by

Mary Lou Mendum

This story was first published in Ambrov Zeor #22

This is the third of the three stories rescued from the website that disappeared under us. The following text was retrieved as a text file made from an unproofed MAC word processing file, then translated into WinWord7, and html'd with Word Assistant. The result was the most ghoshawful mess in each case. Carriage returns in the middle of words, over three hundred spurious section spaces, and paragraphs spliced together so I could find the splices only if they came between quotation marks. I know there are errors in the text as it stands now, though I think I got most of the obvious typos. Errata should be sent to ambrovzeor@aol.com.

I have not put BLOCK QUOTES around the text because it is already 286K long. My apologies to those who read these onscreen.

Live Long and Prosper,

Jacqueline Lichtenberg

by

Mary Lou Mendum

copyright (c) 1993 by Jacqueline Lichtenberg

This story was first published in Ambrov Zeor #22

"Hello, and welcome to Valzor's Old Sime Center. My name is Sosu Den Milnan, and I will be showing you around in a little while. But first, I'd like to take a moment to tell you a little bit about what a Sime Center does..."

The trouble with being assigned to a Center so close to the Gen Territory border, Den thought morosely as he automatically rattled off statistics, was that every out-Territory tourist and civics class within a day's travel wanted a guided tour. And, of course, they all wanted their tours during the month before Faith Day , when it was fashionable among out-Territory Gens to pretend that they were supportive of Sime/Gen unity, even if they never went within a block of a Sime Center during the rest of the year.

The group of out-Territory visitors currently seated in the Old Center's small auditorium looked fairly typical. There was a young couple with three bored children, and seated nearby were three older adults whose cameras and tastelessly garish clothing proclaimed them professional tourists.

Den didn't like tourists.

"In addition to these transfer-related services, this Center is also responsible for maintaining the selyn-powered generators which provide electricity for Valzor and the surrounding communities..."

The rest of the seats were filled with a gaggle of adolescent youngsters accompanied by a harried teacher. This particular class, Den understood, had traveled all the way from the Gen city of Clear Springs, eight hours away by train. Den knew that Clear Springs had its own Sime Center; his cousin, Hajene Rital Madz, was the Controller, and Den had been assigned there as his Donor the previous summer. However, the lure of a well-known educational program had apparently outweighed the disadvantages of a long train ride for the student group. Or maybe the equally well-known amusement park just across the river on the Gen side of the border had something to do with it.

"Although the district administrative offices and many of the services I mentioned were moved across the street when the new building was completed ten years ago, this original building is still in use..."

The official script didn't mention that the major "use" the Tecton had found for the hundred year old building was to give the mobs of holiday-inspired tourists something to gawk at, without letting them disrupt the real work taking place across the street.

"...and the feelings of goodwill between Simes and Gens inspired by our ancestors' sacrifices just over 100 years ago are especially strong as Faith Day approaches..."

The trouble was, these same feelings of goodwill meant that each year, mobs of once-a-year Faith Day donors descended on all Sime Centers located either out-Territory, or conveniently close to the territorial borders.

The Tecton had an unfortunate tendency to cope with this increased workload by temporarily reassigning any channel or Donor who was halfway fluent in English to such Centers. In previous years, Den had been assigned to Sime Centers in the sparsely populated Savran District, deep within Nivet Territory. Because of the Donor shortage, the Savran Controllers were reluctant to have him leave their district for the Faith Day season; there was too big a chance that they wouldn't get him back afterwards. Instead, to avoid charges that they were monopolizing his talents, they had conveniently discovered pressing reasons to reassign him every few months to different Sime Centers within the same district.

Den had enjoyed the travel for a while, but lately he had grown tired of the temporary life. A year ago, he had put in a request for reassignment to a larger city, in hopes that he would be able to get a more long-term situation. He had been happy when the assignment to Valzor District's main Center came through, until he had learned that the District Controller was also responsible for assigning staff to the Sime Centers in adjacent portions of Gen-governed New Washington Territory.

Less than a month after his arrival in Valzor, Den had been given a two-month temporary assignment to his cousin's Clear Springs Center. It was not an experience he cared to repeat, fond as he was of Rital's company. Den didn't like to think of himself as prejudiced, but one would have to be insane or a Householder to actually want to work out-Territory.

Upon his return from Clear Springs the previous summer, Den had embarked on a campaign to stay in-Territory. Because of his fluent English, he couldn't avoid working with out-Territory Gens entirely. Instead, he had volunteered to help out part time with the tour groups. By making himself indispensable to the politically powerful tour department, Den had managed to avoid being sent out-Territory again, but only at the cost of spending his mornings in the company of group after group of ignorant lorshes.

For a while, he had feared that he would be caught up in the Faith Day reassignments despite his efforts, but a fortunately-timed flu epidemic had swept through the Center the previous week. The already minimal staff had been drastically depleted, and even now, three full weeks before the holiday, replacements capable of communicating with out-Territory Gens had proven nearly impossible to find.

All of which made it very unlikely that Den or any of the other healthy staff members would get temporary assignments out-Territory this year. Unfortunately, it also meant that half the people were trying to do twice the work, even the out-Territory Collectorium had an hour-long wait for donations, and anybody who could speak halfway fluent English was working overtime.

And that, Den thought viciously as he finished his introductory spiel and signalled for the projectionist to turn out the lights and start the movie, was why he, an accomplished First Order Donor, was stuck wasting his mornings playing tour guide to group after group of giggling youngsters and their equally obnoxious elders, instead of using his considerable talents to do the serious work for which he had been trained. He slipped into an empty seat in the first row and ran a disgusted hand through his short brown hair, which was less curly than usual today, thanks to the dryness of the winter air. At all costs, he tried to avoid watching the screen.

The movie was unabashed propaganda, a Householding-produced half hour of donor recruitment disguised as a "documentary" of the origins of Faith Day.

The facts were there--sort of--but they were twisted almost beyond recognition. For instance, while it was quite true that the out-Territory Gen troops had agreed to donate selyn in exchange for food just before the Battle of Shen, Den sincerely doubted that they had done so with the enthusiasm and good will shown on the screen. In fact, he seemed to recall from his own school days that it had required blatant blackmail to get their grudging cooperation.

Even now, over a hundred years later, their descendants gasped with alarm at the sight of the actors' tentacles, and three of the adolescent schoolgirls hid their faces with little shrieks, rather than watch the filmed donations. (Though on closer inspection, Den had the distinct impression that the pretty, dark-haired one in the red skirt was peeking.)

The film ended with a patriotic flourish of trumpets, as the First Contract was signed by Nivet Territory Controller and Sectuib in Zeor Klyd Farris and the President of New Washington Territory. Den got to his feet as the lights came back on, congratulating himself for getting through one more viewing without throwing up, and braced himself for the question-and-answer session.

"Are Sime tentacles really slimy?"

"Why do Simes wear capes instead of coats?"

"Say something in Simelan."

"Why don't people in Sime Territory eat meat?"

"Do you really worship the Devil?" That last was the red-skirted peeker. Den answered the questions as patiently as he could, glad that this particular group was his last for the day. When he could stand no more, he ended the questions and urged everyone to follow him out the doors at the back of the auditorium for the tour.

There wasn't much to see, of course, since this building was more museum than functioning Sime Center. However, the garishly-clothed tourists dutifully snapped photos of the empty wards, and the students giggled and nudged each other between questions. The young parents paid much more attention to keeping track of their children than to Den's narration, which, the Donor decided, was probably the most sensible response of them all.

The power plant in the basement was still operational, and the towering banks of selyn batteries connected to humming generators by a spiderweb of orgonics tubing, all sequestered behind a metal safety grating secured by Gen-proof locks, drew exclamations of wonder. Den supposed that it was an impressive sight, but like most Donors, he shared the channels' aversion to selyn batteries.

The tour ended at the Collectorium, which was still staffed during tour hours, in case any of the visitors should be overcome with a sudden desire to donate selyn. To encourage this, the tour groups were allowed to watch a donation. (There was never any shortage of in-Territory Gen staff members volunteering for this duty, especially during the holidays, since such volunteers were able to make appointments in advance, eliminating most of the wait.)

Many of the out-Territory visitors seemed uneasy at the prospect, but they clustered obediently and peered through the field-insulated window that had been installed in one of the collecting rooms.

The dark-haired girl in the red skirt ended up close to Den. She was chewing her lip nervously, and tugging at the name tag pinned to her blouse. When the channel sat down on the transfer lounge next to the volunteer Gen, she prepared to hide her face again.

On impulse, Den touched her shoulder lightly to get her attention. When she looked at him, he suggested, "Why don't you watch, Bethany?"

Her eyes widened. "Oh, I couldn't!"

"It's not nearly as bad as you're thinking." Den nodded towards the window, where Hajene Tellanser was hamming it up as usual, moving very slowly and making sure that the watching tourists saw each tentacle. (The donating Gen, whom Den recognized as one of the cafeteria staff, was having a hard time keeping a straight face.)

Bethany automatically looked. She stiffened at the sight, but watched without comment until the donation was finished and the obviously unharmed Gen got up from the transfer lounge. She seemed a little less nervous afterwards.

Den sighed as he herded the group back out into the lobby and ended the tour with a final request for everyone to sign the guest book before leaving. He had met far too many out-Territory Gens on his one brief tour of duty across the border to think that Bethany's attitude was in any way unusual. That was even more depressing than cafeteria food.

A cheese sandwich and bowl of Den's least favorite vegetable soup turned out to be the best that the cafeteria could manage for lunch. To distract himself from the less-than-exciting meal, Den appropriated a newspaper someone had left at an adjoining table. The headlines were once again preoccupied with the treaty negotiations on the southern continent. The small Sime Territory of Corzona had pretty much given up the junct lifestyle in the last generation, but its fiercely independent citizens had refused to join the Tecton officially. However, a disastrous earthquake the month before had strained their resources to the limit and beyond, forcing them to turn to the Tecton for emergency assistance. The Tecton, of course, had been only too glad to oblige, and made no secret of its hope that its temporary presence in Corzona would be indefinitely extended.

To complicate matters further, Corzona was almost unique among disjunct Sime Territories, in that it was still actively at war with its neighboring Gen Territories, Amzon and Zillia. Corzona had survived as long as it had because Amzon and Zillia were at war between themselves over the right to mine the Ancient ruins on their common border. Under intense pressurefrom the Tecton and its affiliated Gen Territories, a three-way peace conference had been arranged for the following month. In preparation, the Tecton had sent its most talented diplomats to visit the three combatants. Quess ambrov Shaeldor, the Donor who was the official leader of the delegation, was quoted as having hopes of gaining a permanent peace--and not incidentally, three new signatories to the First Contract.

After lunch, Den stopped to check his mail on the way to his afternoon shift on the pediatric ward. There was a message slip in his box, asking him to report to the District Controller's office. Den read the message with delight, calculating that there had been just enough time for his request for a post-holiday reassignment to the changeover ward to have been processed. For the first time since he had volunteered for tourist duty, he had reason to hope that he could get back to doing what he did best--helping channels to help the people who depended on them. There was a spring to his step as the secretary showed him into Controller Monruss's office.

The office was plushly carpeted and the desk and chairs fairly new, but the dog-eared books in the ceiling-high shelves and the files and papers covering the desktop showed the hard work that went into coordinating the dozen or so Sime Centers in Valzor District.

