"That and no promise of rain."

"And Cleon?"

"Yes," he admitted. "That also." His hands clenched as he thought about it. "Damn the luck! Another year and he would have been safe. I-" He broke off, remembering. Cleon would have been safe but he had seven other children. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't stop to think. If it hadn't been Cleon it could have been one of the others."

"Not necessarily." Her eyes were direct as they met his own. "You could exempt the family."

"I could," he admitted, "and don't think that I haven't thought about it. But if I did how long would my authority last? Have you heard what happened to Grower Rentail? He did that. One night he woke to find his house in flames. The workers are not fools, and angry men forget tradition. If we are to survive at all we must work together."

"And die together." Her voice was bitter. "I've seen the charts, my husband. The charts and graphs you keep in your office. And I've spoken to Leaderman. You have a skilled agronomist but he is a poor liar. The exponential curve is both sharp and final. A storm of wind from the north at the right time, followed by a heavy rain, and what of the land then?"

"Nothing." He was sharp. Who knew what ears might be listening? "A rain would wash the seeds from the air. Rain is a friend. A storm?" He shrugged. "Who can fight against nature? But we will have no storm and no sudden invasion. Leaderman dealt in probabilities, plotting the most dire circumstances which could be imagined; but they are remote. As remote as snow in summer." He forced a laugh into his voice, a lightheartedness he did not feel, "Nyalla asked permission to attend the mating dance. I gave it, naturally, and she promised me many children to tend the land. With such assistance what have we to fear?" He reached out and squeezed her arm. "Don't worry, my dear. We shall survive."

"Yes," she said after a moment's hesitation. "Of course."

"You doubt it?"

He was ready for an argument, ready to beat down her protests and so dissolve his own misgivings, but the phone rang before she could reply. A servant answered it, her tone respectful. Quietly she came toward them from the booth.

"A call for you, Grower. From the city."

It was Colton, his seamed face anxious as he looked from the screen. "Hello, Quendis. Are you busy?"

"Why do you ask?"

"I'm calling a meeting. There are things to be discussed and I think you should be there. It's important, Quendis, if it wasn't I wouldn't ask."

Quendis hesitated. Sense told him that he was neither essential nor would he be missed, and it was long past time for him to attend a grower's meeting. He frowned as he looked at the face on the screen. Colton wasn't really a grower at all for he held no land, but he was the representative of them all in that he had been their common agent in times past. It was natural that he, as near a neutral as they could get, should chair their meetings.

"I'm not sure that I can make it," he said slowly. "We've got bad weather here and-"

"There's bad weather everywhere," interrupted the agent. "There's sickness and misery and as much worry as you could wish for. But staying at home won't cure it. Unless we can all work together we might as well give up now. I'm calling the meeting for noon. If you're interested in hanging on to your land you'd better come."

It sounded, thought Quendis, uncomfortably like a threat.

* * *

There was trouble at the gate. Dumarest waited patiently as the line of embarking passengers moved slowly across the landing field to be questioned by a uniformed officer. He sat behind a table, arrogant in his red and black, the unmarked plastic gleaming as if it newly applied paint still wet with liquid gloss. His voice was sharp as he fired questions.

"Name?"

"Frene Gorshon."

"Your sponsor?"

"Grower Gorshon, sector nineteen, decant five, house fifteen. He is my brother."

"I asked the name of your sponsor, not his address."

The inspector reached toward the compact bulk of a computer at his side. "Your reason for visiting Loame?"

"My father is dead. I am here to attend his funeral rites."

"A disgusting custom." The inspector operated the machine and checked the answer. Satisfied he nodded. "You may pass. Next?"

The man standing behind Dumarest sucked in his breath as the line moved forward. "This is a hell of a thing to happen," he muttered. "The last time I was here Loame was a free planet. Now look at it. Bright boys all dressed up and throwing their weight around. If I had the cash I'd turn right around and leave on the next ship. Do you have a sponsor?"

"Yes," said Dumarest.

"I haven't and I'm broke. I wonder if you could help out? Find me a sponsor, maybe. I'm a skilled mechanic and can fix anything with an engine." He plucked at Dumarest's sleeve. "If you could fix me up I'd be grateful."

"Sorry," Dumarest didn't look at the man. "Try someone else. I can't help."

"Can't or won't?"

Dumarest turned and looked at the speaker. He was a big man with sullen, angry eyes. "Both," he said coldly. "Now take your hand off my sleeve before I break your arm."

He turned as the line moved forward, eyes somber as he looked at the fence, the cluster of men standing beyond the gate. The houses of the town were primitive, built of logs caulked with clay, blending into the background of trees in rural harmony. A row of antigrav rafts seemed an anachronism, as did the suspended lights and the bulk of machines to one side. Harvesters, he guessed, to be expected on an agricultural planet.

"Your name?" The inspector looked at the man just ahead.

"Bastedo."

"Sponsor?"

"None." The man lifted his bag and set it on the edge of the table. "I am a seller of agricultural machines. I have a full set of three-dimensional slides, holograms and working miniatures of the items for which I am agent."

The inspector checked his computer. "I have no record of your clearance. Entry denied."

"What?" Anger mottled the face of the trader. "Now you see here! I'm a legitimate businessman and you have no right to refuse me entry. Just who are you, anyway? I've got-" He broke off as two armed guards, wearing the same red and black as the inspector, moved forward at a signal.

"Now listen to me," said the officer coldly. "If you argue you will be detained. If you resist you will be shot. Is that clearly understood?"

Gulping, the trader nodded.

"Loame is a tributary world of Technos," explained the inspector. "As you have no clearance from that planet you are deemed to be an undesirable alien. As such you are denied entry. You now have a choice of action. You can take passage on the next vessel to leave or, if you have no money, you will be given a Low passage to Technos. There you will be put to work until the debt is paid."

"And how do I go about getting a clearance?"

"You don't," said the inspector. "Those of your profession are unwanted on this world. Next?"

Dumarest shouldered aside the trader. He gave his name and added, "I am a traveler. I carry a message which I am to deliver to a resident of this world. To Grower Lemain. His address-"

"Never mind that." The inspector's eyes were calculating as he looked at Dumarest. "Are you a resident of the Technos complex?"

He restrained the impulse to lie. A resident would carry papers, have easily verifiable information which the inspector could check. The only lies safe here were those impossible to disprove. "No."

"This message, what is it?"

"A few words from a dying man," said Dumarest. He added, lying. "He saved my life at the cost of his own. That is why I am here. I made him a promise and I'm superstitious about such things."

"I see." The officer manipulated his computer,, frowning, his fingers dancing on the keys. "The name of the dead man?"