She screamed out the final words and stood gasping for breath as tears trickled down her face. Her husband studied her in silence for a long time.

Presently he said "Alvah's been waiting dinner for us."

"Why?" she sniffled.

"A new dish he wants you to try fresh from the oven." He put his fingertips to her cheek and stroked the tears away. "Can you lay all this aside and have a normal evening with your kin?"

"I suppose," she said between breaths, "I can try."

"Come on, then."

As they descended the stairs to the mansion's first floor, Charisse said, "Chuck?"

"Hm?"

"Would you mind officiating at worship tonight?"

He stopped and looked at her in evident surprise. "You feel that unsettled, darlin'?"

She nodded.

"Martin does it better than I do," he said.

"No, love." She laid a hand against his chest. "I want it to be you."

"Is there something in particular you'd like me to say?" he said.

She shook her head. "Whatever you think is right. Just give the blessing."

He nodded, muttered "All right," and they continued on.

Patrice followed Alvah uncertainly into the hearthroom. Her lover had attended the Morelon worship service for the first time a week before, and had strongly suggested that she accompany him to one. She'd agreed to do so out of love for him, and because he'd assured her that Althea and Martin would be there. Her knowledge of the practice of religion on Earth was limited, but what she'd read about it said nothing good about the effects.

She spotted Martin and Althea on the near edge of the gathering. Althea's eyes widened in surprise and pleasure as they lit upon Patrice. Alvah tugged at Patrice's hand, and they went to join them.

"I didn't know you two were interested in this," Althea said. "Have you read the book?"

Patrice started to reply, but Alvah leaped ahead of her.

"Consider us intrigued newcomers," he said. "Did you enjoy dinner?"

Althea and Martin nodded vigorously. Patrice squeezed her lover's hand hard enough to elicit a yelp.

"Fishing again, Alvah?"

Her lover grinned impishly. "Every cook needs feedback, dear." He started into a description of the recipe, but Charisse and Chuck chose that moment to enter, and Martin shushed him.

To their surprise, Charisse laid the loaf of bread and jug of wine on the celebrant's table, nodded to her husband, and went to join the larger gathering. She met no one's eyes.

Chuck Feigner took the celebrant's position in silence. He gazed down at the elements of the rite as if uncertain how to proceed, at last picked up the little book, and flipped through its pages.

"Please bear with me," he said. "It's been quite a while since I last gave the blessing. There's a particular passage I wanted to read you, and I can't quite remember where it is in the book. I do remember the meat of it, though: about the house built on rock and the house built on sand."

Martin surprised the gathering by speaking out. "Matthew," he said, not loudly but quite clearly. "Chapter seven, toward the end."

Feigner nodded. "Thank you." He flipped a few more pages, found the passage he sought, and read in a softly rumbling voice.

"'He who hears these words of mine and does them is like a wise man who built his house on rock. The rain fell, the flood came, and the winds beat against that house, but it did not fall because it had been founded on rock. But he who hears these words of mine and does not do them is like a foolish man who built his house on sand. The rain fell, the flood came, and the winds beat against that house, and it fell; and great was the destruction.'"

He closed the book, laid it aside, and faced the gathering directly.

"We don't have a lot of history of the time before Jesus," he said. "We know, generally, that it was a time of troubles, and serious troubles at that. The peoples of Judea were divided in many ways, and weighed down by the rule of a conquering power. Those who flocked to him must have hoped that what he had to say would lighten their burdens, or at least help them to bear them with quiet hearts."

He grinned briefly. "We don't know if he had any dissatisfied customers. Maybe there were some, but his following seems to have done nothing but grow. We have to assume that his words really did ease the hearts of his listeners.

"But here's my question: How?

"All his preachments about how men should treat one another came down to observations of the natural law: the law as it's written into our flesh. Abjure violence, theft, and fraud. Keep your promises. Honor your parents. Resist envy. Do as you would be done by. Were the people of his time so much less observant than us that they couldn't have figured these things out for themselves?"

Feigner shook his head. "We don't know and we never will. What we do know is that it works. It gives us a framework for living together: a foundation of rock for our house.

"But our wills are free. We can choose to build on sand and reap the consequences. What we can't do is say we had no idea what would happen. Not only do we have eyes to see with, we also have his words to remind us.

"I'd like to think our house-not Morelon House itself, our moral and ethical house-is founded on rock. After all, his commandments are perfectly clear. They square with what we know about ourselves and the world around us. The history of our kind tells us what happened to peoples that chose to ignore them. But I could be wrong. I could have missed something. I think it's important that I keep that in mind. I hope you do, too. If we get too self-satisfied, what will keep us from going off track while we're preening?"

Feigner turned to look directly at his wife. Charisse's face darkened as the eyes of the gathering turned to her. After a moment, she looked away.

"Better to have a little doubt of ourselves, always," Feigner said. "Even if it feels unpleasant."

