"How many looms are you running just now, Doug?" Martin said.

"Sixteen," Douglas said. "Why?"

"So we know how many more of these to make, of course," Martin said. "But for best results, you'll have to allow me the final laying-on of hands. The looms have to be retuned for the higher speeds and finer wefts."

"Why?" Barton cried. "Why are you doing this for us?"

"For the benefit of Clan Kramnik, Bart," Charisse said. "So you can make your goods faster and better, and lower your prices, and properly service your new account with my clan." She peered at him theatrically. "You do expect your clan to continue in the textile business, don't you?"

No one spoke. Presently Charisse beckoned Althea and Martin to her, and wrapped an arm around each one.

"Martin said something unpleasant at your meeting, Doug. He implied that if pressed, Clan Morelon would defend its rights and property with force. That's exactly correct, of course. But we know we could never muster an absolute, unchallengeable preponderance of force, that couldn't be overcome under any circumstances." She gave Althea and Martin a gentle squeeze. "So we're doing what we can to leverage our other assets. When you think of going up against Clan Morelon for any reason, think about these two. Think about what they've done for you, and what they could do to you. If I have to say more than that, I'm talking to the wrong Kramniks. Now let's you and I retire to your office and talk dekas and cents." She released her kinsmen and strode toward the hallway to the Kramnik living quarters. Douglas immediately followed in her train.

Barton started after them, Martin raised a hand, and he stopped.

"Are you willing to chat with us for a bit, Bart?" Martin said softly.

Barton peered at him, suspicions rising. "What about?"

Althea smiled gently at him. "A proposal of marriage."

Barton was almost unable to speak.

"She thinks I'm handsome?"

Althea nodded. "Her exact phrase was 'hotter than fresh lava.' You have talked with her, haven't you?"

Barton nodded.

"And you didn't get a sense of that?"

"No, not at all. But..." His thoughts flew beyond his control. "How old is she?"

"How old are you?"

Barton hesitated. "Thirty-seven."

"About sixteen years younger than you. Does that matter?" Martin said. "Hallanson-Albermayer treatments-"

"Clan Kramnik can't afford them."

"All Morelons get them, Bart," Althea said.

"But-"

"You would become a Morelon," Martin said. "The same as I did."

"But you still go by Forrestal."

"And you would still go by Kramnik," Althea said. "We don't insist on a name change. But you would move to Morelon House. Your children would be Morelons. And," she said, measuring out the words, "you would forfeit your scion status in Clan Kramnik."

Barton started to expostulate, clamped his lips together.

"Does the idea upset you?" Althea said.

"No...no." His gaze traveled the mill, lighting briefly on each of the looms. "Nora's very pretty and very sweet. I'm just...surprised, that's all. I had no idea..." His brow furrowed. "But why are you proposing this? It's not at all the way we've been doing things."

Martin grinned. "Tradition sometimes has to give way to practicality. First, your father would never willingly approach Charisse with another suit from you. Charisse frightens him, which is probably for the best in the long run. Second, as you said just a moment ago, you 'had no idea.' Third, Al and I are doing a little penance for past offenses. We haven't exactly treated you like a valued neighbor."

"Fourth," Barton said, "by marrying me into Clan Morelon, you'd put Dad in a bind he'd never manage to resolve. Anything he does to harm you guys would harm me as well."

Althea chuckled and turned to her husband. "I told you he isn't stupid."

"No," Martin said, "just...untutored. A little rough around the edges. Nora will file those down for him, I think. But Bart, there's one more question you have to answer, and I think we'd better leave you to answer it for yourself, in private."

"What is it?" Barton said warily.

Martin reached toward him and took his right hand. Althea took his left. He did not resist.

"Are you over Althea?" Martin murmured.

Barton's eyes flew toward Althea's. She nodded.

"I'm sorry if I've been a tease," she said.

"It's not that," he said. "It's just that you're so..." He trailed off.

"She is all that, isn't she?" Martin said. "But if you're going to be part of our family, you have to put out any torch you're carrying for Althea. You have to be able to love your wife exclusively, forsaking all others. It can't work any other way. It wouldn't be fair to Nora, and the rest of the clan would never tolerate it."

They rose, pulling him upright with them.

"We're inviting you to become part of our clan, Bart," Althea said. "Nora wants you for her own. I can't imagine a development that would make more people happy. But you have to be able to commit to it all the way." She squeezed his hand. "Take it to bed with you and let us know when you've made up your mind."

"I will," he said. "But Althea?"

"Hm?"

"You haven't been a tease," he said. "You've been a bitch."

Althea's eyes went wide. Martin's face clouded over. "Bart..." he rumbled.

"It's all right, Martin," Althea murmured. "He had to say it, and I probably deserved it."

"All right," Martin growled, eyeing Barton dubiously, "but just this once."

Chapter 6: Sexember 12, 1303 A.H.

"Dad," Barton Kramnik said urgently, "they're not going to use that parcel. Why else would Althea have contracted with Adam for long-distance haulage?"

Douglas Kramnik glowered briefly back at him without slowing his angry stride toward Grenier Air Transport's hangars. Barton merely tried to keep pace.

What on Hope does he have in mind now-and how am I involved?

He tried to fix his thoughts on Nora Morelon, her welcoming eyes and impish smile, the pleasure and affection evident in her greeting when he'd gone to visit her at Morelon House, and the shimmering prospect of leaving his poisonous birth clan for good. It proved impossible.

I wonder how long I can put off the announcement.

Adam Grenier emerged from the hangar with an oil-smudged cloth in his hands. He raised an eyebrow upon seeing them, but waited in silence, arms akimbo, as they drew near.