Controller Mion Monruss was like his office: slightly worn around the edges, hardworking, and comfortable to be around. He was short, stocky, balding, and impeccably courteous. Unlike many channels who reached high office in the Tecton, Monruss was not a career politician. He had never held an office higher than Subcontroller until a Householding-led lobby had drafted him as a compromise candidate. Den didn't particularly care for Householders generally (they tended to be a bit fanatical for his taste), but Monruss had proven to be a better than average administrator. His channeling abilities were not particularly outstanding, but he had the ability to get the maximum use out of his more talented subordinates by convincing them that he was carefully considering their wishes--even when he wasn't. It could be disconcerting at times, but Den had worked for worse.

"Ah, Den, come in." Monruss greeted the Donor with a smile of welcome, closing the file he had been working on and placing it in the overflowing "out" basket. "I have good news for you. Pyssa is recovered enough to return to light duty tomorrow, so we won't require your help out at the Old Center any longer. That means I've been able to accommodate your request for reassignment immediately. I gather that won't disappoint you."

"Not at all. It will be good to get on to more challenging work." Den wasn't surprised that Monruss knew he hadn't enjoyed playing tour guide, even though the Donor had tried hard not to let his dislike show in his nager. The channel had a habit of guessing what he was not allowed to zlin, something that a much younger Den with a brand-new Donor's ring had found out when he had nervously reported for his first assignment.

"I'm glad to hear that you're ready for a challenge," Monruss said. "I was able to talk Asthan District into letting me keep some of the extra personnel they managed to scrounge up for me during this emergency, so you won't be going to the changeover ward full time, as you requested."

"Oh?" Den inquired, keeping his nager carefully neutral.

Monruss leaned back in his chair, folding his hands comfortably across his stomach, tentacles woven through his fingers. "You know, you really have been doing an excellent job over at the Old Center. I'm told that the groups you guided averaged nearly twice the normal number of donations."

"Out-Territory Gens are always more inclined to donate around Faith Day," Den pointed out quickly, not sure that he liked the direction the conversation was taking.

"True, but it often takes a certain amount of discreet persuasion to turn that inclination into action. You seem to have an unusual ability to convince out-Territory Gens that they don't have to be afraid of channels, and it would be a shame to waste a talent like that."

"What are you getting at?"

"Have you ever considered handling public relations at an out-Territory Center?"

"Shen, no!" Den exclaimed as sincerely as he could manage. "I'm a Donor, not a diplomat. I leave that to my cousin Rital."

"Well, he doesn't seem to be doing too well." Monruss flipped through a stack of folders and withdrew one, pulling out a thick report. "According to this, there has been increasing anti-Tecton agitation in Clear Springs for the last six months or so, and the situation is getting worse, not better. Not too long ago, one of the donors was injured when trying to get into the Center. I've asked the regional office for a troubleshooter, but they say they can't send me one until summer; all their diplomatic staff is working overtime on this Corzona business. I'm reassigning you to Clear Springs until they can free someone. It's just the sort of situation to make use of the ability you've been showing. Hajene Madz is overdue for a really good Donor, so you'll have plenty of the kind of medical work you like, but while you're there, I'd like you to start some outreach programs, and do whatever else seems necessary to calm things down. I've had my secretary get you a train reservation for the day after tomorrow. She's also pulled the Clear Springs reports from the last six months, so you can read them before you go."

"But..." Den protested futilely, seeing his careful scheme to stay in-Territory collapse.

"I'm sure you'll get the situation under control quickly. After all, the reports say that the city government is pretty much pro-Tecton, and you've been out there before, so you know the people. Think of it as a different kind of healing." Monruss picked up an inch-thick stack of paper with a green transfer-assignment card on top and handed it to Den, an obvious dismissal.

Den took the reports and gloomily left the office. Another temporary assignment--and this time, it's out-Territory with the lunatics. Shen.

The following day Den spent reluctantly reading the reports on the Clear Springs Center. The information was contradictory. The increase in the number of general-class donors which had begun after his trip to Clear Springs the previous summer had continued; approximately 20% of the Gens in the area had donated once, and half of these had returned at least once more. Due to the increased workload, an additional First Order channel, Tyvi ambrov Frihill, had been added to the staff, along with two Thirds, Reyna Tast and Zir Asran. The percentage of changeover victims turned over to the Center had also increased. The number of Gens killed in berserker attacks during the last six months was the lowest that the town had ever recorded.

All of this led Den to assume that the town had finally begun to accept the idea of a Sime Center, and that the fear and misunderstanding which had been so apparent on his last visit had begun to fade. However, the reports also stated that there continued to be daily anti-Sime demonstrations outside of the Center, and that these were getting larger and more violent. During the last cold snap of the winter, a young student named Marcy Ingleston had been shoved aside by anti-Sime demonstrators while attempting to cross through their line to donate. She had lost her footing on the icy sidewalk, fallen, and badly sprained her ankle.

The incident had aroused strong feelings in the town. The pro-Sime faction, which included Mayor Ann Kroag and Hank Fredricks, owner and editor of the Clear Springs Clarion, was demanding that the police arrest the perpetrators and any other demonstrators who resorted to physical intimidation or excessive verbal harassment. The demonstrators, led by the Reverend Jermiah Sinth of the reactionary Conservative Congregation, vigorously denied any wrongdoing, and insisted that they had a right to inform the public about the dangers of association with Simes. Unfortunately, the police chief of Clear Springs, Ezrul Tains, was an active member of the anti-Sime faction. He had flatly refused to act on the injured woman's complaint, and publicly announced that the demonstrators were within their rights to block access to the Sime Center. This had so outraged some of the university students that they had formed a group of counterdemonstrators to escort prospective donors past the demonstrations, and ensure that the incident was not repeated.

"I just don't understand it," Den told his friend and fellow Donor Liren Kolpev as they carried their lunch trays to a table. "The increase in donations simply isn't consistent with that kind of demonstrations. The records say that you were out there four months ago--what's going on?"

Tiny Liren put her tray on the table and carefully levered herself up into a chair. With her feet dangling off the floor, she looked more like a half-grown child than the mother of two (going on three). "Den, the problem might not be with the townspeople at all," she said, sipping from a tall glass of citrus juice. "I was assigned to the other First, of course, Tyvi ambrov something. I won't be up to Rital's capacity again until after the little one here is born." She patted her distended abdomen. "However, I did get the distinct impression that those continuous demonstrations have made your cousin a little paranoid. Not pathologically so," she hastened to assure Den, "but I think it's entirely possible that he is mistaking the efforts of a few malcontents for a well-organized conspiracy."

"He's been stuck out-Territory for what--," Den counted rapidly, "almost a year? That would be enough to get to any channel." He took a meditative bite of mystery casserole and chewed it slowly. "I hate to ask Monruss to replace Rital; he really likes running Clear Springs, and there are very few channels who could do it so well. But if he's beginning to crack under the strain... Well, as far as I'm concerned, my cousin is more important than a townful of nuts who don't appreciate him."

"I'm glad he's finally getting a Donor with some sense on the subject," Liren said approvingly. "Monruss keeps sending out Householders, because they don't mind living out-Territory so much. But they're so shenned fanatical about Unity that they are willing to accept anything from out-Territory Gens, whatever the cost to their channels."

Den shrugged. "No one's ever accused me of putting inter-territorial politics before my job. I'll look into it."

"Good." She winced suddenly and put a hand on her belly. "Stop kicking me, you juvenile delinquent. I'm feeding you as fast as I can. Den, I swear I'd know this kid was Sime even if she weren't a channel. She never sleeps more than two hours at a time."

Twenty-four hours later, Den was staring gloomily out the train window, watching the winter-bare fields go by as he fingered random chords on his ancient and much-battered guitar. The English words on the advertisements posted on the coach's walls were a glaring reminder that he still had no strategy to defuse the political bomb waiting for him in Clear Springs, before the whole town exploded into violence. If that happened, neither he nor Rital would ever be allowed out-Territory again. He wouldn't mind that himself, but Rital would be devastated.

On his visit to Clear Springs the previous summer, his one effort to confront the problem had caused more trouble than it solved. It had been shortly before the mayoral election, and the polls had shown that the pro-Tecton incumbent, Ann Kroag, was trailing the anti-Sime challenger, Len Dusam. Having nothing to lose, she had agreed to a public debate and discussion on the presence of the Sime Center. Unfortunately, the debate had been sponsored by several anti-Sime organizations, and their members were much in evidence. Den had attended, and the wild accusations levied against his cousin had prompted him to break Tecton regulations and publicly denounce the misinformation being distributed by Reverend Sinth and members of his church, the Conservative Congregation.

Den's talk had been well received, but Sinth and his supporters had been so outraged that they had pressured the City Council into passing an ordinance forbidding Center staff to leave the grounds except to provide emergency assistance to changeover victims. Only a fortunate error had saved the situation: the coucilmember who had written the law had forgotten that the city's selyn-powered electric generators were not on Center grounds, and Den had managed to talk Rital into "obeying the law" by refusing to recharge the selyn batteries until the ordinance was repealed. Mayor Kroag had been reelected, partly as a result of Den's actions at the debate and afterward, but Den knew that he couldn't count on finding such convenient loopholes to save himself from disaster.

I did make a difference with one family, Den reminded himself, remembering the Liftons. Carla Lifton had once been one of the most energetic distributors of anti-Sime literature outside the Sime Center. Her daughter Annie had still been a child when Den met her; he had taken a picnic lunch to the university campus, and she stopped to hear him practice his guitar. Annie's older brother Rob had recognized Den, and was furious at her for talking with a Donor. Not content with scolding her, he and some friends had climbed the Center's back fence that night, armed with spraypaint and cardboard stencils with anti-Sime slogans. Den and Rital had surprised the would-be vandals, and in the confusion all had escaped except Rob, who had managed to slip and knock himself out when climbing the fence.

Rital had healed the young Gen's concussion, and Den had loaned him a translated in-Territory adventure novel, Sailing the High Seas . It must have made an impression on him, because a week later he had appeared in the Collectorium, white with apprehension, and volunteered to donate in defiance of his mother's strict orders.

Later, when Reverend Sinth had declared his sister Annie to be in changeover, Rob had helped her to escape after their mother and Sinth tried to murder her, and had then gone to the Sime Center to ask Den and Rital for help. As it turned out, Annie was sick with flu, not changeover; she had already established as a Gen. On the following morning, Reverend Sinth and Carla Lifton had shown up on the Center's doorstep with Hank Fredricks of the Clear Springs Clarion, intent on publicly blaming the book Den had loaned Rob for causing Annie to become Sime. Den had taken great pleasure in, equally publicly, showing them exactly how wrong they were.

Carla Lifton had denounced Sinth and left his church group. She had also thanked Rital for helping Annie. Although she had never come in to donate, she hadn't tried to stop Rob from doing so, and she had stopped demonstrating against the Center.

There's a lesson for me in there somewhere, Den thought. If I can reach out to those demonstrators, touch individual lives, maybe I can get them involved in doing something more constructive with their time.

It was after dark when Den's train finally pulled into Clear Springs. Stiffly, the Donor grabbed his guitar case and his knapsack (filled with several changes of clothes, just in case the Transport Authority had mislaid his luggage again) and staggered out of the station. Unable to face the thought of sitting down, he bypassed the taxicabs and started down the road, hoping that he could remember exactly how to get to the Sime Center.

He had gotten three blocks from the station, and had paused under a streetlight to fish in his knapsack for the map of Clear Springs which he had acquired on his previous visit, when a car with the Tecton logo painted on the door pulled up beside him. The door on the passenger side flew open and a slender figure jumped out, calling over his shoulder, "See, Siv, I told you we'd find him this way." With a broad grin, Rital hugged his cousin in greeting, metal retainers digging into Den's back, then put his hands on the Gen's shoulders and shook him gently. "You idiot Gen, the Center's that way." He pointed back towards the station.