After a moment's silence, he reached for the loaf of bread, and the communion rite began.

Patrice bade Althea and Martin stay behind as the other worshippers trickled out. Alvah looked at her curiously, but remained at her side. When they were finally alone, she found it difficult to speak.

"Is there something on your mind, Patrice?" Martin said.

She nodded. "Maybe it would be better to take this behind a closed door."

Martin and Althea exchanged a brief glance. They shrugged in unison, and silently followed her and Alvah to their bedroom.

When they had settled themselves, Althea said "I hope this isn't about something that could affect the launch."

Patrice squinted. "No, not as far as I can tell. It's a little subtler than I can work out for myself, that's all."

"Something from elders' council?" Alvah said.

She nodded.

"Maybe it's best kept to yourself, then."

"No," she said at once. "Emphatically no. In fact, I want one of you-no, all three of you to come to the next elders' council. They can't deny you access to the deliberations that run the clan's businesses, can they?"

There was a protracted silence.

Presently Althea said "The council hasn't been a fact here for very long, Patrice. We didn't have one before you two joined the clan." She smirked. "You might say you brought it here with you."

Patrice absorbed the news as calmly as possible. "Clan Kramnik has had one as far back as my memories go. You really let Charisse make all the critical decisions by herself before that?"

"She seemed comfortable with it," Martin said. "But she adopted the council idea readily enough, after she heard about how it functioned at Clan Kramnik."

"It sounds like we really did bring it with us, Pat, " Alvah said.

Patrice shrugged. "Maybe that doesn't matter. Were you aware that the council has been reviewing all new and renewed contracts?"

"That seems reasonable," Althea said. "But what happens if you disapprove of one?"

"That's only just happened for the first time," Patrice said. "She sprang a brand new clan obligation on us yesterday. A three-way agreement with the Dunbartons and the Luchins. As far as I could tell, it was a guaranteed loss for Clan Morelon. Nothing about it made any sense to anyone. She expected us to rubber-stamp it even so. It wasn't a pleasant meeting."

"Ah," Martin said. "Charisse took it badly, didn't she?"

Patrice nodded.

"Did the council stand its ground or back down?"

Patrice laughed without humor. "For the life of me, I couldn't tell you. We were astonished at her reaction. We argued with her for at least an hour, but all that accomplished was a bunch of sore throats."

She groped for Alvah's hand, and found it.

"I don't know what to make of it," she said. "Just before the meeting broke up, Charisse demanded that we not discuss it with 'outsiders,' and stormed out. We're supposed to convene about it again tomorrow morning, right after breakfast."

She breathed deeply and forced a grin.

"I've never been sure of our position here," she said. "Alvah and I are adoptees. We've never shaken the sense that we're here on sufferance. At least, I haven't. We're grateful for having been taken in-we always have been-but just how welcome are we, and what can we really count on?"

"Yet," Martin said, "you co-manage the clan's investments, you're on the elders' council, and Alvah cooks three times a day for the entire household."

He turned to stare out the window into the night sky. "Al-"

"Yes?" Alvah said.

Martin grinned. "The other Al. The one I sleep with."

"Oh. Sorry."

"-do you think we should postpone the launch?"

Althea's expression turned maximally grim.

"Maybe we won't have to."

Chapter 17: Quartember 7, 1307 A.H.

"Uncle Doug?"

"Hm?" Douglas Kramnik awoke reluctantly to the faint invocation through his bedroom door. He sat up, blinked, and shook himself awake. "What is it, Ellen?"

"Radio for you." She hesitated. "It's Althea Morelon."

Oh shit. His bedside clock made it 0605. "Is there coffee?"

"Just finished perking. I'll bring your mug to the radio."

Kramnik hoisted himself out of bed, pulled on a robe and slippers, and trudged down the stairs to the radio alcove. The microphone was already off-hook. He picked it up.

"Yes, Althea, what is it?"

"Are you still involved with the management of our investments, Doug?"

"Yes, what of it?" Ellen Kramnik rounded the corner from the kitchen with his mug cradled in both hands. He took it from her with a murmur of thanks, took a healthy swallow, and immediately felt some purchase on reality return.

"It occurred to me that that should entitle you to attend meetings of our elders, should you choose to do so. There's an important one scheduled for 0800 this morning. Might I persuade you to join us?"

"Hm? Why? Will you be there?"

"I certainly will, Doug. So will Martin, Patrice, Alvah, and Bart. I promise you, it's going to be a lively one. Can I assume you'll be here?"

It set his nerves to humming. He lowered the microphone and thought furiously.

She couldn't make it any plainer that there's trouble afoot. Trouble that could spiral this far out, or farther.

I can't afford not to be there.

He brought the microphone back to his lips.

"I'll be there. Meet me at the door, please? I don't want there to be any misunderstandings."

"Count on it."