Grenier shook his head. "No, Doug. Althea could do that herself. She proved it on our date. Because he's a gentleman. Because his generosity, competence, and manners put you and me both to shame. And because he was more concerned about my well-being than anything else about this contretemps."

Kramnik started to speak, stopped himself.

"That's the sort of man that marries into Clan Morelon, Doug. Give that a few moments' thought next time you start moping over the loss of your heir-the heir that you would have kept prisoner for the rest of his life, rather than permit such an alliance."

Grenier waved Kramnik farewell and headed back to his shop.

Chapter 11: Sexember 14, 1303 A.H.

Althea staggered into Morelon House feeling as if she were carrying the Relic on her shoulders. As she passed the archway into the hearthroom, two of her cousins noticed her exhausted demeanor and started toward her. She waved them away and trudged up the front staircase to the bedroom level.

Grandpere, this can't be right.

-Patience, Al. It will pass.

Will it be this way every time?

-(humor) Not at all. You just made the very first use of your powers. Activating that portion of your nervous system took a tremendous amount of energy, nearly everything your body had in reserve. If you need a comparison, imagine a lifelong paraplegic getting out of his wheelchair and trying to run a ten-mile sprint.

Good. I don't want to feel this way ever again in my life.

-(humor) Well, I can't guarantee you against that. But next time, if there is a next time, at least the reason will be different.

Her bedroom was perfectly neat. Martin-quality neat: everything exactly where it belonged and not a speck of dust anywhere. Apparently he'd taken the time to straighten up before going to his workshop for the morning.

She fought off her reluctance to disturb the perfectly made bed and flung herself down upon it fully clothed.

No more work today, I'd say.

-A good decision, Al. Give yourself time to recover. It might take more than just today. My transition was rugged, but yours looks an order of magnitude rougher.

This is some gift, Grandpere. It makes me feel kinda bad.

-Why, dear? You aren't in pain, are you?

No, it's just that...

-Hm?

I didn't get you anything!

-(snort) I owe you for that one, youngster.

(giggle) She let her eyes close and willed herself into a condition of semi-somnolence. Her ability to concentrate seemed greater then than in a condition of full, wakeful attention to reality. She'd done quite a bit of financial analysis in exactly that state. On this occasion, her thoughts were fixed on physical law.

Conservation of mass-energy is just a generalization of the patterns we see at the macro level. Quantum physics violates it routinely. Just not enough to show at the level of human perception...until today.

If a human body and brain can do what I did today, what else can it do-and what physical laws is it exploiting to do it?

What could I build a machine to do?

-Careful, Al.

Hm? Careful about what, Grandpere?

-A machine is not a mind. Machines don't possess intelligence or sentience. A living mind has qualities found nowhere else in reality.

Oh, come on. The mind is just a machine we haven't yet learned how to replicate.

-Dearest granddaughter Althea, most beloved of all my descendants, that is most definitely not the case.

The surge in intensity jolted Althea's eyes open.

You never said anything about this before, Grandpere.

-Because I hoped you'd stumble upon it yourself.

But why?

There was a long pause in the exchange. Althea braced herself, intuitively certain that she was about to receive a revelation of great import.

-The nature of your psyche, Al. When you learn something from an external source, you accept it only tentatively, no matter how authoritative that source is generally deemed. When you reach a conclusion on your own, using nothing but your accumulated knowledge and the power of your intellect, you commit to it far more intensely.

Just me, Grandpere? Or is that true of everybody?

-Everyone, dear. The degree of your confidence in your intellect determines the magnitude of the difference.

And you wanted me to...commit to this.

-Yes.

Why?

There was another long pause.

-Because it's the single most important fact in all of reality.

Rothbard, Rand, and Ringer.

-Hm?

Grandpere, when you decide to drop a bomb, you go straight for the planet-busters.

-(humor) Well, yes.

Grandpere...

-Yes, dear?

I accept it. I do. Completely and unconditionally. I'm just not sure what I'm supposed to do with it.

-Then may I make a suggestion?

Of course.

She braced herself again.

-It's time you read Teresza's book.

It had the force and lineaments of a command.

Okay. I guess I've put that off long enough.

She started to rise.

-Not now, Al. After you've recovered. For now, sleep.

She lost consciousness upon the instant.