"But I could have sworn that the station was on the left coming from the Center, and I turned right," Den protested.

"I know. You also left by the south door instead of the north one." The channel grabbed Den's bag and tossed it into the car. "I know you have no sense of direction, cousin mine, but even you should be able to read street signs well enough to distinguish Almond Drive from Station Street!"

"Oh," Den said, glad that the poor light hid his blush from the Gen driver. Rital gave a resigned sigh, then motioned for his cousin to get into the car. "Den, this is Siv Alson, our other First. He'll be Hajene Tyvi's Donor this month. Siv, my cousin Den. Fortunately, his talents aren't limited to getting lost."

As he climbed into the car, Den judiciously weighed several mishaps, of a minor but suitably embarrassing nature, for their utility as applied to his cousin.

"Welcome to Clear Springs," Siv said, as he turned the car around.

The first hour after they got to the Sime Center passed in a flurry of introductions and greetings of old acquaintances. The two receptionists, Gati and Seena, were old friends, as were many of the other staff. The new First Order channel, Tyvi ambrov Frihill, was politely aloof, but seemed competent. A typical Householding channel, Den dismissed her with a shrug. She'll work with us poor, deluded, houseless people for the good of the Tecton, but that doesn't mean she has to socialize with us.

However, of the Thirds, Zir Asran turned out to be a fellow musician, and Reyna Tast was the embodiment of everybody's favorite grandmother, with her greying hair and twinkling eyes. It looked as if being assigned to the Clear Springs Center was going to be more pleasant this time. However, as his stomach growled, demanding something more substantial than the light snacks served on the train, Den reflected that the cameraderie that came from working at a small out-Territory Center had disadvantages as well as advantages.

Zlinning his cousin's hunger, Rital came to the Gen's rescue and extracted him from the crowd, claiming a relative's privilege of a private reunion. As Den consumed a very late supper, they caught up on family gossip and mutual acquaintances. Over dessert, trin tea and a better than average slice of apple pie, Den finally got a chance to ask the question that had been uppermost in his mind ever since his conversation with Monruss.

"Rital, what's been going on here? I thought things were improving after Mayor Kroag was reelected. Even the anti-Sime activists were beginning to moderate their hysteria. I would have thought the problems would be over by now, but according to your reports, the demonstrations are worse than ever. What happened?"

Rital shrugged helplessly. He was healthier than he had been the previous summer, and he no longer seemed ragged with incipient entran. However, there were lines on his face that hadn't been there six months before, and under the bright cafeteria lights he looked much older than nine years past changeover.

"I don't know what happened, Den," he said, tentacles tightly wrapped around his tea mug as if for comfort. He took a nervous sip, then put the mug down. "After the election last summer, things were quiet for almost a month. Some days there were less than ten demonstrators, and the number of Gens coming to donate increased when they didn't have to worry that the whole town would find out about it. I thought we'd won. Then Reverend Sinth--you remember him?"

"Unfortunately," Den said, remembering his confrontation with the fanatically anti-Sime preacher.

Rital nodded. "Sinth quit his church job and founded a group called Save Our Kids. I don't think you'll find it surprising when I tell you that his group is trying to save their kids from us."

Den snorted. "Typical stupidity. As if you or anyone else could take a donation from a child!"

"You're forgetting that out-Territory youngsters are legally children until they are sixteen natal years--so most Gens are considered 'children' for several years after they establish."

"So they're out to keep young Gens from donating?"

Rital shrugged, taking another sip of tea. "They're not particular. They'll harass donors of any age, and they aren't limiting themselves to name-calling and pamphlet distribution anymore. There are more of them all the time. We're losing a lot of our elderly donors--they're afraid of getting pushed off their feet."

"So instead, a younger donor got hurt," Den commented, capturing the last bite of pie with his fork.

The channel nodded. "Marcy Ingleston. The counterdemonstrators have helped, and we haven't had any more serious injuries since the weather warmed up, but the donors are angry at being put through the harassment, and I can't blame them."

"Even if it does make your job much more difficult," Den completed the thought. "Even if."

Den gazed uncomfortably into the dregs of his tea mug. "I don't quite know how to tell you this, but your reports on the situation here have been causing a lot of concern. Liren told me she thought you were beginning to crack. Monruss didn't go that far, but he told me start some outreach programs, to see if I can't calm things down a bit."

"YOU?" Rital looked up in shock. "You don't know anything about out-Territory psychology, and Monruss wants you to cope with the nutcases? That could ruin what little progress I've made in the last year."

"Oh, come now," Den said, a little miffed at his cousin's reaction. "I'm not a total incompetent."

"You haven't the faintest idea how precarious things are in this town. The last time you tried to meddle in out-Territory politics, I had to go on strike and leave the whole town without power for several hours to persuade the City Council to allow the Center's staff to leave the grounds."

"It worked, didn't it?" Den asked, not quite facetiously. "They repealed the ordinance."

"I'd rather not have to resort to blackmail again," Rital retorted. "It's bad for our image."

"You think you've got a good image now?"

Rital didn't answer.

"I promise I won't do anything rash, but if you want to stay here, something's got to be done about those demonstrations. Other out-Territory Sime Centers haven't had this kind of trouble--there's got to be a way to calm things down. If you won't help me, will you at least not hinder me?" Den extended a pleading hand across the table.

For a long moment, the channel just stared at it, then he slowly unsheathed two handling tentacles and gripped the Gen's fingers.

"All right," he agreed.

Den woke early the following morning. After the large supper he had eaten so late the previous evening, he wasn't particularly hungry. The sky was clear, with only a few puffy clouds to add interest. It looked so peaceful and inviting that Den decided to skip breakfast for the moment and go for a walk instead.

After a quick shower, he threw on a clean uniform, grabbed his cape, and headed outside. The air hadn't lost its winter chill, but the first signs of spring were evident. The buds on the trees were starting to swell and burst, softening the winter-bare branches with a faint haze of yellow-green. He even found some crocusses and snowdrops blooming in a sheltered nook beside a wall.

Somehow, life always looked better when there were green things growing. He knew that it would not be easy to solve a problem that had been festering in Clear Springs for the two years since the City Council had first considered asking the Tecton for a Sime Center, but he was ready to try. Monruss had specifically mentioned outreach programs. It shouldn't be too hard to make arrangements for tours and school programs, and as for the demonstrations, if Rital didn't know what might help, maybe some of the more pro-Tecton out-Territory Gens would be willing to make suggestions. Chilled, but filled with new optimism, Den started back towards the Center.

A glance at his watch showed that the Collectorium would be open in twenty minutes or so. Tyvi would be taking donations that morning, leaving Rital to cover changeovers, paperwork, and other emergencies. Judging from the previous summer, Den would probably have most of the morning to get started on his outreach programs. There would have to be time for a muffin and a warming cup of tea with his cousin before he got to work, however. Rital often forgot to eat breakfast unless his Donor reminded him.

Den was reaching for the knob of the back door, which opened onto a corridor near the Center's small library, when an earsplitting cacophony started, loud enough to be audible for three blocks away. It sounded like two songs being screeched simultaneously by a large group of people. Rampant individualists, one and all, Den concluded as he hastened around the building to see what was the matter. They can't even agree on a key.

He rounded the building's corner and stared in disbelief. There were almost sixty people crowded onto the sidewalk in front of the Sime Center, many of them carrying signs. About half of them were painfully well groomed and conservatively dressed townspeople, mostly middle-aged although there were a few younger couples with children. Their signs had slogans such as "Save Our Kids", "No Simes in Clear Springs", and "Don't Donate!", and they were screaming some sort of hymn about demon Simes.

The other half of the crowd was composed mostly of college students in faded denims or wraparound skirts. Almost all of this group wore identical sweatshirts, white with a tattered stocking silkscreened on the front in fluorescent orange. Underneath, in similarly orange letters, was printed OLD SOKS. Many of them wore faded knee socks as headbands or armbands. Their signs read, "If we want your advice, we'll ask for it", "Mind your own business", and "They're lying!" As Den shook his head in disbelief, they finished their song--it sounded like some sort of scurillous drinking ballad--and began to chant, "Save Our Kids, you're a lie! You don't care if children die!" waving their signs energetically.

How the blazing shen can anyone get through that to donate? Den wondered. The sidewalk beyond the demonstrators was clear for the moment, but there would be people arriving soon to donate on their way to work. Alarmed, he saw a Gen businesswoman in an elegant, cream-colored suit turn the corner and head towards the Center, her determined stride leaving no doubt that it was her destination.

Two of the sock-adorned student counterdemonstrators approached her. They spoke for a moment, then the students each took one of the woman's arms.

They had taken only four steps towards the path leading to the Collectorium when several of the anti-Center demonstrators caught sight of them and converged, waving their signs and screaming warnings as they tried to block the sidewalk.

However, the counterdemonstrators had also converged. Being equally enthusiastic and, on average, twenty years younger than their foes, they reached the woman first. Forming a flying wedge with the ease of long practice, they ruthlessly cleared a path through the demonstrators and deposited her on the other side. They cheered as she started down the path to the Collectorium, and began to chant tauntingly, "Bad makeup, bad dress, Save Our Kids, you're a mess!"

One of the counterdemonstrators sighted Den and made her way across the lawn to greet him. Den had to look twice to recognize Annie Lifton; in the six months since she had established, she had grown two inches and filled out considerably, in all the right places.

"Sosu Milnan, it's good to see you again," she said, grinning broadly. The smile pulled at the scar across her left cheek, a permanent reminder of the night her mother, believing that she was in changeover, had attacked her with a kitchen knife.

"Annie," Den greeted her. "You're looking well. What brings you here today?"

"I'm with OLD SOKS," she explained, gesturing to her sweatshirt.

"Old socks?" Den inquired.

"It stands for 'Organization for the Legal Disruption of Save Our Kids'Strategies'," she explained. "It's kind of a mouthful, but the uniform is cheap!" She grinned again and tugged at the once white (but now grey) piece of footwear that was tied around her upper arm. "We're here to make sure those fanatics don't force other people to abide by their beliefs." She winked mischievously. "We've been pretty successful, too. It's been quite a while since they managed to talk anyone out of donating."

After seeing the counterdemonstrators in action, Den believed her, although he found her enthusiasm for combat somewhat daunting. In-Territory, such shoving matches between Gens would never have been permitted. The probability of injuring a Gen was too high for any Sime to tolerate, and in-Territory Gens soon found that it was easier to cater to this prejudice and stay away from fights, than to face hysterical overreactions from every Sime in zlinning distance.

"How is your family?" the Donor asked, changing the subject.

Annie shrugged. "Mother was depressed about leaving the church last fall, but she rejoined after Reverend Sinth left. She's busy making up for lost time, but she stays away from the Sime-related functions. It would be too embarrassing, 'cause everyone knows I belong to OLD SOKS. Rob is making a fool of himself over Reverend Sinth's niece Bethany; she and her brother Zakry moved here two months ago when their mother got sick. Rob even stopped donating because he was afraid she'd find out, and he goes to the Save Our Kids meetings, too, because she wants him to." She grinned wickedly. "Of course, he tells me exactly what they're planning afterwards. Then I tell our fearless leaders, Silva and Tohm, who figure out what to do about it."

"Silva and Tohm?" Den peered at the mob, trying to distinguish individuals in the chaos. "Do you think I could meet them? I'm supposed to be starting some new outreach programs here. They might have some suggestions on handling Sinth's organization."

