Heads bobbed up and down. Not so long before, Stafford's would have been one of those nodding heads. He too had believed the slaveholders' course was ordained by God. But, if it was, why had God let the insurrectionists beat the stuffing out of the Atlantean army in the backwoods of New Marseille?

Before he could ask the question, his comrade on the dais found a different one. "I realize the honorable Conscript Father is a man of remarkable experience," Consul Newton said-loudly, to make sure Senator Whitson heard him. "But will he tell this house he was present at the Creation and heard from Jehovah's lips this onus laid upon the darker races?"

Senators from north of the Stour laughed. So did some from south of the river. Storm Whitson simply stood there, a living illustration of the third part of the riddle of the Sphinx. "Beware, your Excellency, lest God punish you for your iniquity," he said.

"If you are so sure He will, then He must speak to you, eh?" Newton said.

"God will speak to any man who opens his heart and listens," Senator Whitson replied.

"Any man who opens his mouth and talks can say God speaks to him," Newton observed. "But saying something doesn't make it so."

"As you have proved time and again," Whitson snapped. He might be getting frail, but his wits had indeed stayed sharp-sharp enough to make Newton wince.

Stafford used his gavel. "Discussions of God and His purposes do not belong in the Senate," he said. "As the Atlantean Assembly ordained even before we won our freedom from England, our people may follow any faith they choose. Or, if they choose, they may follow none."

"The Lord will punish them if they choose to follow none," Whitson declared.

"Maybe. As a matter of fact, I think so, too. But"-Stafford shrugged-"neither of us can prove it. It's between them and God, not between them and us."

"I always thought the Atlantean Assembly made a mistake," Whitson said. "A proper Christian country has no business putting up with Jews and freethinkers and other unrighteous folk."

"By law, the United States of Atlantis are not a proper Christian country," Stafford said. "Follow the Bible in your own life if you want to. No one will tell you you may not. But in the Senate, we will follow the law."

"Follow it even when it takes us straight to ruination," Whitson jeered.

"Change isn't ruin. We need to get used to that. We need to remember it," Consul Newton said. "I've had reason to think about that quite a bit lately. Change is only change. It can be good or bad. It doesn't have to be either one."

"When you've seen as much change as I have, young fellow, you'll know it's mostly bad," Senator Whitson said. "And this change you want to ram down our throats is the worst one yet. Nigger equality? Pah!" He made as if to spit.

"The way it looks to me, we have one choice besides liberating our slaves: we can kill them all, or try," Jeremiah Stafford said. "We can't trust them to go on serving us the way they did before. The Slug Hollow agreement may not be a wonderful bargain for Atlantis. It is the best bargain we could get, things being as they are."

"Nonsense!" the Senator from Gernika said.

"It isn't," Stafford answered. "Even now, part of me wishes it were, but it isn't."

Frederick Radcliff couldn't have been any more bored waiting for Quince to step out of the undergrowth again. He knew the copperskin might tell him the rebels didn't intend to lay down their arms. He knew Quince might not come back alone, but at the head of a swarm of slaves. If Quince did, Frederick wouldn't see New Hastings or Helen again.

But he couldn't do anything about any of that. He also couldn't worry about it all the time. And so… he was bored.

He was so bored, he did get into the cavalry troopers' seemingly unending dice game. He lost five and a half eagles in less time than it takes to tell. After that, he got out of the game again.

"Sure we can't talk you into sticking?" one of the horsemen asked, rattling the bones as temptingly as he could.

"Nah. I've already been as much of a sucker as I can afford to be, and some more besides," Frederick answered.

"You might win this time." The trooper rattled the dice again.

"Slim odds." Frederick left it right there. He didn't know the game was crooked. He didn't want to waste any more money on a voyage of discovery, either. A lifetime of slavery had convinced him each and every gold eagle-each and every silver ten-cent piece-was precious. Losing so many so fast… What Helen would say if she ever found out… No, he didn't want to play any more.

Then the troopers quit coaxing him. They all grabbed for their eight-shooters. One of them pointed. "Here's that mudfaced son of a bitch again!"

Sure enough, there stood Quince at the edge of the open ground. Lots of dirt in the southern states (though not that of Gernika) was reddish, which was how copperskins got their nasty nickname. Quince waved his big white flag. "Come on in!" Frederick called. "The truce holds no matter what you tell us."

Maybe so, maybe not. If the cavalrymen decided plugging Quince would help them, they'd do it. How could Frederick stop them? He couldn't. He knew it, and Quince had to know it, too.

But the rebel leader did come in. Along with the flag of truce, he had a pepperbox pistol on his right hip. Chances were it had been some planter's prized possession… and chances were that planter needed it no more and would never need it again. Ceremoniously, Quince laid the fancy pistol at Frederick Radcliff's feet. "We're gonna try peace," Quince said, as if it were a dangerous, possibly poisonous, medicine, like mercury for the pox. "If we can put down our guns and still get free… That's worth doing. But if it don't work out, nigger, you'll answer to me."

One black could call another nigger without a jolt. The word packed some in a copperskin's mouth, as mudface did in a Negro's. Quince had used it before, mostly in admiration. Frederick didn't think he intended malice this time. "Fair enough," he answered. "But if it don't work out, you got to stand in line. Plenty of other folks'll want to nail my hide to the wall."

"I believe that," Quince said. "Nobody's gonna come down on us 'cause we rose up, or 'cause of stuff we did while we were fighting?"

"That's the deal," Frederick said. "Nobody'll go to law with you on account of any of that." White survivors might try to take private revenge. If they came to trial, white juries might-likely would-acquit them. Frederick didn't know what he could do about that. So far, he hadn't come up with anything. But it was outside the law, and Negroes and copperskins could also play those games once they were free.

"They for true gonna pass that arrangement up in New Hastings?" Quince asked.

"If they don't, we all start fighting again," Frederick answered. "They got to know that, too. Chances that they will pass it just got better, too, if your people honest to God do quit fighting."

"Still a couple of snowball cocksuckers I wouldn't mind finishing, but I guess I can let 'em live," Quince said. Frederick nodded. Those whites were just as sure to want Quince dead. Well, they and he would have to forgo the pleasure… if the Slug Hollow accord passed. It has to now, Frederick thought. Doesn't it?