THE SHOCK OF Sallah Telgar’s death reverberated across the continent. She had been well known, both as shuttle pilot during debarkation and as an able manager of the Karachi camp. Her courage, however, gave an unexpected boost to, morale, almost as if, because Sallah had been willing to devote the last moments of her life to benefit the colony, everyone had to strive harder to vindicate her sacrifice. Or so it seemed for the next eight days until some disturbing rumors began to circulate.

“Look, Paul,” Joel Lilienkamp began even before he had closed the door behind him. “Everyone’s got a right to access Stores. But that Ted Tubberman’s been taking out some unusual stuff for a botanist.”

“Not Tubberman again,” Paul said, leaning back in his chair with a deep sigh of disgust. Tarv—Telgar, Paul corrected himself, had phoned the previous day, asking if Tubberman had been authorized to scrounge in the shuttle they were dismantling.

“Yes,” Joel said. “If you ask me, he’s only accessing half his chips. You’ve got enough on your plate, Paul, but you gotta know what that fool’s doing.’ I’ll bet my last bottle of brandy he’s up to something.”

“At Wind Blossom’s request, Pol has denied him further access to the biology labs,” Paul said wearily. “Seems he was acting as if he was in charge of bioengineering. Bay doesn’t like him much, either.”

“She’s not alone,” Joel replied, lowering himself to a chair and scrubbing at his face. “I want your permission to shut the shop door in his face, too. I caught him in Building G, which houses the technically sensitive stuff. I don’t want anyone in there without my authorization. And there he was, bald-faced and swaggering like he had every right, he and Bart Lemos.”

“Bart Lemos!” Paul sat up again.

“Yeah. He, Bart, and Stev Kimmer’re doing a good-old-buddy bit these days. And I don’t like the rumors my sources tell me they’re spreading.”

“Stev Kimmer’s in on it?” Paul was surprised.

Joel shrugged. “He’s mighty thick with ’em.”

Paul rubbed his knuckles thoughtfully. Bart Lemos was a gullible nonentity, but Stev Kimmer was a highly skilled technician. Paul had put a discreet monitor on the man’s activities after Avril’s departure. Stev had gone on a three-day bender and been found asleep in the dismantled shuttle. Once he had recovered from the effects of quikal, he had gone back to work. Fulmar said that other mechanics did not like pairing with him because he was taciturn, if not downright surly. The thought of Tubberman having access to Kimmer’s expertise made Paul uneasy. “What exactly have you heard, Lili?” he asked.

“A load of crap,” the little storesman said, folding his fingers across his chest. “I don’t think anyone with any sense buys the notion that Avril and Kenjo were in league. Or that Ongola killed Kenjo to keep them from taking the Mariposa to go for help. But I’ll warn you, Paul, if Kitti’s bioengineering program doesn’t show postive results, we could be down the tubes. I’ll lay odds you and Emily are going to be asked to reconsider sending off that homing capsule.”

The previous evening, Paul had discussed that expedient with Emily, Ezra, and Jim. Keroon had been the fiercest opponent of a homing-capsule Mayday, which he termed an exercise in futility. As Paul remarked, such technological help was, at the earliest, ten years away. And the chance that the FSP would move with any speed to assist them was depressingly slim. To send for help seemed not only a rejection of Sallah’s sacrifice but a cowardly admission of failure when they had not exhausted the ingenuity and resourcefulness of their community.

“What sort of material has Ted been requisitioning, Lili?” Paul asked.

Joel extracted a wad of paper from his thigh pocket and made a show of unfolding and reading from it. “Grab bag from hydroponics to insulation materials, steel mesh and posts, and some computer chips that Dieter says he couldn’t possibly need, use, or understand.”

“Did you happen to ask Tubberman what he needed them for?”

“I happened to just do that very thing. A bit arrogant he was, too. Said they were needed for his experiments”—Joel was clearly dubious about their value—“to develop a more effective defense against the Thread until help comes.”

Paul grimaced. He had heard the botanist’s wild claims that he, not the biologists and their jumped-up mutated lizards, would protect Pern. “I don’t like that ’till help comes’ bit,” Paul murmured, gritting his teeth.

“So, tell me to lock him out, Paul. He may be a charterer, but he’s overspent his credit and then some.” He waved the sheet. “I got records to prove that.”

Paul nodded. “Yes, but next time he presents a list, get him to tell you what he wants, then shut the door. I want to know what he’s up to.”