"Silva will talk your ear off about it if you give her half a chance," Annie said. "They've both got classes today, but they'll be by tomorrow."

"Oh." He watched as another donor was escorted through the demonstration. "You have a very efficient organization."

"Thank you," Annie said. "Speaking of which, I'd better get back and do my share. I'll tell Silva you want to talk to her." She waved goodbye and rejoined her friends, who were now chanting, "Don't fall for their intimidation, they're handing out misinformation!"

Shaking his head, Den headed for the cafeteria and breakfast.

"After the way Rob argued his mother into letting him donate, I'm surprised he quit," Den remarked to his cousin as he hastily wolfed down a bran muffin.

"I'm not," Rital said, scraping the last of the oatmeal from his bowl. "He never was comfortable with the idea of letting a Sime take selyn from him. He couldn't quit just because his mother wanted him to, but at that age, how could donating possibly compete with the girl of his dreams?" Rital rolled his eyes at the folly of youth, then added, "Besides, I understand he's been passing on what he learns at the anti-Sime meetings. In the long run, that information may be more valuable than the small amount of selyn he could contribute as a transfer-shy GN-3." The channel brightened. "His sister Annie is turning out to be a dependable donor, though. She made GN-2 last week."

"I never would have thought she'd donate at all," Den said, draining his glass of orange juice. "Not after you had to sedate her before she'd let you treat those knife cuts her mother gave her."

The channel shrugged as he stacked their dishes onto a tray. "Your mother used to tell me that Gens were full of surprises. I guess she was right." He stood and stretched. "Time to earn our salaries, cousin. Coming?"

Den spent the morning in the library, reading through the Center's small collection of public relations texts. Drawing on these and his own experience as a tour guide, he put together rough outlines of two public information programs for the Clear Springs Center, one for adults and one for school children. In the afternoon, he designed what he hoped would be a politically unprovocative flier advertising free tours and information, and asked Seena to type it up for distribution to local schools and the Chamber of Commerce.

A few days later, on Rital's turnover day, Den arranged to meet with Tohm Seegrin and Silva Vornast, the official Chief Rabblerouser and Subversive Strategist, respectively, of OLD SOKS, in the Sime Center's library. Tohm was a short, heavily built Gen with a neatly trimmed beard and dark blond hair which had not been combed recently. He was wearing worn denims and an OLD SOKS sweatshirt, with a button pinned to the front which read, "This Sime Center stays OPEN!" Silva's brown hair was cut slightly shorter than Tohm's, and she wore a faded calico skirt and brown boots with her sweatshirt. She also had a button, but hers read, "OLD SOKS gives a darn".

"So you're the one who tossed old Sanctimonious Sinth out on his rump last summer," Tohm said, grinning from ear to ear as he held out his hand. "I nearly died laughing when I read about it in the paper." He grabbed Den's hand and shook it, slapping the Donor on the shoulder with his other hand. "I always like a guy who knows how to pick his enemies." He dropped Den's hand and pulled his fellow activist forward. "I'm Tohm, and this lovely lady with the devious mind is my fiancee Silva. She's the one who comes up with the ideas--I just make sure her nefarious plans are executed."

"I'm pleased to meet you," Den greeted her, a little taken aback by Tohm's exuberance.

"Likewise," she said. "Don't mind Tohm; he always runs on like that."

Tohm slapped his chest melodramatically. "Oh, a mortal blow," he complained. "Hush," his loving bride-to-be ordered. "Annie Lifton tells me you want to find out about Save Our Kids," she told Den.

The Donor nodded. "There's often some trouble when a new Sime Center opens, but it's never been this strong or lasted this long. Usually, the problems stop when around 10% of the Gens in the area have donated at least once. Clear Springs passed that point months ago, but there's no sign that things are calming down. True, we are unusually far from the border here, but I wouldn't think it would make that much difference."

Silva shook her head. "The distance from the border isn't the problem. Clear Springs has demonstrators because of Reverend Sinth."

"A man whose dedication is exceeded only by his ego," Tohm commented gratuitously.

Silva ignored him. "Reverend Sinth gave up his church last winter to devote himself to running you folks out of town."

"He's obnoxious, I agree, but how could one man make that much difference?" Den asked. "I expect some of his former congregation would support his efforts, but there are only three hundred or so of them, and that's not enough to cause this kind of trouble."

"Exactly!" Silva grinned. "So instead of fighting you with just the small minority of Clear Springs residents who object to the Sime Center and are willing to do something about it, he pools the efforts of similar small minorities from all across the Territory. Let me tell you how it works." She plopped down on the couch, and Tohm sprawled beside her, one arm possessively around her shoulders.

For the next half hour, Den listened with utter astonishment as the two out-Territory Gens described a paranoid's nightmare: a hostile conspiracy to convince most of the conservative organizations in New Washington Territory to make shutting down the Clear Springs Sime Center a top priority. It had started when Sinth and a small group of like-minded fanatics had started traveling around the area, giving a lecture on the dangers of Simes. It contained many references to children of pro-Sime citizens who had gone into changeover, and children of God-fearing, righteous individuals who had established. (Somehow, they neglected to mention that the ratio of changeovers to establishments was identical in both groups.) The whole speech was lavishly illustrated with graphic photos of children in changeover and Gens killed by berserkers. By strongly insisting that Tecton channels were responsible for this human devastation, Sinth and his group had been able to glean a few new dedicated volunteers from each audience.

This increase in numbers had allowed them to expand their recruitment efforts, which had grown to involve mailing lists, phone solicitations, letter writing campaigns to newspapers and legislators, and even door to door visits in some carefully selected neighborhoods. Sinth had also contacted religious leaders from most of the more traditionally-minded denominations in the Territory, and asked them to urge their congregants to pledge a day or week as a demonstrator outside the Clear Springs Center, in hopes that the Tecton and the Clear Springs city government would believe that they represented a majority of the town's residents. Out-of-town demonstrators were given free food and housing at the homes of local volunteers.

Such tactics were utterly alien to in-Territory politics. When even the most single-minded of Sime activists could zlin their opponents' sincerity, and outright lies were readily detected, there was much more incentive to find a solution that everyone could live with.

"Most of the Save Our Kids members haven't ever been to Clear Springs, and even so, about half of the demonstrators on any given day are from out of town," Silva concluded. "That's why people were so angry when Marcy got hurt."

Den shook his head in disbelief. "I find it hard to believe that anyone could get that many people to stand on a sidewalk all day, waving signs and chanting themselves hoarse, just by mailing some letters and making a few speeches, no matter how sensationalistic they are."

"Why not?" Tohm asked matter-of-factly. "How did you think we got people to join OLD SOKS? We put up some fliers, got some letters into the newspapers, asked some of the more liberal churches to write us up in their newsletters..."

"Of course, we had it easier than Sinth, because there are more people in Clear Springs in favor of the Sime Center than opposed," Silva commented. "On the other hand, we're strictly local, while Sinth has built a Territory-wide organization. But the principle is the same."

Den clenched his fists in frustration, knowing that the Tecton would find such tactics as unbelievable as he did. No wonder Rital didn't try to explain this to Controller Monruss in his reports--Monruss would have put it down to paranoia and had Rital on the next train back to Valzor.

"There's got to be some way to fight them," Den said, trying desperately to think of one.

"Of course there is," Tohm reassured him. "Sinth's demonstrations haven't been nearly as successful in 'convincing' people not to donate since OLD SOKS started escorting people through their lines. The letters they write are only effective if no one writes back to correct their lies. If you folks are finally willing to start standing up for yourselves, they won't have a chance. For instance, my sister works for the Clarion. Why don't I get her to ask her boss Fredricks if you can write a regular column to answer peoples' questions?"

"Umm..." Den tried to think of a way to decline politely.

"Good." Tohm clapped him on the shoulder. "Get both sides of the story out before the public, and we can't lose. Now, one of the City Councilmen, Dav Senberg, has introduced a resolution of mine calling for the police to vigorously enforce the laws governing demonstrations, to prevent any more injuries. There's going to be a public meeting to discuss it tomorrow night. You ought to be there, so that you can tell them exactly what's going on. Marcy isn't the only one who's been hurt by those bullies."

"Speaking of which," Silva said, "We'd better get back to the group." She stood up from the couch, briskly shaking her skirt back into place.

"Duty calls," Tohm said, extending a hand to Silva. "Help me up, heartless wench."

Silva pulled him to his feet, giggling as he grabbed her and stole a hearty kiss. "Stop that, you animal," she scolded, impotently beating at his chest. "You see what I have to put up with?" she complained to Den.

Den laughed at Tohm's suggestive leer, and led the way back through the Center. When they reached the main entrance hall, they could already hear the discord outside, where a hymn was competing at full volume with a ballad which detailed the amenities of a (Den sincerely hoped) fictional bordello.

"Tell me," the Donor asked. "Why the choice of songs?"

Silva grinned. "It annoys them," she answered succinctly. Waving goodbye, the two walked briskly down the Center's entrance walkway and plunged into the crowd.

Early the following evening, the Sime Center was called to pick up a changeover victim. By the time Den and Rital arrived, it was too late to move the girl, but her parents agreed to let them take care of her in their house.

"It's our fault that she tried to hide it," the girl's mother said guiltily, wringing her hands. "She's only just turned thirteen, and we just didn't get around to talking about it with her."

The girl was untrained, of course, but she was good at following instructions and there were no additional complications. However, by the time Rital had given her First Transfer, and her mother had fussed around packing her a suitcase full of clothing, the City Council meeting was about to start. Rital insisted on having the ambulance driver drop Den off at the City Hall on the way back to the Center, and Den, satisfied that neither channel nor patient required his services, agreed.

The medium-sized auditorium where the meeting was being held was packed. Den scanned the sea of faces until he located Tohm and Silva, who were seated with a dozen or so other OLD SOKS members in the second row back. They were carrying their usual signs, but Silva had a new button pinned to her headband, with the defiant slogan, "Pro-Sime and Proud".

She saw him and waved. When Den had woven his way through the crush to her side, she indicated the empty aisle seat beside her. "I saved you a place, but I was beginning to think you wouldn't come."

"I had to help Controller Madz with a changeover," he explained absently, surveying the crowd with disbelief. People were beginning to stand along the back wall, since all of the seats were occupied. "I had no idea that

city government was such a popular attraction," he commented.

"Most of the time, there's less than a dozen people at a meeting," Tohm said. "Didn't you notice the church busses outside? Sinth has called in people from all over."

"Ironic, isn't it? They travel in selyn-powered busses to speak against a Sime Center," Den commented with a wry grimace.

Tohm shrugged. "If they're going to defeat the resolution, they've got to produce a lot of bodies. Rob Lifton reports that Sinth is very worried--if they have to leave a clear path into the Sime Center at all times, they won't be able to harass people as effectively."

Den nodded. "It would certainly make our jobs easier," he agreed. Looking around at the various signs, buttons, and T-shirts, he estimated that there were probably some sixty anti-Sime activists present, including the imposing, black-cassocked figure of Reverend Sinth.

The council members trickled in, and Mayor Kroag called the meeting to order a mere ten minutes late. They voted unanimously to skip all new business, and all old business except for Senberg's proposal. Because of the large number of people present, Mayor Kroag announced that those officially representing each side would be allowed fifteen minutes to present their arguments for or against the resolution, and then anyone who wanted to speak could have three minutes, and three minutes only.

