"I'm glad you're here. As Lord Binalie said, we're going to see the plant. Would you care to accompany us?" Corf looked at his father in surprise.

"But you said-"

"Be quiet, Corf," Binalie cut him off, looking at Doriana with some surprise of his own. "I thought you said this was a private matter."

"That was before I knew Master Tories was in the area," Doriana said, gazing into Binalie's face. It would be worth the risk, he decided suddenly, to see just how far the man could be pushed.

"For that matter," he added, "I see no reason why your son shouldn't come, too. You will begin moving him into a management position in a few years, won't you?"

The muscles in Binalie's throat tightened, his eyes narrowing dangerously. Lord Pilester Binalie, the biggest fish in this particular little pond, was unused to having people casually cut the ground out from under him this way.

But Doriana understood power, too. He held Binalie's glare steadily, without challenge or malice, wondering if the other could see far enough past his annoyance to remember whom he was dealing with.

Apparently, he could. "As you wish," he said stiffly. "Follow me."

Torles had been in the Binalies' private tunnel to Spaarti Creations only a handful of times, and it never failed to evoke a sense of wonder. The Cranscoc themselves had burrowed out the long passageway, Lord Binalie had once told him, without the use of any machinery. The result had been a roughhewn tunnel that perpetually held the rich tang of recently turned dirt.

But despite the fresh aroma, he also knew that in the digging process those same dirt walls had somehow been converted into a material as tough and durable as permacrete. And the apparent roughness of the surface hid the more subtle swirls and delicate patterns the Cranscoc diggers had carved into it.

Functional, artistic, and-by all generally accepted technologyimpossible.

This was, Tories reflected, a pretty fair description of Spaarti Creations itself.

"The Cranscoc don't want people or vehicles on the strip of grassland between the plant and Foulahn City," Binalie explained to Doriana as the landspeeder slid silently down the tunnel.

"They say it upsets them, though we don't know how or why.

Hence, this tunnel."

"What about the other employees?" Doriana asked. 'The non-Cranscoc ones.

How do they get to work?"

"Most of them live on-site," Binalie said. 'There's a group apartment cluster along the eastern edge of the plant, between the main building and Outlink One, for the unmarried workers.

The Cranscoc have a cluster of homes north of the plant, between Outlinks One and Two, while the non-Cranscoc families live in their own cluster to the north-west, between Outlinks Two and Three."

"And how do all of them get to work?" Doriana persisted. "More tunnels like this one?"

"There are tunnels leading between the main plant and the Outlinks,"

Binalie said. "But those are mainly for cargo and equipment transfer. The workers usually just walk across the lawns to work."

He smiled slightly at Doriana's puzzled look. "I know.

Apparently, it's only this one strip of land the Cranscoc insist be left completely open. Again, no one knows why."

The tunnel floor began to slope upward, and Tories found himself surreptitiously watching Doriana. The first time he'd taken this trip, he'd naturally expected the tunnel to deposit them into some sort of receiving area, and could still remember his shock when they'd arrived smack in the middle of one of the production areas. It might be instructive to see whether Doriana would also be taken by surprise.

He was. He kept his face impassive as a section of the ceiling lifted like a drawbridge above them and the landspeeder moved up a ramp into the center of the bustling factory, but Tories could sense the flicker of astonishment behind those expressionless eyes. "Interesting endpoint," was all he said as Binalie let the landspeeder coast to a stop

"The Cranscoc like to know what's going on around them," Binalie said, climbing out of his seat as the floor swung shut behind them. "This is Production Area Four, where we're currently making specialized harvesting equipment for the marshlands of Caamas. The ground there is too interlaced with vineroots for normal equipment to operate without breaking down every other day."

"So you're in the business of filling niche markets?" Doriana asked.

"Basically," Binalie said, nodding. 'There isn't enough of that kind of cultivatable marshland in the Republic to justify setting up a permanent assembly line to make the equipment necessary to farm it. But with the Cranscoc system, we can spend a few days or weeks making everything the Caamasi will need for the next year or two, then retool and move on to other projects."

"And where does all this magic retooling take place?" Doriana asked.

"It starts at the main control station," Binalie said, pointing toward a round platform rising two meters off the floor between two of the assembly lines. 'The one for this area is over there."

They crossed to the platform, Binalie guiding his guests through the maze of conveyers, transport carts, and human and alien workers. Climbing up the steps, they found themselves beside a long console that had always reminded Tories of a cross between an elongated volcano and a very muddy hillside, with a segmented waterfall of pale green paste oozing ponderously and continually along various sections of the slope. In front of the collecting basin lounged five Cranscoc, their chitinous outer shells gleaming in the sunbeams streaming in through the skylight three floors directly above them. Their long, multijointed legs tapped out syncopated rhythms on the thick grass that covered the entire top of the platform, keeping time to music apparently only they could hear. 'These are five of the Cranscoc twillers," Binalie said, keeping his voice low. "Whatever they do to that fluid flow will affect most of those machines you can see."

"They can do all the retooling from here?" Doriana asked.

"No, each machine needs its own adjustments," Binalie told him.

"There are roving twillers assigned to each area for that purpose.

Depending on the complexity involved, a given production area can be retooled in anywhere from two to eight hours."

"Your basic overnight alterations," Doriana said, nodding.

"Very literally overnight," Binalie agreed. "The Cranscoc will do minor adjustments during the daylight hours-that's why this group is on duty, in case one of the machines drifts off true and needs to be recalibrated. But they'll only do a major retooling after it's completely dark outside."

"And you don't know why?"

"Frankly, we know next to nothing about the Cranscoc," Binalie admitted.

'They breathe oxygen, their diet is mostly local vegetables and grains, except that it all has to be enriched with extra magnesium and cobalt, and they like to farm and dig and create artistic objects."

"Fortunately, marshland farm equipment falls into that last category?"

"Farm equipment and everything else," Binalie said. 'They seem to love using Spaarti to make things." He led them back down to the main floor. "You say this is Production Area Four," Doriana said. "How many others are there?"

"We currently have twenty-seven operating areas," Binalie told him.

"Eight of them are larger and more complex than this one, while the others are comparable or a bit smaller."

"I'd like to see one of the larger ones."

Binalie's lips compressed briefly, but he merely nodded. "Of course. This way."

They visited two other lines before Doriana decided he'd seen enough.

'That will do," he said as Binalie started to lead them on to the next area.

"Is there an office where we can talk more privately?