Barton smiled. "They were there to drum up support for your scheme, only slightly modified. Instead of having the community try to prevent the lab out of fear of the hazards from pollutants, they were looking to agitate for a body-a commission, they called it-that would try to forestall economic harms from destructive competition." He smiled broadly. "Adam said they were very persuasive. You would have been impressed. They sketched out this scenario where the Morelons would use their cost advantage to drive Grenier Air out of business, and then jack up their haulage rates until the community screamed for mercy. Adam came near to signing on with them. Does that qualify as 'slipping one past you?' How would it have served as a balm for your pride?"

Douglas Kramnik said nothing. Barton made a mocking bow.

"I'm going to marry Nora Morelon, Dad. She's the sweetest creature on Alta, she thinks far better of me than I deserve, and I hadn't the faintest idea about any of it until Althea clued me in. There's this, too: her family is healthy. Its members aren't continually carping and backbiting and maneuvering against one another for some sort of advantage. They love one another, and they actually want me to become a member. Do you really think I'd turn that down just to have a shot at someday running this...nest of vipers?"

Douglas shook his head. "No, Bart, I don't. I know you too well. But you're not going to marry Nora Morelon."

Barton chuckled. "I can't imagine how you can think you could stop me."

"I can," Douglas said.

He drew his needlegun and fired. The Kramnik scion slumped to the floor, instantly unconscious.

"That's the whole bill of lading?" Adam Grenier said.

Martin nodded. "As near as we can figure it. You said twelve thousand pounds was the limit, right?"

Grenier nodded. "For the Guppy. If you think you'll need more lift-"

"We won't," Althea said. "That list ciphers out to about ten thousand, eight hundred." She glanced up at the craft they were chartering. "She seems awfully small for that kind of load, Adam."

"You might be surprised," Grenier said. "That's her safe rating with all possible hazards taken into account, including things like short-field takeoffs and landings. Her lift rating is about fourteen five, and her structural rating is higher still. But ten eight is severe enough, thanks. With all the miles she's got on her, I don't like to tax her." He glanced back and forth between them. "You're both coming along?"

"Of course," Althea said. "That pile of crap isn't going to do much on its own."

"That adds about three-fifty to the load, so we're just over eleven thousand. Look," Grenier said, "it's better to be safe than sorry. Planes have fallen out of the sky for being overloaded. None of mine, but all the same, if you can avoid expanding this list any further, I'd strongly advise it." He awarded her a wholly artificial smile.

Something's going on here, Grandpere.

-Almost certainly, Al. His father was a better, more pleasant man, and he was never this accommodating.

So how do I find out what?

-I have no idea.

Damn. I suppose I'll have to ride it to the end, won't I?

-What if you retreat to your earlier plan?

Martin said we wouldn't. In front of all our neighbors, at that. I can't make a liar out of him.

-I know.

"When do you think you could fit us in?" she said.

Grenier waved unconcern. "You get your stuff together, get it over here, and I'll take care of the rest. There's enough slack in the scheduling to squeeze in one flight just about any time from now through November. Oh, and don't worry about the loading. My crew will see to all of that. They understand the issues quite well."

Martin's eyes narrowed. "What makes you think we wouldn't?"

A quick flicker of the eyelids was all the reaction Adam Grenier produced. It was enough.

"Well, maybe you do," he said. "But do you want the responsibility for a possible midpoint fuel shortfall because of unbalanced aerodynamics? For a plane that has to turn around before it's delivered its cargo? If you load, it's on your shoulders. If my guys do it...?" He shrugged.

We're being set up for a fall.

She glanced at her husband. He shook his head microscopically.

"Okay," she said. "We'll be back in touch when we've assembled all this junk and have arranged to truck it over." She stuck out a hand. "Thanks for being so helpful, Adam."

His plastic smile was still fixed in place. "Not at all."

As they exited the tree-lined corridor from the commercial strip and turned onto the pathway to Morelon House, Althea halted her husband and turned to face him. "I can't figure out what he's planning, can you?"

Martin gazed at her ruefully. "I've been thinking about that and nothing else, love. But I'm dead certain it's nothing we'd enjoy."

"So what now?"

He grimaced. "I don't know. Postpone the trip, for sure. How to get our initial load up to Thule? Frankly, I don't think we have much choice. Our clan had heavy-lift capacity at one point, didn't it?"

She nodded. "Yeah, but we sold the plane when Adam's dad set up shop here. Charisse said she was happy to get rid of it. It made more sense to hire it out, so we wouldn't have to maintain a plane and train pilots."