First to speak was Tohm, the author of Senberg's resolution. "As a law student," he said, "I fully support the concept of freedom of speech, even when that freedom is used to support causes I despise, as long as it remains within legal bounds. In the case of demonstrations, the law specifies that any group demonstrating in front of a place of business must leave a clear path at all times, and that those who use this path to enter that place of business must not be verbally harassed or physically intimidated.

"During the past few months, I have watched the members of the Save Our Kids campaign break these laws on a daily basis. They routinely fail to leave a passage into the Sime Center--in fact, I can't recall one time when they have left such a passage. Anyone who tries to get onto the Center's grounds, for whatever reason, is immediately the target of verbal harassment and physical intimidation. I have seen anti-Sime demonstrators scream obscenities and threats at a thirteen-year-old girl who wanted information for a school assignment. I have seen the bullies beat men old enough to be my grandparents with their signs--and believe me, a club doesn't hurt any less just because you tack a piece of cardboard onto it.

"These actions are not legal, and the people who perform them are criminals. So far, the police have proven unwilling to enforce the law. Their unwillingness has already led to one serious injury. My resolution does not restrict the right of Save Our Kids to demonstrate at the Sime Center. However, it does ask the officials responsible for law enforcement to do their jobs and curtail the illegal portion of Save Our Kids' activities, before we have another Marcy Ingleston heading for the hospital."

The thirty or so pro-Center people in the room applauded loudly as Tohm sat down; Sinth's followers booed and hissed.

Sinth was the official speaker against the resolution, as the founder and acknowledged leader of Save Our Kids. He was an impressive sight, a tall, gaunt man with a flushed face, dark, bushy eyebrows that matched his floor-length cassock, and a booming voice that didn't require amplification. He shook his head in hurt innocence as he paced slowly in front of the podium, ignoring the microphone on it, and said in martyred tones, "I'm deeply hurt by what I just heard. Bullies, vicious criminals who beat children up....those are harsh accusations. Particularly coming from a self-proclaimed, radical rabble rouser who lives with his girlfriend without benefit of marriage." He turned to glare at Tohm, who put his arm around Silva and winked impudently. "Why, his group holds their weekly meetings at the Sudworks Brewery, so they have an excuse to drink beer.

"My followers are God-fearing, church-going, sober and respectable people; upright citizens of this community and others like it. We do not hate the misguided souls who have been driven to seek out the Simes. We care deeply for them and their families. And in our love, we are driven to share with them what the Scriptures say about Simes--that by donating, by willingly giving themselves into the tentacles of evil, they give the Devil unfettered freedom to turn their siblings, or their children, or their grandchildren, into bloodthirsty, murdering Sime demons!

"We are not breaking any laws. Why, Ezra Tains, our Chief of Police here in Clear Springs, has been joining us on occasion as we try to save these poor souls. Now, I've known Ezra for a long time; we went to school together right down the road a few blocks. If there's one thing you can be sure of, it's that he takes his responsibilities very seriously." Sinth's voice rose to a crescendo. "If we were breaking any laws, don't you think that the police chief would be arresting us, not helping us?

"This resolution Mr. Seegrin has talked Councilman Senberg into presenting for him is simply an attempt to harass us as we do God's work. AND IT WILL NOT WORK! It will not prevent us from carrying God's message to those who need it most!"

The applause and hallelujahs were much louder this time, due to the reinforcements Sinth had bussed in.

Mayor Kroag pounded her gavel for quiet. "At this time, I would like for those who wish to address us on this issue to line up in the center aisle, behind the podium." Over half of the audience made a concerted rush for the microphone. As they jockeyed for position, she raised her voice and continued. "I would like to remind everyone that you are limited to three minutes, and we are timing you. Also, please give your name and city of origin, so that we can keep our records straight."

Since Den's seat was on the aisle, he managed to grab second place in line, behind a chubby young woman wearing an OLD SOKS sweatshirt. As soon as things were quiet, she began speaking in a nasal voice. "My name is Marcy Ingleston, and I live here in Clear Springs. Reverend Sinth is lying about what Save Our Kids is doing. They not only pushed me so I fell and sprained my ankle, they were so full of loving concern for my welfare," her voice dripped with sarcasm, "that instead of helping me up, they stood around kicking me and screaming about how I was damned forever! For all they cared, I could have lain on the sidewalk all day. I'm asking the City Council to pass the resolution, and put those bullies out of business."

She yielded the podium to Den, who had just remembered how much he hated public speaking. He swallowed to relieve his suddenly dry mouth. "I'm Sosu Den Milnan, senior Donor at the Clear Springs Sime Center," he began, gaining confidence as he saw that all five council members were paying respectful attention. "I would like to bring up one additional legal question that Tohm Seegrin did not address. Due to the retainer laws, all Sime Centers are legally considered Sime Territory. By blocking access to a Territorial border, Save Our Kids is also in violation of the free travel provisions of the First Contract. The Tecton is very concerned about the situation here. If these demonstrations continue unchecked, you may have an inter-territorial incident on your hands." But I hope it doesn't go that far, the Donor thought as he returned to his seat, or Rital and I will be in even worse trouble than you!

"Good point," Tohm leaned over Silva to whisper. "I hadn't thought of that angle."

After that, the talks began to run into one another, but there were a few moments that Den was always able to remember clearly: A highly distraught woman who failed to identify herself before she sobbed, "When are you going to get those slimy snakes out of Clear Springs and save the children?"

Reverend Sinth's nephew Zakry, a shorter than average thirteen-year-old whose slight frame was not quite hidden beneath at least fifty extra pounds of fat. He gazed up at the City Council with the ecstatic, other-worldly (and more than a little vacant) stare of a mystic, as he explained with many scriptural quotations how his faith would make him Gen, unless he or his family were exposed to in-Territory contamination. The look of total hatred that he turned on Den as he said this would haunt the Donor for days.

A similarly hate-filled expression on the face of a local shopkeeper, as he ranted against the "heresy" of the scriptural interpretations Sinth used to justify his anti-Center stance.

Florence Grieves (whose daughter Rachel had been Annie Lifton's best friend before the girl had gone through changeover the previous summer, killed a sister, and was in turn murdered by her parents) insisting, "The Sime Center caused both my daughters to die!" When Mayor Kroag asked if she had called the Sime Center for help, the woman indignantly retorted, "Of course not!"

Several donors described in lurid detail how they had been pushed, shoved, and screamed at by anti-Sime demonstrators in their attempts to follow their own consciences by donating, and those same demonstrators flatly denied doing such things.

In all, there were thirty-two speakers in favor of the resolution, and sixty-four speakers against, nineteen of whom lived in Clear Springs. When everyone had had their say, the council voted three to one to pass the resolution. (One council member thought that the City Council shouldn't get involved in the issue if the police thought the demonstrators' activities were legal, and one had had to go home because his babysitter couldn't stay past ten thirty.)

It was past eleven when Den finally left the City Hall. He was making his way across the parking lot to the street, not paying much attention to his surroundings, when the trouble started. Afterwards, he realized that he should have been more cautious, but he had never had to defend himself against a physical attack in his adult life. As a First Order Donor, his nager was powerful enough to be zlinnable for quite a distance, and Simes tended to jealously guard the well-being of any Gens in their vicinity. Even the criminals in-Territory were well aware that the quality of the transfers and medical services available to them depended on the willingness of the best channels and Donors to work in their areas. Thus, Den could stroll through the high-crime areas of Valzor in the secure knowledge that his Donor's nager and the Tecton crest ring on his finger would protect him from harm.

He discovered that night that his profession was viewed a little differently by some groups on this side of the border. As he passed a group of well-dressed college students who were talking by the bicycle rack, one of them looked up and recognized him. "Hey, it's the Sime-lover," he called, looking at Den with a predatory sneer. Immediately, the others clustered around Den, pushing at the Donor and shouting, "Devil-worshipper!" "Why don't you go kiss a Sime?" and "Sime-lover, you're no better than a whore!"

As the students pushed him from one side of their circle to the other, Den struggled to stay on his feet. In the brief moments between shoves, he tried to peer through his tormentors and locate any of the OLD SOKS members. It seemed incredible that he could be roughed up within sight of a large crowd, without attracting their attention. But it's dark here, and there aren't any Simes around to zlin that I require help.

"What's going on here?" a deep, authoritative voice demanded. The mob suddenly disintegrated back into a group of students, who meekly allowed the uniformed police officer to push through them. He hooked his thumbs behind the leather gunbelt that strained to hold in his more than ample belly, and glared meaningfully at the students. "What do you think you're doing?" he repeated furiously, staring them down one by one until he reached the blond young man who seemed to be their leader.

"We didn't mean any harm, Chief Tains," the blond student drawled insolently. "We just wanted to teach the Sime-lover a little lesson, that's all."

Tains scowled. "We have law and order in Clear Springs, kid, and don't you forget it. Now, I don't want to have to arrest you to protect the likes of him," he nodded towards Den, "but I will if I have to. So you go on home, and I'll pretend that none of this happened."

In ten seconds, the students had hopped on their bicycles and pedaled away.

"Thank you," Den said a little stiffly as the last one disappeared down the road.

A fat globule of spit landed half an inch from the toe of Den's right shoe. "Get back where you belong, Sime-lover," Tains said contemptuously. "I don't want any more trouble in my town." He turned and strolled back to the parking lot.

The passage of the anti-demonstration resolution made little difference in the days that followed, since the Clear Springs police continued to ignore its provisions. In fact, the only real change was the addition of "Anti-Tecton, anti-beer, Save Our Kids, you're mighty queer!" to OLD SOKS' repertoire of chants.

Den's public relations program was also largely unsuccessful. He had gotten a few telephone calls after he sent out his fliers, from teachers seeking background information for lectures during the Faith Day season. However, his offers to visit their classes himself, or give them a tour of the Sime Center, were always politely declined. Apparently, those few teachers who were courageous (or foolish) enough to tackle such a controversial subject felt safer going to Valzor's Old Center. As one teacher explained, "If I 'balance' the Old Center with a tour of the Church of the Purity cathedral and museum across the river, and throw in the amusement park and a few art museums to round out the package, the kids and their parents go for it. If I just had you come in and give a lecture, I'd be up in front of the school board fighting for my job within a week."

Hank Fredricks, owner and editor of the Clear Springs Clarion, was delighted with Tohm's idea of a Sime Center column, and duly sent over a packet full of guidelines and suggested topics. When Den submitted his first attempt, Fredricks not only printed it, he decided to make it a regular feature.

As Faith Day came closer, the number of volunteer general-class donors increased to unprecedented levels, despite the best efforts of the anti-Sime demonstrators. In response, the Save Our Kids campaign took out a full-page ad in the Clarion, calling for all "citizens of good will" to turn out in support of their efforts to save the town from Simes. The following day, there were nearly twice as many people as usual on the sidewalk outside the Sime Center, but most of them were joining the counter-demonstrators. Many of the new Gens also donated in protest against the tactics Sinth's followers were employing. As one irate, middle-aged woman put it, "Any time folks like that are against something, chances are I'm for it!"

The large influx of new donors meant that two channels were required for each shift. Rital changed the schedule so that either he or Tyvi ambrov Frihill, the other First Order channel, was on hand to take care of the "virgins," as Seena insisted on calling them, while the Thirds, Zir and Reyna, handled the more experienced donors. This was a very sensible arrangement, as even Den had to admit, but the nageric and emotional strain of handling transfer-shy Gens all day was taking its toll on both Firsts. Four days after Rital's turnover, the usually patient channel snapped at the Center's chef for burning his toast, and Tyvi broke the handle off of a tea mug.