“Restrict him to his stake,” Joel said, rising to his feet, an expression of genuine concern on his round face, “and you’ll save all of us a lot of aggro. He’s a wild card, and you can’t be sure where he’ll bounce up next.”

Paul grinned at the storesman. “I’d be glad to, Lili, but the mandate doesn’t permit that kind of action.”

Joel snorted derisively, hesitated a moment longer, and then, shrugging in his inimitable fashion, left the office.

Paul did not forget the conversation, but the morning brought more pressing concerns. Despite the best efforts of Fulmar and his engineering crews, three more sleds had failed airworthiness tests. That meant using more ground crews, the last line of defense and the most enervating for people already worked to the point of exhaustion. Neither Paul nor Emily recognized the significance of three separate reports: one from the veterinary lab, saying that their supply rooms had been rifled overnight; another from Pol Nietro, reporting that Ted Tubberman had been seen in bioengineering; and the third from Fulmar, saying that someone had made off with one of the exhaust cylinders from the dismantled shuttle.

When Joel Lilienkamp’s angry call came through, Paul had little trouble arriving at a conclusion.

“May his orifices congeal and his extremities fall off,” Joel cried at the top of his voice. “He’s got the homing capsule!”

Shock jolted Paul out of his chair, while Emily and Ezra regarded him in astonishment. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure, Paul. I hid the carton in among stove pipes and heating units. It hasn’t been misplaced, but who the hell could know that carton #45/879 was a homing capsule?”

“Tubberman took it?”

“I’ll bet my last bottle of brandy he did.” Joel spoke so fast that his words slurred. “The fucker! The crap-eater, the slime-producing maggot!”

“When did you discover it gone?”

“Now! I’m calling from Building G. I check it out at least once a day.”

“Could Tubberman have followed you?”

“What sort of a twat do you think I am?” Joel was as apoplectic at such a suggestion as he was about the theft. “I check every building every day and I can tell you exactly what was requisitioned yesterday and the day before, so I fucking well know when something’s missing!”

“I don’t doubt you for a moment, Joel.” Paul rubbed his hand hard over his mouth, thinking rapidly. Then he saw the anxious expressions of Emily and Ezra. “Hold on,” he said into the handset, and reported what Joel had said.

“Well,” Ezra replied, a look of intense relief passing over his gaunt features. “Tubberman couldn’t launch a kite. He can barely maneuver a sled. I wouldn’t worry about him.”

“Not him. But I worry a lot about Stev Kimmer and Bart Lemos being seen in Tubberman’s company lately,” Paul said quietly. Ezra seemed to deflate, burying his head in his hands.

“Ted Tubberman has had it,” Emily said, placing the folder she had been studying onto the table in a precise manner and rising to her feet. “I don’t give a spent chip for his position as a charterer or the privacy of his stake. We’re searching Calusa.” She gave Ezra a poke in the shoulder. “C’mon, you’ll know what components he’d need.”

They all heard the sound of running feet, then the door burst in and Jake Chernoff erupted into the office.

“Sir, sorry, sir,” the young man cried, his face flushed, his chest heaving from exertion. “Your phone—” He pointed excitedly at the receiver in the admiral’s hand. “Too important. Scanners at met—something blasted off from Oslo Landing, three minutes ago—and it wasn’t a sled. Too small.”

As one, Paul, Emily, and Ezra made for the door and ran to the interface chamber. Ezra fumbled at the terminal in his haste to implement the program. An exhaust trail was plainly visible, on a northwestern heading. Cursing under his breath, Ezra switched to the Yoko’s monitor, which was tracking the blip. For a long moment they watched, rigid with fury and frustration. Then Ezra straightened his long frame, his hands hanging limply.

“Well, what’s done’s done.”

“Not completely,” Emily said, her voice harsh as she separated each syllable in a curious lilt. She turned to Paul, her eyes very bright, her lips pursed, and her expression implacable. “Oslo Landing, hmmm? That capsule was just launched. Let’s go get the buggers.”

Leaving Ezra to monitor the capsule’s ascent, Paul and Emily left at a run. The first three big men they encountered on their way to the grid were commandeered to assist. Paul spotted Fulmar and told him to pilot Kenjo’s augmented sled.

