Finally, she stopped teasing his tentacles, and twined her fingers with his. "What are you going to do, Rimon?"

"Ask for another Gen. Tonight."

"What will your father say?"

"What can he say? He can see I'm in need. It happens to him sometimes, too—lots of times he can't make it a full four weeks."

"But not every month," she pointed out. "I know how hard you're trying, Rimon. I wish I could do something to help."

"You can. Will you meet me tonight, after… ?" The image of Nerob, twisted in the rictus of fear, floated to the top of his mind again, and the world shimmered into pulsing selyn fields for an instant. No. It will be that big out-Territory buck. Not someone I know.

Kadi said, "I'll be there, like always, Rimon." She squeezed his hand reassuringly. "I just wish there was more I could do than sit it out with you."

He wrapped his handling tentacles about their two hands, joining them. "Soon, Kadi. Soon you'll grow up, and we'll have each other forever." Soon—one day soon, he would be there to help her after her first time.

What would I do without her? he wondered as she left him to go back to her duties at the house. She was almost sixteen natal years old—few who changed over after fifteen survived, and those who did were left weak, unable to withstand the first illness, the first bodily strain that came along. And he wanted Kadi to marry him, to bear his children.

Again he thrust morbid thoughts from his mind. Going about his work, though, he found need forcing itself into his consciousness again. The soothing effects of the trin tea and Kadi's company wore off as he repaired a broken fence, instructed one of the Sime supervisors to take his Gens in early because he had driven them to exhaustion —his father would hear about that—and inspected several more groups that were working efficiently. That was the norm and the expectation on the Farris Genfarm; it was surprising that Rimon had found even one instance of poor work practices.

Toward late afternoon, though, Rimon was seeing everything as shifting field gradients, his Sime senses at their keenest peak. Fighting for self-control, he rode slowly up to the last work detail, supervised by an old friend, Del Erick.

As Rimon dismounted, Erick turned from watching two Gens open an irrigation gate. "Ah… Rimon!" Erick hesitated. "Shuven, Rimon, I know I said I'd repay you by yesterday, but I just couldn't get the money together… and… look, I'll have it by payday or you can take it out of my salary."

Rimon made a sweeping gesture, tentacles flying. Erick, poised on the balls of his feet, flicked back a step or two, startling his horse. As his friend brought the animal back under control, Rimon swore silently. Even my best friend is still afraid of me!

Rimon put a hand, tentacles carefully sheathed, to the bridle of Del's horse, and across the silken nose of the animal, said, "I know how hard it is sometimes, to raise cash. I can give you more time. I have all the money I can use."

Zlinning Rimon more closely, Del said, "You're—in need again—early."

"Dad has always been very generous with me. Don't worry about it. Pay me when you can. What are friends for, anyway?"

"I won't forget this."

"No obligation," said Rimon, holding up his closed fist, ventral tentacles extended. Del returned the gesture, twining his own ventrals around Rimon's for just an instant– aware how his high field struck through Rimon's aching body.

Rimon smiled, flicked a cursory glance at the working Gens, and swung himself into his saddle. With an airy wave, he rode back to the big house and went straight to his father's office, determined to press his case. When even his closest friends were leery of him, it was time for something drastic.

Syrus Farris was an imposing man. He had the normal wiry Sime build, but stood unusually tall—a good three inches taller than his son. There was no doubt of their relationship, though. Both had the same black eyes and straight black hair, the same mobile, expressive lips, and characteristic chin.

Farris was busy with accounts when his son approached him, so Rimon had to sit down and wait, as he had done so often in this familiar room. It was a room for working, with solid, businesslike furniture, and undisguised files and other paraphernalia. The only nonutilitarian object was the portrait of Rimon's mother over the fireplace. It was hard to imagine his father loving that ethereal woman with her halo of soft blond hair, blue eyes looking calmly out at the world. Rimon had never known his mother, for she had died giving birth to him. Occasionally, since he had grown up, he wondered if his father had ever completely forgiven him for that.

But no, his father had always seen to it that Rimon had everything he wanted. Marna often said his father spoiled him. If that were true, though, why was he so hesitant now to ask his father for something that he obviously had to have?

Farris looked up from his accounts at last. "Again, Rimon?"

"I am in need, Father."

"I can tell that. The question is, why are you in need? Marna says you've been augmenting unnecessarily."

"I understand why Marna thinks so, but it's not true. I have not augmented once this month." Rimon made no effort to control his selyn fields, letting his father read the truth directly from them. His father was exceptionally sensitive about such things. Nobody ever got a lie by him.

Farris studied his son. "Yes," he said, "you are telling the truth. Now… what can be done about it?"

"I don't know, Father. I seem to require more selyn than most people just to live. I will… simply have to work harder to afford the cost."

"It's not the cost that concerns me. Rimon, you're a grown man. Have you ever had a fully satisfactory kill? Have you ever—wanted to take a woman afterward?"

"Kadi and I have an understanding."

"No evasions, Son! Are you controlling the impulse, or is it that you've never felt it?" He paused at a new thought. "Or—no. Kadi's just a child. You couldn't…"

"I wouldn't!" Rimon found himself on his feet, tensed. He made himself sit down again.

"I'm sorry," said Farris, and Rimon felt his furious embarrassment. "But I had to ask. I had to know. You've always had so much trouble. I'd hoped—well, it's been four years."

"It will be all right, Father, when Kadi's grown. I wouldn't—want—anyone else. Only—it seems I'm always in need, and I ache for the freedom of augmentation."

Rimon's misery communicated to his father. Farris picked up a ledger. "Ran told me you put your mark on one of the new catch of Wild Gens this morning."

"Yes, Father, a big male with a strong field. I want him. Now."

"You chose a Wild Gen with a strong field last time, and it didn't help. I think it's time you had a domestic Gen."

"No!" Nerob! The image choked him. "I'm sorry, Father, but you know why I don't want someone who knows me, who can talk to me—"

"Someone? Haven't you learned yet that Gens are not people, Rimon?"

"Please, Father. Your domestic Gens are valuable. I'll take one of the culls from this morning's shipment—"

"It's all arranged, Rimon. Gens who have lived among Simes understand more of what is happening. The emotions are more satisfying than the blind terror of the Wild Gens. Expense is nothing where my son's health is concerned. Not to mention… grandchildren."

Rimon was shaking his head bleakly. "Father, please, I can't. Not a Gen I know."

His father's expressive lips formed a hard line of annoyance. "Nobody ever takes a Gen he knows on this Genfarm. You know that, Rimon."

"Yes, Father. Forgive me." How could I have thought… ? Farris was a compassionate man. He kept as many established children of his friends as he could afford to, as breeding stock, giving them the chance to live as comfortably and securely as any Gen could hope to. When he could not afford to keep one—and of course there was no way he could afford to keep many males—he saw to it that such Gens were shipped far away, so their parents never had the slightest chance of hearing what finally became of them.