As Charisse entered the Morelon kitchen to prepare the clan's dinner, her gaze fell upon an unprecedented intrusion, and she jerked to a stop.

"Alvah," she said as levelly as she could, "exactly what do you think you're doing?"

The Kramnik clansman glanced back over his shoulder and grinned.

"Good to see you, Charisse." He moved a little aside and waved a hand at the huge casserole dish over which he labored. "It's a recipe for chicken stew that's popular over at Kramnik House. Would you care to taste it?"

She stepped forward and peered down at the unfamiliar concoction, and he offered her a ladle. She spooned up a large bite of the stew and poured it hesitantly into her mouth. A piquant blend of tomato and herb flavors swiftly suffused her palate. She chewed and swallowed with pleasure.

"It's quite good," she said. Better than anything I know how to make. "But I don't think there's enough for the whole clan."

Alvah shrugged. "There's an equal amount of shepherd's pie in the large oven, ready to be warmed to serving temperature."

"Well, that should do it, then." She handed him back the ladle. "But...why?"

Alvah shrugged. "I thought you might like the evening off from your kitchen labors, and I wanted to speak with you."

She peered at him uncertainly. "You can talk with me whenever you like, Alvah. You don't have to make a sacrificial offering first."

He nodded. "It's not that way at Kramnik House." He turned back to the casserole dish and stirred it slowly.

"Patrice and I have talked at length," he said. "We're inexpressibly grateful for the sanctuary you've granted us. It was rather bold of us to come here, considering the frosty relations between our clans. It was Patrice's idea to approach you, and it surprised me when you agreed to shelter us. We discussed what each of us could contribute in return, in the hope that you might consider making the arrangement permanent."

The second surprise was more than equal to the first. Charisse found herself momentarily without words. Alvah's expression became pained.

"Does the idea offend you, Charisse? We certainly don't want to do that."

"No," she said. "Not at all. It's just...no one has ever asked to join the clan, except by marrying into it. You really want to become Morelons? Both of you?"

He nodded. "If we can make ourselves useful here."

She sidled toward the table and gingerly seated herself. Dorothy and Cecile appeared in the archway and stopped short. She shooed them away, and they retreated at once.

Alvah gave the stew a final stir, set the ladle on a nearby spoon rest, and joined her at the table.

"We do have to settle somewhere," he said, "but it's about more than not being welcome at Kramnik House. Jacksonville society is completely clan-oriented. Patrice and I would never be more than hangers-on if we were to set up independent housekeeping somewhere. We're unable to do so out of our own resources, anyway. So we have to make an alliance with some established clan. You've welcomed us so generously, and Bart has spoken so glowingly about Clan Morelon that we'd be fools not to want to join you...if you'll have us."

She nodded. "I understand. It's just that I'm not sure how to go about it." And that bit about not wanting to be hangers-on has a weird flavor. "What would we be doing, adopting you?"

Alvah grinned. "I suppose that's one way of approaching it. But the important thing is that we be welcome. Real, functioning Morelons, rather than objects of charity." He nodded toward the stew. "So I decided it was time to show you what we're-what I'm good for. Not that it's all that impressive, but I'm sure you have enough duties that you wouldn't mind being relieved of this one."

"Would you mind, Alvah? There are usually thirty or more people under this roof. They expect to be fed three times a day. I usually have Dorothy and Cecile to help." She shrugged. "I suppose they'd still be available for washing-up chores, at least."

Alvah chuckled heartily. "Dear Charisse, that's more than I had any right to expect. I'll take the job gladly, if you think it's enough compensation for admitting me to the clan."

"And Patrice?" she said. "What's her major talent?"

"She's an organizer. A good one. Everything from an underwear drawer to a million-deka project." He chuckled again. "Though I doubt many of your kin need help with their underwear drawers."

She looked away.

No question that I could use the help. Maybe Althea could, too.

"Are you Christians?" she said.

He shook his head. "I'm not. I can't speak for Patrice. Does it matter?"

"No, not really. Some of us are, some aren't. I was just curious."

He said nothing more.

We don't owe them, and they don't really know us yet.

Still, it might be for the best. For Jacksonville.

"As far as I'm concerned," she said, "you're in. But...this is so completely unprecedented that I have to collect a few other reactions before we call it a done deal. Give me a few days?"

He nodded, they rose, she held out a hand, and he took it.