“Don’t ask questions, Fulmar,” Paul said, peremptorily seconding two more burly technicians. “Just head us toward Jordan, and everyone keep their eyes open for sled traffic.” He reached for the comm unit as he shrugged into his harness. “Who’s in the tower? Tarrie? I want to know who’s in the air above the river, where they’re going, and where they’ve been.”

Fulmar took off in such a steep climb that for a moment the noise blanketed any answer Tarrie Chernoff gave.

“Only one sled above the Jordan, sir, apart from that—other flight.” She choked on her words and then recovered the impersonal reserve of a comm officer. “The sled does not acknowledge.”

“They will,” Paul assured her grimly. “Continue to monitor all traffic in that area.”

Tubberman was just stupid enough to be obvious, but somehow Paul did not think that such stupidity was a trait of Stev Kimmer or whomever else Ted had talked into such an arrant abrogation of the democratic decision of the colony.

Tubberman was alone in the sled when Fulmar forced him to land in the riverside desolation of the ill-fated Bavaria Stake. He was unrepentant as he faced them, folding his arms across his chest and jutting his chin out defiantly.

“I’ve done what should have been done,” he stated in pompous righteousness. “The first step in saving this colony from annihilation.”

Paul clenched his fists tightly to his sides. Beside him, Emily was vibrating with a fury as intense as his own.

“I want the names of your accomplices, Tubberman,” Paul said through his teeth, “and I want them now!”

Tubberman inhaled, bracing himself. “Do your worst, Admiral. I am man enough to take it.”

The mock heroic attitude was so absurd to his auditors that one of the men behind Paul let out a short bark of incredulous laughter, which he quickly cut off. But the one burst of derision altered Paul’s mood.

“Tubberman, I wouldn’t let anyone touch a hair of your head,” Paul said, grinning in a release of tension. “There are quite suitable ways to deal with you, plainly set out in the charter—nothing quite as crude or barbaric as physical abuse.” Then he turned. “You men take him back to Landing in his sled. Put him in my office and call Joel Lilienkamp. He’ll take charge of the prisoner.” Paul had the satisfaction of seeing the martyred look fade from Tubberman’s eyes, to be replaced by a mixture of anxiety and surprise. Turning on his heel, Paul gestured Emily, Fulmar, and the others back into their sled.

Tarrie reported no other vehicles in the area and apologized that traffic records were no longer kept. “Except for that . . . rocket thing, the pattern was normal, sir. Oh, and Jake’s back. Did you want to speak to him?”

“Yes,” Paul answered, wishing that Ongola were back in charge. “Jake, I want to know where Bart Lemos and Stev Kimmer are. And Nabhi Nabol.” Beside him, Emily nodded approval.

By then, Fulmar had covered the short air distance between Bavaria and Oslo Landing. The remains of the launch platform were still smoking. While Paul went with the others to search the area for sled skids, Fulmar carefully prodded through the overheated circle beneath it, sniffing as he went.

“Shuttle fuel by the smell of it, Paul,” he reported. “A homing capsule wouldn’t take much.”

“It would take know-how,” Paul said grimly. “And expertise, and you and I know just how many people are capable of handling that sort of technology.” He looked Fulmar square in the eye, and the man’s shoulders sagged. “Not your fault, Fulmar. I had your report. I had others. I just didn’t put the pieces together.”

“Who’d have thought Ted’d pull such a crazy stunt? No one believes half of what he says!” Fulmar protested.

Emily and the others came back then from an inconclusive search. “There’re a lot of skid marks, Paul,” she reported. “And rubbish.” She indicated a collapsed fuel sack and a handful of connectors and wires. Fulmar’s look of desolation deepened.

“We’re wasting time here,” Paul said, curbing his irritation.

“Let’s have Cherry and Cabot waiting in my office,” Emily murmured as they climbed into the sled.

“He’s proud of what he did,” Joel stormed when Paul and Emily called him into Emily’s office on their return. “Says it was his duty to save the colony. Says we’ll be surprised at how many people agree with him.”

“He’s the one who’ll be surprised,” Emily replied. Her jaw was set in a resolute line, and her lips curved in a curious smile, which her tired eyes did not echo.

“Yeah, Em, but what can we do to him?” Joel demanded in impotent indignation.

Emily poured herself a fresh cup of klah and took a sip before she answered. “He will be shunned.”

“Who will be shunned?” Cherry Duff demanded in her hoarse voice, entering the room at that instant. Cabot Carter was right behind her, having escorted the magistrate from her office in reply to the summons.