Den and Tyvi's Donor, Siv Alson, joined forces and informed their respective charges that no more first donations were to be taken unless a Donor was present to block the worst of the nageric chaos.

Neither channel objected very strenuously.

A week before their transfer date, Den and Rital arrived at the Collectorium ten minutes before it officially opened, to find two Gens already waiting for them. Den didn't know the young woman, but he recognized her older companion immediately.

So did Rital. "Mayor Kroag, how good to see you," he said with genuine pleasure.

"Controller Madz, Sosu Milnan," she greeted them, shaking hands automatically with the practiced firmness of a professional out-Territory politician. An untrained in-Territory Gen would have known better than to touch a Sime without invitation, but Den knew that Kroag meant it as a gesture of trust and respect.

"I'd like you to meet my daughter Meg," she continued proudly, drawing the girl forward with an arm around her shoulders. "When I told her I was coming here this morning, she said she wanted to come along and donate also."

"It seemed like the right time of year for it," Meg said a little shyly. "Besides, my literature class is reading Tharson's novel about the last campaign against the Raiders, and we have to write a paper on it."

"So you decided to do some extracurricular research?" Rital asked, amused. "It can't hurt," she shrugged, nervously twining the end of her braid around one finger. "Miz Ross's honors class has been using the same reading list forever. I've been trying to think of something original to say about the stupid book for weeks."

"I'm glad to see that the spirit of free inquiry is still alive." The channel winked, and Meg grinned back, more at ease.

"I have some more good news for you," Mayor Kroag interjected. "Clear Springs is going to be hosting a convention of city government officials from all over the territory next week. A number of the participating towns have been considering whether they should ask the Tecton for a Sime Center of their own, and some of the delegates have expressed interest in visiting your Center here. If it's all right with you, I'll have my secretary call and make the arrangements."

"That's wonderful," Den said, glad that he would finally have the chance to give his carefully prepared tour. Reyna had arrived by now, and was holding Mayor Kroag's file.

"Meg, why don't you come with Den and me," Rital suggested, "and we'll let Hajene Tast take care of your mother."

Meg swallowed and looked at her mother for reassurance. At Kroag's nod, she followed them down the hall to one of the small collecting rooms. She looked curiously at the transfer lounge as Rital sat behind the desk and Den perched on a stool behind him, but took her place in the visitor's chair without prompting.

Rital pulled out a copy of the pre-donation medical history form and absentmindedly fished in his uniform pocket with two handling tentacles for a pen. Meg watched the channel's tentacles in fascination, then blushed when she realized that she'd been caught staring. "I was just wondering what they felt like," she explained lamely.

"See for yourself," Rital offered, holding out a steady hand with one dorsal tentacle extended.

Den leaned forward, ready to shield his cousin if the girl became frightened. Come on, kid, you can do it.

Meg hesitated a moment, then cautiously reached out and lightly brushed the proffered tentacle with a finger. "They really aren't slimy, are they?" she said with a note of discovery.

"No, they really aren't," Rital agreed.

After that, it was easy. When the paperwork was finished, Meg lay down on the transfer lounge and offered her hands with the confidence of an experienced donor. She hardly blinked when Rital made the transfer contact, and when he finished taking her donation and let her go, she asked in a surprised voice, "Is that all?"

"That's all there is to it," the channel confirmed. "You're low field now." When Meg had rejoined her mother in the waiting room, full of inspiration for her book report, channel and Donor exchanged indulgent grins.

"You're dangerous, cousin, did you know that?" Den teased. "I'll bet you could seduce one of those hymn-singing fanatics on our sidewalk into donating, if you put your mind to it."

"They're hardly likely to give me a chance," Rital laughed.

There was a continual stream of Gens coming in to donate all day, until by early afternoon Rital had to delegate the pre-donation paperwork to Seena in order to keep up. This shortened the time he had to spend with each Gen, but also gave the newcomers less time to get used to him before donating.

By midafternoon, as he and Rital were escorting a white-haired but still active farmer back to the waiting room, Den was looking forward to the end of the shift and dinner. He was mentally listing the ingredients in his own private stash, trying to determine if they could be combined into something better than the cafeteria was providing, when Gati intercepted them before Rital could pick up the next folder.

"We may have a potential problem here, Hajene," she said, lips pressed together in concern as she tapped the file she held in her right hand against her left.

"What is it?" Rital asked.

"Another schoolgirl. She seems to be under control, at least as much as any of them are, but Zir says her nager is wierd, and there's something about her..." Gati shook her head. "It's probably nothing."

"Your instincts are usually pretty sound," Rital reassured her. "If the girl's likely to cause trouble, I'd best see to her now."

Gati held out the file folder she was holding. "Seena just took the girl's history; she said the girl didn't look at her once. And the friend that came with her brought along some of those pamphlets that the nuts outside are so fond of passing out."

"Is the friend donating too?" Den asked alertly. One possible Simephobe was bad enough.

"No, she's not."

Rital took the folder and flipped it open. Den peered over his cousin's shoulder and scanned the information inside. The girl had given her name as Bethany Thins, and she was fifteen natal years old. That was a little younger than most out-Territory Gens started donating, especially if no other family members donated. Den couldn't recall hearing about any other Gens named Thins, but he didn't know every donor in the area, so that might not be significant. There was nothing in the girl's medical history to suggest a problem, except, of course, that she had been raised out-Territory. That was often more than enough complication all by itself.

Den casually glanced out into the waiting room, where some twelve Gens sat waiting for the channels. There were only two women young enough to be fifteen. One of them, a small, anxious-looking mouse in a dark brown dress, was holding a pamphlet and showing it to her friend. Because the other girl was facing away from him, all Den could see of her was the dark hair that spilled over the back of her chair.

"Is Bethany the one facing us?" Rital asked Gati as he snapped the file closed.

"No, the other one."

Rital zlinned the girl as well as he could, given the chaotic ambient nager of the waiting room. "Zir was right, she's strange. Not frightened, particularly. It's almost a kind of...voyeuristic curiosity mixed with self-righteous revulsion. I'd expect that from one of the demonstrators out there, not a prospective donor." He zlinned her again, trying to make out details, until Den stepped closer and lightly touched one arm, partially blocking the channel's perception of Bethany's nager and effectively breaking his concentration.

"You'll have plenty of time to zlin her," he scolded tolerantly. "But right now, you'd better get her away from that friend and her pamphlets, before you have a mountain of misconceptions to complicate things."

Nodding sheepish agreement with his Donor's practical suggestion, Rital stepped around the reception desk and called, "Bethany Thins?"

The dark haired girl looked around with a start, dropping the pamphlet she was holding. "Me?" she asked in a small voice. Now that he could see her face, Den recognized the red-skirted girl from his last tour group. What the blazing shen is she doing here?

Rital smiled at her reassuringly. "I'm Hajene Madz," he introduced himself. "Would you come with me, please?"

Bethany gave him a calculating glance, taking in his slight build and carefully retracted tentacles, then nodded agreement and stood up.

"Bethie..." the friend objected in a wavering voice. Bethany whispered something, too quietly for the Donor to hear, then followed Rital to the collecting room, Den bringing up the rear.

Shen, Rital's good, Den thought as he perched on his stool and made himself inconspicuous. His cousin was deliberately moving slower and less gracefully than usual; almost like a Gen. Yet he managed to make it look natural.

It was working, too. With the desk between them, Bethany was already less wary of the channel. At first, Rital limited himself to neutral topics--general conversation and the information on the medical history form. Where does he get the patience? Den wondered. He'd sit there making small talk for half an hour, if that's what it took to win the girl's confidence.

In the end, it took only five minutes before Bethany's distrust eased. When she was ready to listen, Rital began to describe what went on during a general-class donation, as patiently and completely as if he hadn't been giving the same spiel all day. Strangely, the girl virtually ignored the channel's reassurances about what she would (and would not) feel during the donation, although every other first-time donor Den had seen in the last week had been vitally interested. Maybe she's been doing some background reading?

But when Rital asked her if she had any questions, she asked several that showed an appalling ignorance. Den's favorite was, "Are there any aftereffects?"

Den struggled to keep a straight face as his cousin reassured Bethany that the only known aftereffects of donating were a lessened susceptibility to some illnesses, and a temporary inability to attract Simes in need, if there were other highfield Gens around.

Gati was right, this is a weird one, Den thought as the channel finally coaxed the girl into reclining on the transfer lounge. From her questions, she could have learned everything she knows about Simes, Gens, and transfer at Reverend Sinth's knee. But no one with that kind of background should be so calm just before a first donation. Annie Lifton and her brother Rob had both been terrified, despite their previous encounters with Rital.

Of course, there was no guarantee that Bethany would remain as calm (relatively speaking) during the donation as she was before. Rital seemed to have everything under control as he took her hands, but just in case, Den laid his hand on the channel's shoulder and let their fields merge.

As Rital slipped neatly into the full transfer contact, Den watched Bethany's face as closely as he could, ready to intervene if the girl panicked. A little to his surprise, she looked more startled than frightened. She hesitated a brief moment, then tried to move her head and break lip contact.

That's funny, Den thought. Most out-Territory Gens who struggled tried to move their arms first. Not that it made much difference.

When she couldn't free herself, Bethany began to struggle in earnest. As her eyes widened in fear, Den quickly increased his support of Rital. "Relax, Bethany. Hajene Madz isn't hurting you," he murmured as reassuringly as he could. "It won't take much longer."

She seemed to hear him; at least, she stopped struggling. When the channel let her go a few seconds later, she wilted bonelessly back into the lounge, eyes closed with relief. Rital waited until she opened them.

"That's it," he said with a friendly smile. "It's all over."

"What?" Bethany asked, looking at him in a bewildered fashion. "You mean you really did..." She hesitated, then blurted out, "But I didn't feel anything happening at all!" She sounded almost indignant.

"Most Gens don't feel anything during a routine donation," Rital said, getting up from the lounge and reseating himself behind the desk. He scribbled the proper notations on the form as Bethany stood unsteadily. When she realized that she was unharmed, she walked back to the desk.

"Here," Rital said, handing her the file. "If you will give this to the receptionist, she will see that your check is sent to you."

Bethany took the folder from the channel at arm's length, to avoid touching him, and left. Since Rital had been escorting the Gens back to the waiting room, Den turned to his cousin as soon as the door closed behind her, worried that the girl's fear had done more harm than he supposed.

"I'm all right, Den," the channel said, waving him away. "She didn't hurt me."

"I'll be the judge of that," Den said, taking his cousin's hands and examining the laterals and ronaplin glands for signs of prematurely raised intil.

Rital cooperated, letting his laterals extend to demonstrate their steadiness. "See?" he said. "I sent Bethany back alone because she was nervous about me." The channel frowned, resheathing his laterals. "It's strange. Usually they're less frightened after donating, not more. I wish I knew why she came in to donate." He stared at the wall blankly for a moment, then recalled himself with a shrug. "Oh, well, I'm sure she had her reasons."

Den explained about seeing Bethany in one of his tour groups.

"I see I'm not the only one in the family with a talent for convincing unlikely Gens to donate." Rital grinned delightedly and gripped his cousin's shoulder, letting a handling tentacle briefly caress the back of the Gen's neck. "Let's get back to work."

When they returned to the reception desk to pick up the next folder, they found Gati vainly trying to smother a snicker.

"I could use a laugh," Den told her. "What's so funny?"

"Your mystery Gen's mousy friend," she said, grinning broadly. "When you took Bethany back to donate, she started reading one of her pamphlets out loud, all about how nasty donating is."