She glanced at the entrance to Morelon House. The old mansion looked as sturdy as ever. It presented an appearance of immutable strength to all who saw it. Yet it had begun to seem to her that the clan had undermined that strength in several ways, with several decisions. None of them had been fatal; indeed, when each was made, it had appeared to be the obvious choice. Yet in combination, they had rendered Clan Morelon massively dependent upon the wills and skills of a multitude of outsiders...persons who might not be as available or dependable as one would hope.

-That's the downside of the division of labor, Al.

Yeah. I can see that, Grandpere. But how could we have avoided it?

-By resisting all the temptations to specialize and to make use of specialists. By purchasing absolute self-sufficiency at the price of economic advantage. Which, incidentally, no clan or society known to history has ever managed to do.

The incentives are too strong, aren't they?

-Judge for yourself, dear. Put yourself in Charisse's place at the point when Jack Grenier moved into the area and started offering his services around. Would you have done as she did, knowing only what she did at the time?

Probably. If there's a lesson in this- -If there is, Al, no one has ever drawn it. The division of labor is the one and only path toward general prosperity. It can go to an incredible depth. A frightening depth. And it is utterly reliant upon the character and good will of the specialists. Let one critical specialty be corrupted by political forces, or conceive of a grudge against some other group, or even decide that it can rape its customers without fear of reprisal, and the destruction spreads faster than anyone can act to check it.

"Al?"

"Hm? Oh, sorry, love. I was just woolgathering."

Martin peered at her uncertainly. "You were shivering as if you'd just been pulled out of the Kropotkin. In Unember."

She shrugged and smirked. "It's just getting a little chilly now that the sun's going down." She glanced toward the mansion. One by one, its windows were being illuminated from within. "I have to learn to schedule my flights of fancy a little better."

"Hm."

They turned and continued up the path to Morelon House.

Grandpere, can I tell him?

-No, Al. Not now.

When, then?

-Maybe never.

Chapter 7: Sexember 13, 1303 A.H.

"Al?"

"Hm?" Althea looked up from the computer to find Dorothy Morelon in the doorway of her office.

"Radio for you. Adam Grenier."

Althea rose. "About what?"

Dorothy shrugged. "He didn't say." She waved Althea forward. "Come find out for yourself."

Althea trotted down the hall to the radio alcove and picked up the microphone. "Yes, Adam, what is it?"

"Good morning, Althea." Grenier's voice warbled with flecks of static. "I was wondering if you were any nearer to scheduling that heavy-lift trip to the peninsula."

"Uh, no, not really. A few things have come up. We're likely to have to postpone it for a couple of months."

"Oh? What sort of things?"

Why is he asking?

She fell back on the most serviceable nonspecific excuse. "Mostly family matters, Adam. Not the sort of thing I should talk about outside the clan."

"Oh. That's...too bad." There was a brief pause. "I was hoping it's something I could help with."

It was the least convincing expression of sympathy Althea had ever heard. It solidified her suspicion that Grenier was plotting something to her disadvantage. Possibly to Clan Morelon's disadvantage as well.

"I'm afraid not." She decided to riposte. "Are you in financial difficulty, Adam? If so I'd be happy to work out a bridge loan for you."

"No, not at all." Another pause. "I'm just looking forward to having your business. It's not just the money. It's an opportunity to heal an old wound."

Oh, really? "Consider the wound well scabbed over, Adam. At least on my part. Clan Morelon has always appreciated the service you provide. I'd never allow anything to degrade that relationship." Her mouth curved in a secret grin. "Certainly not something as trivial as a squabble over a rejected proposal of marriage."

She released the push-to-talk and waited.

"Ah. Well, you'll keep me posted, I hope?" Grenier's tone had cooled audibly.

"Of course, Adam. I'm sure we'll be in touch quite soon. Be well."

She hung up the microphone, scampered back to her office, and resumed her seat at her desk. She did not resume her labors.

Grandpere?

-Yes, dear?

Were you listening in just now?

-I was.

Well, am I seeing phantoms, or do I have good reason to worry?

-How do you expect me to know?

You read minds, don't you? Why not read Adam Grenier's for me?

-(humor) What gave you the impression that I read minds, Al?

You don't? Then what are we doing now?

-Conversing.

But how is that- -It's not the same at all, Al. With regular people, all I can get is images-images of whatever is uppermost in their concerns. I can send a thought expressed in words to them, and they can receive and comprehend it, but they have no reciprocal capacity to speak back to me.

Then what are we- -I told you. Conversing.

Althea's brain whirled from the implications. It stopped on a conclusion that seemed irrefutable.

So I'm a telepath.

-Yes, dear. And much more.

There was a pause in the exchange.

-I was hoping to delay this little revelation just a year or two longer, but it appears the time has come.

"Rothbard, Rand, and Ringer," she murmured audibly.

-(humor) I'm afraid they have no useful advice for you, dear.

Uh, okay. But how? I'm not from a psi line. I'm certainly not from yours!