“Shunned?” Carter’s handsome face was enlivened by a smile that grew broader as he looked expectantly from Paul to Emily, then faded slightly as he saw the dour storesman.

Paul grinned back. “Shunned!”

“Shunned?” Joel exclaimed in a disgusted tone.

Emily gestured Cherry into the comfortable chair and motioned for the others to be seated. Then, at a nod from Paul, she gave a terse report that culminated in Tubberman’s illicit use of the homing capsule.

“So we’re to order Tubberman shunned, huh?” Cherry looked around at Carter.

“It’s legal all right, Cherry,” the legist replied, “since it is not a corporal punishment, per se, which is illegal under the terms of the charter.”

“Refresh me on such a process,” Cherry said, her tone doubly droll.

“Shunning was a mechanism,” Emily began, “whereby passive groups could discipline an erring member. Religious communities resorted to it when someone of their sect disobeyed their peculiar tenets. Quite effective really. The rest of the sect pretended the offending member didn’t exist. No one spoke to him, no one acknowledged his presence, no one would assist the shunned in any way or indicate that he—or she—existed. It doesn’t seem cruel, but in fact the deprivation is psychologically destructive.”

“It’ll do,” Cherry said, nodding in satisfaction. “An admirable punishment for someone like Tubberman. Admirable!”

“And completely legal!” Cabot concurred. “Shall I draft the announcement, Emily, or do you prefer to do it, Cherry?”

Cherry flicked her hand at him. “You do it, Cabot. I’m sure you learned all the right phrases. But do explain exactly what shunning entails. Not that most of us aren’t so fed up with the man’s rantings and rumors that they won’t be delighted to have an official excuse to . . . ah . . . shun him! Shun him!” She tipped back her head and gave a hoot of outrageous laughter. “By all that’s holy—and legal—I like that, Emily. I like that a lot!” In an abrupt switch of mood with no leavening of humor, she added, “It’ll cool a lot of hotheads.” She swept Paul and Emily with a shrewd look. “Tubberman didn’t do it by himself. Who helped?”

“We’ve no proof,” Paul began in the same minute that Joel said, “Stev Kimmer, Bart Lemos, and maybe Nabhi Nabol.”

“Let’s shun them, too,” Cherry cried, banging the arm of her chair with her thin old hands. “Damn it, we don’t need dissension. We need support, cooperation, hard work. Or we won’t survive. Oh, flaming hells!” She raised both hands up high. “What’ll we do if that capsule brings those blood-sucking FSP salvagers down on us?”

“I wouldn’t bet on that,” Joel answered her, rolling his eyes.

Cherry gave him a hard stare. “I’m relieved to know there is something you won’t make book on, Lilienkamp. All right, so what do we do about Tubberman’s accomplices?”

Cabot leaned over to touch her arm lightly. “First we have to prove that they were, Cherry.” He looked expectantly at Paul and Emily. “The charter says that a person is judged innocent until proved guilty.”

“We watch ’em,” Paul said. “We watch ’em. Carter, compose that notice and see that it’s posted throughout Landing, and that every stakeholder is apprised of the fact. Cherry, will you impose the sentence on Tubberman?” He held out his arm to assist her to her feet.

“With the greatest of satisfaction. What a superb way to get rid of a bore,” she added under her breath as she marched forward. The unholy joy on her face brightened Joel Lilienkamp’s mood as he followed them, rubbing his hands together.

The messenger was quite happy to bring a copy of the official notice to Bay and Wind Blossom, on duty in the large incubator chamber. The room was separated from the main laboratory and insulated against temperature changes and noise. The incubator itself stood on heavy shock absorbers, so that in the precarious early stages the embryos in their sacs could not be jarred by equipment moved around the main laboratory.

Although eggs within a natural womb, or even in a proper shell, could handle a great deal of trauma, the initial ex utero fertilization and alteration had been too delicate to risk the most minute jolt. Development was not yet canalized, nor was the new genetic structure balanced, and any variation in the embryos’ environment would doubtless cause damage. Later, when the eggs were at the stage when naturally they would have been laid in a clutch, they would be transferred to the building where a warmed sand flooring and artificial sun lamps imitated the natural conditions in which dragonet eggs hatched. That point was several weeks ahead.