"Shen!" Den swore, thinking about how such propaganda would affect the already nervous Gens waiting for their first donations. "What's funny about that?"

"She happened to be sitting next to Mr. Duncan," Gati said, "who has very little patience with that kind of hysteria. He took the pamphlet away from her, tossed it into the wastebasket, and told her that he knew from personal experience that donating wasn't anything like that. He also told her that she was a fool for believing Sinth, since he's never donated. Then Miz Farral chipped in and told the girl not to worry, her friend was in good hands, or tentacles as the case may be, and other regular donors started agreeing with her. I don't know if they convinced the girl, but she shut up pretty quickly."

Den grinned at Gati in appreciation, then went to help Rital with the next Gen. Maybe Monruss is right, the Donor thought. If making Bethany watch that donation back at Valzor prompted her to come in and donate herself, my playing tour guide wasn't a total waste of time. Not that he was about to volunteer for such duty again any time soon. And if she talks it over with her friend, that's two Gens that are less likely to show up on our sidewalk to harass donors.

However, Bethany's donation didn't stop Den from sending a strongly worded report back to Monruss. These people are crazy, he wrote in frustration. There hasn't been a single school teacher who would even consider inviting me to speak to a class, for fear of complaints from a few parents, but large numbers of local Gens, including some of those same teachers, are quite willing to push through a mob of angry demonstrators to donate. Some of the Gens who spend hours every week helping donors through the demonstrations openly admit that they themselves would never even consider donating. The activists on both sides frequently issue wildly inaccurate statements, and no one seems to mind. Please, get a professional diplomat out here before I become as crazy as they are!

A few days after Mayor Kroag's visit to the Center, Den found his cousin in the channel's office, staring glumly through the window at the mob outside. "What's the matter?" he asked, putting a hand on Rital's shoulder.

The channel relaxed as his Donor's presence dispelled the unconscious, need-based conviction that he was going to die, but he didn't smile. "I was just wondering how eager those visiting dignitaries will be to have Sime Centers in their own towns, when they have to get through that to meet us." He nodded out the window.

Even though it was closed, Den could distinctly hear competing chants of "There's nothing here for Gens to fear; Save Our Kids, get out of here!" and "Sinners, we won't go away, we will stay right here and pray!" (Or maybe it was "prey".)

"I see what you mean," he said, as OLD SOKS switched their chant to "Anti-Sime, anti-Gen, who the hell do you like, then?" He considered the problem for a moment, then he brightened. "The Collectorium doesn't open until nine, and the demonstrators usually don't arrive much before then. What would happen if we started the tour here, at eight or eight thirty, so they don't get hassled when they arrive? Then we pack them into our bus and run them out to the power plant for another tour. That way, all they'll see of the demonstration is a brief glimpse from the bus window."

"It just might work," Rital agreed, looking happier. "Why didn't I think of that?"

"I think I know why," Den said suggestively, running a careful hand along his channel's arm, and delighting in the need-swollen ronaplin glands. What better way to celebrate Faith Day, than a transfer with one of my favorite channels?

Two days before the touring dignitaries arrived, Den accompanied Reyna Tast to the power plant, on her regular trip to refill the selyn batteries. As he juggled with the key, trying to unlock the door to the basement room which housed Clear Springs' small selyn bank, he recalled that even this had required extended negotiations with the out-Territory Gens. The previous summer, the Center's channels (then limited to Rital) had not been allowed their own key; some problem with the power worker's union, he believed. At least we don't have to wait for the manager to let us in any more, Den thought, encouraged by even this slender evidence of progress.

His optimism faded as they went down the narrow, concrete stairway and entered the large, musty-smelling cavern that housed the town's selyn batteries. From the threadbare carpet covering the front third of the yellowed concrete floor, to the battered table in front of the sagging, olive-green couch with white stuffing showing through the rents in its cushions, the atmosphere was one of total gloom. The only objects in the entire room less than twenty years old were the first aid kit on the table, the shiny new safety grating with its warning signs in Simelan and English, and the selyn batteries it protected.

"Those politicians are going to take one look at this place, and decide they can live without us," Den complained as he helped the channel remove her retainers.

"It's not quite that hopeless," Reyna said, surveying the room with the practical eye of an experienced hostess. "All it will take is a good cleaning and a little fixing up. There are some very attractive carpets in storage to cover the floor, and a matching blanket will hide the holes in the couch cushions quite nicely. If you use one of the ones from the cedar storage chest, that will help get rid of the musty smell. Put a tablecloth and refreshments on this thing," she poked the table with a tentacle, "and they won't notice how old it is." She frowned thoughtfully and pushed the table again with her hand. "Though you'd better prop up that short leg first, or you'll have spilled tea all over the floor."

"You're a genius, love," Den said, following her across the room to the safety grating. "I'll start rounding up some of the staff as soon as we get back."

Reyna pulled open the Gen-proof lock on the grating and grimaced at the three selyn batteries inside. However, she dutifully began to unhook the orgonics cable from the first one. As she reluctantly extended her laterals towards the contacts, Den moved unerringly to the exact spot where he could best hold the selyn fields steady. She looked over her shoulder at Den. "Sometimes Firsts are very convenient to have around," she said appreciatively.

The Clear Springs Center had both an arrival and a departure the next day. Due to two unexpected channels' changeovers and an injury, Siv Alson was recalled to Valzor to give an emergency transfer. As a tacit apology, his replacement was Tyvi's son Obis, who was supposed to arrive the following morning. Tyvi bravely expressed her delight at the prospect of having her son for transfer, and immediately retired to the deferment suite to wait for him.

The new arrival was Sera Coney, a freelance reporter who was researching a human-interest story about isolated Tecton outposts for one of Nivet Territory's leading news magazines. She was a stunning redhead with the luscious curves only a Gen could have, and she made no secret of the personal nature of her interest in Den.

The Donor was happy to oblige.

The visit of the out-Territory politicians went more smoothly than even Den had dared to hope. Most of them seemed genuinely impressed with the Center's facilities, and only one man asked questions about the demonstrations. As he listened to them speak among themselves, Den was forced to radically alter his view of out-Territory politics. From their conversation, these men and women had been elected, not because of their proven ability to solve problems by finding compromises acceptable to all, but because they had been more successful than their opponents in identifying and avoiding reasons for the voters to dislike them.

Suddenly, the tactics Save Our Kids and OLD SOKS had been using began to make sense. No wonder neither group is interested in objective truth or compromise. They're in a contest to show the politicians how many people will vote against a candidate who takes the opposing side. And it doesn't matter to anyone that the majority of Clear Springs residents support the Sime Center, if that majority won't switch its vote accordingly. What a backwards way to run a Territory!

At the power plant, over refreshments of cookies and trin tea (which many of the out-Territory Gens discarded after the first sip), several of the visitors made casual inquiries about where they might get more information, should they decide to ask the Tecton for a Sime Center in their own towns. In a purely hypothetical sense, they hastened to assure the Donor.

"And won't that look good on the next monthly report!" Den exclaimed happily as he finished bringing Rital up to date.

"It's marvelous," the channel muttered, staring glumly at the file folders on his desk.

Realizing that his cousin was too close to active need to feel anything else, Den reached for the channel's hands to control it, regretting the thoughtlessness that had led him to inflict his unrestrained emotions on Rital when his cousin was unable to share them.

Unexpectedly, the channel withdrew. Den paused in confusion; unlike some channels he had worked with, Rital seldom refused his Donor's assistance.

Zlinning his cousin's faint hurt, Rital tried an apologetic smile. It looked more like a grimace of agony. "Please don't, Den," he requested. He rearranged the files in front of him with two tentacles, not meeting the Donor's eyes.

"There's no easy way to tell you this," he said with a sigh. He reached for a pencil, tapped it on the desk a few times, then set it down and pushed a green transfer-assignment card towards Den. "The train from Asthan was delayed. Obis missed his connection and won't get here until tomorrow morning, so I'm reassigning you to Tyvi this month."

"You're WHAT?!" Den sat suddenly in the visitor's chair.

"She can't wait, Den." Rital pushed one of the files across to the Donor. "Here's her file; see for yourself."

Den thumbed rapidly through the materials. "She's been shorted lately, but tomorrow morning is well within her tested endurance ratings..."

"And what would happen if Obis is delayed again? You know what the trains are like around the holidays. By the time we learned of the problem, you'd be lowfield. Valzor doesn't have anyone--that's how this whole mess started in the first place. I can survive until Obis gets here. Tyvi's been in the deferment suite since yesterday. Losing her assigned Donor a second time just before her transfer is going to be hard enough on her. If there's no replacement within a hundred miles, she might crack."

Den knew Rital was right, but he didn't have to like it. "And where does this leave you?" he demanded. "You've been shorted lately, too. If this Obis is a good match for Tyvi, he'll be totally inadequate for you."

"He's actually rated a little higher than his mother, and he's young enough to have grown some since his last testing. He may surprise me."

"You don't believe that," Den stated.

"There's always next month." Rital finally met Den's eyes, and the Donor recoiled at the misery he saw on his cousin's face. "Do you think I want to give you up?" the channel demanded brokenly. "I've been looking forward to this transfer for weeks. But I'm Controller here, and that means I have a responsibility to look after my people. All of them, not just you and me."

Thoroughly ashamed of himself for making a bad situation worse for his cousin, Den reached for the piece of green cardboard. "All right," he agreed.

Den was still aching with frustrated sympathy for Rital's condition (and aggravation at the channel's stubbornness) when he arrived at the deferment suite for his own transfer. He paused outside the door for a moment, disciplining his nager. There wasn't anything more he could do to change Rital's mind, and it would be grossly unfair to subject Tyvi to his resentment. She's hurting just as much as Rital, he reminded himself, and she is also worthy of my concern. Even if she is a Householder.

Besides, there was no point in all of them having an inadequate transfer. Calmer, he thumbed the door signal, and when Tyvi opened the door, Den was able to summon a genuine smile.

"Hi, there," he greeted her softly. "Obis didn't make his connection, so I thought I'd steal his date."

Den had hoped to get a laugh, or at least a smile, in return, but Tyvi merely nodded solemnly and stood aside for him to enter. The apartment's sitting room was dim and plush, with blue shag carpeting on the floor that matched the overstuffed furniture and velvet draperies. It was very carefully designed not to allow the slightest outside stimulus to irritate the need-sensitized nerves of a channel, but Den found the whole effect smothering. He liked to have fun during a transfer--why else would one bother?--and he found the funereal atmosphere of a deferment suite inhibiting.

It was Tyvi's inhibitions which were his current worry, however. Now that Den was in the same room with her, he could feel her need, but she did not appear to be responding properly to his nager. Den looked her over carefully, wishing that he knew her better. Her file didn't list everything. Her reserve could simply be part of her personality, or the result of some Householding exercise in self-control. Alternatively, she might have been shorted so much in recent months that she was no longer able to let go and trust her Donor to keep up with her. If that was the problem, Den had forty-five minutes to convince her that she couldn't hurt him, or she would automatically hold back this time as well.

He told her as much, adding, "So why don't we have a cup of tea while I get to work?"

She murmured agreement, filling two mugs from the pot of trin tea she had left steeping on the small table that stood in front of the couch. Her handling tentacles shook slightly as she handed one to him, almost spilling some of the tea over the rim. Den relieved her of the mug with one hand, and with the other, pulled her down to sit beside him on the couch.

"I know you were looking forward to having your son for transfer," he scolded gently, "but holding yourself back with me won't help either of you."

