swigged at his canteen. "That is the main reason that most Simes out there"-he made an expansive gesture to include all Sime Territory-"don't really believe Gens are people. If Gens aren't people, then there's no reason not to kill them as you slaughter animals to eat. If Gens aren't people, then Simes who interbreed with them to produce the incredibly skilled donors like Denrau... and use those donors to avoid the kill... are certainly perverts of the worst sort. If Gens aren't people, it follows that the wild Gens are to be hunted down and used in whatever way seems convenient.

"Until the channels came along, it was sincerely believed that all Gens were merely animals... anthropoid copies of people. But then we found that your people, left to yourselves, develop language, culture, art, religion... everything that we have and maybe a bit more. Still, it is true that those bred and raised in the pens for generations don't have these attributes. I know this, Hugh, because it is my job to take them and turn them into people.

"And, Hugh," said the channel, leaning forward impassioned, "we do succeed! We have shown over and over that the most dull-eyed denizen of the pens can blossom into a real human being given the right circumstances. That is the reason Andle and all his followers are frightened of us. Simes are no more fond of murder than you are."

"What happens to the ones born in the pens who go through changeover?"

"Most of them die in changeover... from the drugs they've been saturated with all their lives. The few who survive are trained to become keepers of the pens... they have little memory of their childhood and very little intelligence. They rarely live as much as ten years after changeover."

Cynically, Valleroy smiled. "Oh, a necessary evil?"

Klyd didn't answer, avoiding Valleroy's gaze. For once, Valleroy wished he could read Klyd's emotions. "What about the captives? Don't they teach..."

"Captives are never mixed with stock. It was learned a long time ago that that only produces violence."

"So Aisha couldn't possibly be there?" Valleroy couldn't drag his eyes away from the pennant.

"No, not a chance. That's a government-supported operation. If she was taken by the Runzi, and if she's still alive, she's either in a Raider's pen somewhere in the wilds, or she's been placed for auction."

Valleroy mulled that over as he chewed on a fresh, crisp apple. Klyd knew more about the distribution of Gens for the kill than anyone from out-Territory could. They were following the best lead that had turned up. As frustrating as it was, there was absolutely nothing more they could do. Considering Feleho's death following this same lead, it just might be the right one.

Nevertheless, Valleroy felt guilty for just sitting in the shade placidly eating an apple while Aisha was, perhaps, screaming for help... somewhere. As long as he was moving or engrossed in some project, Valleroy could rest satisfied he was doing enough. But the moment he stopped to rest, his mind would conjure up torturous nightmares that made him want to jump up and run to her rescue... but he didn't know which direction to run!

He took a deep breath and stretched out, leaning against the tree behind him. Klyd sat, tailor-fashion, watching a flock of migrating birds so high in the blue sky Valleroy couldn't tell what they were. The Sime appeared not to have a care in the world at that moment, yet Valleroy knew that Klyd walked the most dangerous path of any of Stacy's agents. "Tell me something, Klyd."

"If I can."

"Why do you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Oh, everything... I guess it amounts to collaborating with the enemy. Working for Stacy. Searching for Aisha. Sending your friends into danger and not even telling them why. No other Sime is doing any of those things. What makes you different?"

"Oh, I guess it's the way I see history, or rather my place in it. Only a member of a Householding would do any of those things... and only a channel could. It has to be a channel whose Householding borders Gen Territory... in this district, that means Zeor. It has to be a Head of a Householding because only a Head could put together an information net useful to Stacy. And it has to be somebody who has a contact among the Gen authorities. I don't know anybody else in that position."

"Since you're the only one who could, you must? That doesn't seem very logical."

"It is if you grant that somebody must provide a bridge between us and them."

Valleroy didn't even notice that Klyd had said "us and them" rather than "us and you." He still wasn't satisfied. "How did you come to meet Stacy?"

The birds had long since disappeared into the distance, but Klyd still gazed upward, as if some scene played itself out against the sky. "I was out checking a stand of timber on Zeor's western border... the one on the bank of the river. We thought it might be ready for some selective harvesting. I was riding alone since I didn't plan to go off the holding. I was about to light my campfire for the night when a very exhausted Gen staggered into the clearing... right into my arms. He was being chased by a young Sime, just through changeover and berserk with need. That was the first time the river tunnel had been used In generations."

"The Gen was Stacy?"