Special low-light viewing panels had been created, so no light filtered into the womblike darkness while observers had a clear view of the incubator’s precious contents. A portable magnifier had been devised which could be set at any position on the incubator’s four glass sides for very cursory and routine inspections. In the laboratories of First and Earth, each developing embryo would have been remotely monitored and recorded. But, in Pern’s relatively primitive conditions, about which Wind Blossom constantly complained, the necessity for the avoidance of any toxic substances at all meant that no sensors could be allowed close to the embryos in the culture chambers.

Bay was jotting down Wind Blossom’s assessment when the messenger delivered the notice. The lad was quite willing to explain any part of the shunning, but Bay shooed him off on his rounds.

“How extraordinary,” Bay said when she had finished reading it aloud to Blossom. “Really, Ted has been quite a nuisance lately. Did you hear those rumors he was spreading, Blossom? As if that wretched Bitra had anything but her own plans in mind when she stole the Mariposa. Going for help, indeed!” She squinted loyally into the incubator at its forty-two hopes for their future. “But to send off a homing capsule when we most specifically voted against such an action.”

“I am relieved,” Wind Blossom said, sighing gently.

“Yes, he was beginning to upset you,” Bay remarked kindly. She tried to tell herself that the woman was still grieving for her grandmother. There were moments recently, though, when Bay wanted to remind Blossom that it was not just the Yung family who had suffered a grievous loss. She had not, because Blossom had been rather volatile lately and might interpret such a comment as an aspersion on her ability to proceed with her grandmother’s brilliant genetic-engineering program. As her grandmother’s primary assistant, she was technically in charge of the program on file in the biology Mark 42 computer. Bay, too, had scanned it to familiarize herself with the procedure. Kitti Ping had left copious notes on how to proceed, anticipating those possible minor alignments, balancing, or other compensations that might be needed. She had apparently anticipated everything but her own death.

“You misunderstand me,” Blossom replied, inclining her head in a gesture reminiscent of her grandmother correcting an erring apprentice. “I am relieved that the homing capsule has been sent. Now there is no blame to us.”

Bay was certain that she had heard correctly. “What under the suns do you mean, Blossom?”

Blossom gave Bay a long look, smiling faintly. “All our eggs are in one basket,” she said with an inscrutable smile and moved the inspection lens to a new position.

When Pol and Phas Radamanth came to relieve them, Bay lingered. She and Pol did not have much time together anymore, and she did not look forward to another dull supper at the communal kitchen.

“You got a copy, I see,” Pol said, indicating the shunning notice.

“Extraordinary that.”

“More than time,” Phas said, glancing up from Blossom’s notations. “Let’s hope he wasn’t as incompetent a launcher as he was a botanist.”

Bay stared in astonishment at the xenobiologist and Phas had the grace to look embarrassed.

“No one approves of Tubberman’s actions, my dear,” Pol assured her.

“Yes, but if they come . . .” Bay’s gesture took in the incubator and the laboratory, and all that the colonists had managed to do with their new world.

“If it’s any consolation,” Phas said, “Joel Lilienkamp has not opened a book on an ETA.”

“Oh!” Then she asked, “And what’s happened to Ted Tubberman?”

“He was escorted back to his stake and told to remain there.”

Pol could look quite fierce, she thought, when he wanted to. “What about Mary? And his young children?” she asked.

Pol shrugged. “She can stay or come. She’s not shunned. Ned Tubberman was looking pretty upset, but he never was very close to his father, and Fulmar Stone thinks he’s a very promising mechanic.” He shrugged again and then gave his wife an encouraging smile.

Bay had no sooner turned to go than the ground under them shook. She instinctively lunged toward the incubator, and found Phas and Pol beside her. Even without the magnifier they could see that the amniotic fluid in the sacs was not rippling in response to the earthquake. The shock absorbers had proved adequate.

“That’s all we need!” Pol cried, outraged. He stomped to the comm unit and dialed the met tower, slamming down the handset. “Engaged! Bay, reassure them.” He gestured toward the first bunch of technicians heading anxiously to the door of the chamber. He dialed again and got through just as Kwan Marceau pushed his way, into the room. “Are there going to be more shocks, Jake?” Pol asked. “Why weren’t we warned?”

“It was a small one,” Jake Chernoff replied soothingly. “Patrice de Broglie called it in but I am obliged to warn infirmary first in case surgery is in progress, and then your line was busy.” That explanation placated Pol. “Patrice says there’s a bit of tectonic plate action to the east, and there may be more jolts in the next few weeks. The incubator’s on shocks anyway, isn’t it? You don’t have anything to worry about.”