"What is it, Doug? I thought we'd come to an agreement about your rates."

"We have," the Kramnik patriarch said. "I'm not here for that." He tossed his head at his son. "Bart told me a curious tale about you and Althea Morelon."

"The new contract?" Grenier shrugged. "One large load for openers, and a little haulage twice a month for a year after that. I'd have thought there was nothing newsworthy there. What's got into your britches about it?"

Douglas smiled tightly. "You," he said. "And her."

Grenier snorted. "Yeah, I know. But you see that thing in there?" He waved at the big-belly cargo plane in the hangar. Its loading hatches were open and its cockpit stairway was extended. "That doesn't care about my feelings. It doesn't want to hear about my wounded male pride. It wants to be fed. It wants to earn its keep, so I can earn mine. And I can't imagine an increase in your traffic that would compensate for the loss of my contract with the Morelons. Which I've already come pretty close to losing once before."

"The tyranny of the market," Douglas said, his voice flat and level.

"You have your ways of coping, Doug," Grenier said. "I have mine." His gaze swerved to Barton. "It must have been a pretty slow week around your place for my deal with Althea to be the big news."

"Actually, Adam, it wasn't slow at all," Douglas said. "There've been developments. Clan Kramnik's haulage needs are about to increase. We're introducing a new line of sheets and a new line of towels. I expect them to be popular. Call it forty percent more mass per load. And I'd be willing to talk about an increase in the rates." Another tight smile. "A modest one, mind you."

Grenier's eyes remained on Barton's. "What's this about, Doug?"

Douglas Kramnik thrust his hands into his back pockets and strutted about the taxiway in a peacock-like display.

"Social and economic realignment, Adam. Righting a few wrongs. Humbling the mighty. Showing Jacksonville, and maybe the rest of Alta as well, that as ye give, so shall ye get. And," Kramnik said, looking directly at Adam Grenier once more, "a little payback for the wound to your pride, and to mine."

"Dad-" Barton said.

"Shut up, Bart." Douglas stared directly into Grenier's eyes. "Are you interested, Adam?"

There was a protracted silence.

"I'm interested in upsides and downsides," Grenier said. "Commitments and risks. Objectives and schedules. Details. You haven't said anything I can rely on, just yet."

"I'll tell you what you can rely on," Douglas said. "That damned mass driver. It will be built, and it will undercut your rates, and it will eventually make manned air haulage a thing of the past."

Grenier frowned. "Forrestal said it wouldn't be built here-"

"The lab won't be built here," Douglas interrupted, "is what he said. They haven't deregistered the parcel. Would you care to guess what will be built there, Adam?"

Grenier said nothing.

"There's an awfully nice stretch of power cable that runs right up to that tract. Ideal for charging a bunch of high-capacity condensers. So once they've proved out their design in wherever-"

"Hopeless peninsula," Grenier said.

Douglas Kramnik's face drained of color. "What did you say?"

Grenier shrugged. "Hopeless peninsula. The northern tip. Why should that matter?"

"Never mind," the Kramnik patriarch growled. "I'll commit the whole of my haulage to you, including the new increment, at twenty percent over our current agreement for the next two years. What do you say?"

Barton found himself holding his breath.

"And what do you want in return for this, Doug?" Grenier said, eyes wary.

Douglas smiled.

"A favor," he said. "Just a very small favor."

"You have to learn how to negotiate, Bart." Douglas Kramnik lolled back in his desk chair, pervaded by satisfaction. "If you ever want to sit in this chair, at least. Everything is negotiable, you know. Prices, quality, quantity, times, places, bonuses and penalties and dates from and dates to. The names on the contract, too." He folded his hands behind his head. "Even life and death, if you're clever enough."

His son's expression was difficult to read. "How clever is that?"

Douglas smiled. "Clever enough to know whose hand holds a weapon. Clever enough to turn it on your enemy, or persuade your enemy to turn it on himself." He straightened in his seat and fixed his son with a monitory stare. "Clever enough to keep your eyes and ears open, so you'll know what might become a weapon...or who."

Barton said nothing. Douglas pointed at the door to his little office.

"Do you know why I keep that door closed, and me on this side of it, nearly all the time?" He waited for a reply, but received none. "Because it makes the rest of the clan think I'm out of touch. 'He's always shut up in his office,' they say to one another. 'He can't know what's going on.' With the interesting result that when I find it useful to demonstrate that I do know, it surprises everyone. Yet somehow, they never learn. They keep thinking they can slip one past me...just as you did."

Barton's mouth dropped open. "I never-"

"Yes you did, Bart. By not saying anything about Nora Morelon. Just because Althea didn't approach you until she was sure Charisse had pulled me out of earshot didn't mean I wouldn't hear about it. The men on the mill floor have long ears. They've learned how to filter out the mill noise when listening to something interesting...and every one of them is beholden to me."

Douglas waited as Barton gathered himself to reply. When his son rose from his seat, he rose as well.

"I might not be as well informed as you, Dad, but I get around a bit, myself. For example, I know what the rest of the elders think of me. I'm not happy about it, but I'm not about to wish it away. What makes you think they'll have me for your replacement, if you ever do decide to retire?

"Oh, I also learn things now and then by virtue of having friends outside the clan. Like Adam Grenier. You weren't the first to think the Morelons might still put a mass driver on that plot, and you weren't the first to think Adam would be unhappy about it. Alvah and Patrice spoke to him about it even before I got the chance to. Are you interested in hearing about the substance of their conversation?"

Douglas kept himself under rigid control. "Go ahead."