“Nothing to worry about?” Pol demanded. He jammed the handset back onto its stand.

There was a discreet knock on the door to the admiral’s office, and when Paul answered with a noncommital “Come in,” Jim Tillek opened it. Emily smiled with relief. The master of Monaco Bay was always welcome. Paul leaned back in his swivel chair, ready for a break from the depressing inventory of airworthy sleds and serviceable flamethrowers.

“Hi, there,” Jim said. “Just up to get my skimmer serviced.”

“Since when have you needed assistance in that job?” Paul asked.

“Since all my spare parts at Monaco got reabsorbed by Joel Lilienkamp.” Jim’s drawl was cheerful.

“And pigs fly,” Paul retorted.

“Oh, is that the next project?” Jim asked with a comic grin. He dropped into the nearest seat and laced his fingers together. “By the way, Maximilian and Teresa reported on the dolphin search Patrice requested. There are significant lava flows from the Illyrian volcano. It’s only a small one, so don’t be surprised if our easterlies bring in some black dust. It’s not dead Thread. Just honest-to-Vulcan volcanic dust. I wanted you to know before another rumor started.”

“Thanks,” Paul said dryly.

“Logical explanations are always welcome,” Emily added.

“I also dropped in to see our favorite patient.” Jim pushed himself deeper into the chair and met Paul’s eyes squarely. “He’s raring to go and threatens to move into the second story of the met tower and run communications from there. Sabra threatens to divorce him if he does anything before he gets medical clearance. Myself, I told him he doesn’t need to worry, as young Jake Chernoff’s been doing a proper job of it.

The boy won’t even hazard a guess about the weather until he’s run the satellite report twice and looked out the window.”

Paul and Emily both smiled at his jocular account.

“Ongola needs to be back at work,” Emily agreed.

“He’s sure he’ll never use his arm again. He’d do better being so busy he doesn’t think such negative thoughts.” Jim cocked his head at Paul.

“According to the doctors,” Emily said with a grateful smile, “Ongola will use that arm—even if he refuses to believe it—but the amount of mobility is still in question.”

“He’ll get it back,” Jim said blandly. “Hey, is there any truth to the rumor that Stev Kimmer was involved with Tubberman?”

Paul pulled a face, and Emily shot him a glance. “I told you that was doing the rounds,” she said.

Jim leaned forward, his expression eager. “Any truth to the one that he skitted out with one of the big pressurized sleds which has been seen near the Great Western Barrier where Kenjo staked his claim? Kimmer’s a lot more dangerous than Ted Tubberman ever was.”

Paul ran his thumb over his artificial fingers and stopped when he saw that Jim Tillek had noticed the nervous habit. “He is indeed. As the comm unit on that stolen sled was in working order when he lifted it, he will also know that he is wanted back here for questioning.”

Jim nodded in solemn approval. “Has Ezra made any sense out of the reports of those probes Sallah . . .” He blinked, his eyes suspiciously wet.

“No,” Paul said, clearing his throat. “He’s still trying to translate them. The printout is unclear.”

“Well, now,” Jim said, “I’ve got a few hours to spare while my sled’s serviced. I looked at hundreds of EEC survey team reports before I found a planet I liked the look of. Can I help?”

“A fresh eye might be useful,” Paul said. “Ezra’s been at it nonstop.”

“Did I hear correctly,” Jim asked gently, “that the Mariposa plunged directly into the eccentric?”

Paul nodded. “She made no informative comment.” Avril’s cryptic penultimate phrase, “It’s not the . . .” still rang with some message that Paul felt he must unravel. “Look, Jim, do stop in and see if you can help Ezra. We need some good news. Morale is still low after the murders, and having to shun Ted Tubberman and explain how he got his hands on that homing capsule have not improved the administration’s image.”

“Clever trick, though,” Jim said, chuckling as he rose. “Keeps you from having to breach stake autonomy, and keeps that fool where he can’t do more damage. I’ll just amble over to Ezra’s pod.” He left the room with a backhanded wave at Emily and Paul.

Immeasurably cheered by his visit, they went back to the onerous tasks of scheduling crews for the upcoming Threadfalls and mustering teams to collect edible greenery for silage from places as yet untouched by the ravening organism.