"I know." Tyvi sipped from her mug, then gave Den an embarrassed smile. "I'm just worried about Obis, travelling alone out here. His English isn't very good."

Den shrugged. "It's kind of hard to get lost on a direct train, unless you're a piece of luggage, and the same out-Territory Gens who would run screaming at the sight of you are perfectly willing to help out a fellow Gen. If your son is anything like I was at that age, he's probably enjoying the adventure. Don't worry, he'll make it."

"It's a parent's habit, I suppose, to worry long after a child is grown. I'll try to behave myself."

"Good." Den drained the last of his tea, put the mug back on the table, and reached for her hand. He inspected the tentacles above it, gauging her readiness for transfer, then sighed. "We've got a long way to go before you're ready, so let's get started."

Tyvi tried hard, and so did Den, but with less than five minutes to go, she was still unable to fix on him.

"I'm sorry," she apologized, flushed with an embarrassment that she shouldn't have been able to feel so close to transfer. "It's been so long...."

"And I'm not the Donor you want," Den completed the thought for her. She nodded miserably. Den shrugged, letting go of her hands and withdrawing nageric support. "Well, if you'd rather wait for Obis to get in tomorrow, I'm sure Rital won't object." He got to his feet, ignoring her astonished stare, and started for the door.

He had taken only three steps when he heard the loud crash of the table being overturned, sending the teapot and mugs flying. Before he could take a fourth step, Tyvi had charged around to block him in a flicker of augmentation. She snarled, pure predator, and reached for him, then hesitated and forced herself duoconscious as some vestige of channel's control reasserted itself to prevent her from attacking an unwilling Gen. "Don't stop now," Den said, grinning in relief as he reestablished the nageric linkage.

Channel's ethics satisfied, Tyvi threw herself at him, intent only on slaking her need as quickly as possible. As the selyn flowed from him, swiftly but not quite fast enough to really satisfy him, Den concentrated on how good it felt, providing the feedback Tyvi needed as much as his selyn. He did not allow himself to remember how much better it would have been with Rital.

When Tyvi stopped--much too soon for Den--he held the channel as she cried out all the frustrations of the past weeks, shedding a few tears himself at his missed opportunity.

Afterwards, lowfield but not-quite-post, he wandered down to the Center's small library for something nontechnical to read, and discovered Sera reading the morning paper. They exchanged greetings, and Den borrowed the front page and settled down beside her to scan the headlines. Even this far out-Territory, they were full of the upcoming peace conference between Corzona, Amzon, and Zillia. Once again, both Gen territories were insisting that the Tecton pressure the other to give up all claims to the disputed Ancient sites, as a precondition to their discussing an end to hostilities with Corzona. Quess ambrov Shaeldor was still officially optimistic about the chances for a lasting peace, but the slight note of exasperation that crept into his carefully worded statement made Den feel better.

I'm right. Out-Territory politicians are irrational enough to get on the nerves of anyone, even a Householding diplomat!

He had gone on to a description of the upcoming Faith Day celebrations in Clear Springs and other nearby towns, when Sera gave an exclamation of disgust.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"Take a look at this," she said, handing him the editorial page and pointing to a letter. "What is it about living out-Territory that turns people into fruitcakes?"

Den skimmed the letter, which was a slightly incoherent version of the standard "my religion says Simes are bad, so my tax money shouldn't go for pro-Sime purposes and the Sime Center should be closed down" argument. The day before, he would have agreed with her assessment of its author, but after his insight that morning into out-Territory politics, he had been forced to reassess Silva and Tohm's lecture on letter writing.

"How can they write that kind of nonsense?" Sera asked again. "The Sime Center is supported by donations, and the initial expense was funded by the Tecton. I've been doing research; I know that information was in this

paper on several occasions, most recently in your column from last week. Why does this," she peered over his shoulder to read the name, "--Ephriam Lornstat think his taxes pay for it?"

"Oh, I expect he knows the truth," Den said, a little cynically. "Lornstat is Sinth's second in command, and he's also a member of the school board. Mayor Kroag told me that Save Our Kids has been going over the city budget in detail, to see if we had any sources of funding that they could cut off. They didn't find any, of course."

"Then why is the man lying?"

"It's out-Territory politics," Den answered. "You should get some of the counter-demonstrators to explain it to you--I'm not sure I really understand it--but basically, the important thing for them is to have anti-Sime

letters in the paper frequently. It doesn't matter if their content is fact or fantasy, because few people will bother to check the facts for themselves. Actually, since the Sime Center poses no threat to anyone, and they know it, it's actually to their advantage to circulate lies, because it keeps the pro-Sime faction busy with damage control, and prevents them from building a positive case."

Sera's mouth twisted in disgust. "The more I learn about out-Territory people, the worse they sound. What kind of unprincipled lorsh would use a strategy based on lies?"

"A desperate one," Den said, "representing a small but determined minority. Despite their best efforts, they haven't been able to convince a working majority of the townspeople that the Sime Center is dangerous. The Tecton is building a reputation for safety here--a legacy of trust that includes even the Gens who never donate. Unless that trust is betrayed, Sinth and his crew are never going to succeed in getting rid of us, and they know it."

Sera gave him a thoughtful glance. "You know, you're pretty eloquent this morning. Though why you would want to defend the people out here, after what they've been putting you and your cousin through, is beyond me."

"Most of them aren't that bad," Den protested. "You can't judge the whole town by the forty or so nuts who choose to spend all their time waving signs at each other, and making everybody else miserable. The vast majority of Clear Springs residents aren't involved in the demonstrations--on either side."

"I find that kind of hard to believe, after what I've seen in the last few days," Sera admitted.

"Come on, then," Den suggested. "The paper says they're holding a Faith Day fair over at the university today, before they close down for the holiday. Grab your coat, and I'll show you what these people are like when they aren't being political."

The campus was packed with brightly dressed people, a mix of students, townsfolk from Clear Springs and other nearby towns, and packs of shrieking children dodging through the adults. There were food booths selling pies, drinks, sandwiches, eggrolls, and large chunks of grilled meat which Den was careful not to inspect too closely. Craft booths sold overpriced jewelry, leather goods, handmade shoes, paintings, pottery, and wooden instruments.

It wasn't totally apolitical, of course. There were booths run by groups favoring development and slow growth, environmental management, various politicians, and, inevitably, the campus anti-Sime organization, Students for a Sime-free City. While Sera looked through the earrings in the neighboring stall, Den glanced through their materials. Their pamphlets were the same ones that Sinth's Save Our Kids demonstrators were passing out, but there was also religious jewelry, and buttons and bumper stickers with anti-Sime slogans. Also on the table was a clipboard with a sheet of paper. If you would like more information on this issue, it read, please leave your name and address. On impulse, Den scribbled down Liren's name and the number of the out-Territory post office box her husband Jannun had rented when one of his books was translated into English. Maybe, if she saw some of the anti-Sime literature that was being circulated, she would stop thinking that Rital was paranoid.

OLD SOKS also had a booth, but it was much busier.

Den and Sera bought lunch at one of the food booths, and wandered for a few hours. They ended up at the sports arena, which was located at the far edge of the campus, near the power plant. They rested their tired feet on the bleachers as they watched sausage-shaped, short-legged dogs race after a much-chewed rabbit pelt. The whole stadium cheered when Frankfurter beat Muffin and Fritz for the grand prize. As Frankfurter's owner accepted the rubber pull-toy ceremoniously presented by the president of the Veterinary School Student Association (while unsuccessfully trying to keep the champion from grabbing it instead), Sera convulsed with giggles.

Den didn't mind. Despite his less-than-ecstatic transfer, he was post enough to notice that she had a very nice giggle.

"You were right," she admitted when the champion was carried off by his proud owner and the crowd had begun to file out of the bleachers. "Once you get them away from Simes, these are normal people. Or at least as close to normal as you can get with only Gens."

It was dusk when they started back towards the Center, pleasantly tired and too happy to talk much. Across from the power plant, the Conservative Congregation's church was brilliantly lighted, and the bumper stickers on the vehicles parked outside it indicated that a Save Our Kids meeting was taking place, but Den was unable to conjure much interest in the anti-Center tactics which were undoubtedly being devised there. Instead, he was debating whether it was the proper moment to invite Sera to spend a last night with him, before she returned to Valzor the following morning, when he was distracted by a low moan and the smell of old vomit.

Physician's instincts alerted, Den followed the sound towards the power plant and discovered a youngster huddled under the bushes. "Are you all right?" Den called softly, already suspecting what was the matter. It was the wrong season for stomach flu, and if the kid had simply eaten too much at the festival, he wouldn't still be hiding in the bushes.

"Go away!" The adolescent voice cracked over two octaves. Ducking under a branch, the Donor knelt by the boy's side. Den could feel his own selyn production rate increasing rapidly. He knew what he would find even before he touched the boy's neck and felt the glands swollen with changeover.

The boy cringed away from his touch with changeover-induced paranoia, and Den murmured, "Don't be afraid. I won't hurt you. Do you think you could stand if I help you? You'll feel a lot better once you've had a chance to clean yourself up."

The boy slowly sat up, as if only then becoming aware of the dirt and less pleasant things that were spattered on the front of his lightweight jacket. With a jerky nod, he allowed the Donor to help him to his feet, and they stumbled out of the bushes to where Sera was waiting. Gesturing for her to support the boy's other side, Den steered them towards the door that led to the battery room. As he fished in his pocket for his key ring, Den was glad that the morning's confusion had caused him to forget to return the plant key after the tour. He managed to find it after only three false tries. "There are steps," he warned as he pulled the door open. "Let me get the light first." He flipped the switch, blinking in the sudden brightness. He turned to help the others down the stairs, then stifled a groan as he recognized the boy.

"You!" Zakry Sinth snarled, pulling loose from Sera's grasp and stumbling backwards a few steps.

"Well, if it isn't the self-proclaimed holiest boy in the Territory," Den said.

"Get away from me, Sime-lover! I don't need any help from the likes of you." Den looked at the boy sourly. "Yes, you do," he corrected. "You can't even stand up straight, and it's going to get worse before it gets better. Or didn't you know you're in changeover?"

Zakry, already pale, turned even whiter. "No!" he insisted, swaying dangerously. "I'm not a Sime. I can't be. I've prayed every day, and besides, only thin kids turn Sime." He turned to run away, but was only able to take three steps before his unsteady legs collapsed. He yelped with pain as his arms hit the ground, then began crying like a much younger child.

Den gave Sera a long-suffering look, then knelt by Zakry's side. "It's true that Simes tend to be thin and lightboned as children," he explained, "but you can't change your genes by overeating. You'll lose those extra pounds very quickly, now that you're an adult Sime."

"I'm no murdering demon," the boy insisted.

"Of course you're not," Den agreed immediately. "There's no reason at all for you to have to kill. That's why I'm here." Instead of being someplace civilized, where there aren't any nutcases like you, he added silently. Without wasting time on more arguments, he scooped the boy up, grunting at the weight, and carried him down the stairs.

He deposited his patient on the sagging couch, still disguised with a sweet-smelling blue wool blanket, and began to unfasten the buttons on the boy's vomit-encrusted coat. Gingerly, he helped Zakry out of it, trying to ignore the sympathetic heaves that the smell evoked in his own stomach.

After depositing it in a nearby wastebasket half filled with crumpled paper cups, plates, and napkins, he unbuttoned the boy's shirt cuffs and rolled up the sleeves.

The changeover was more advanced than he had expected. The new tentacles were well developed, but the sheaths had not yet begun to swell with fluids in preparation for breakout. Zakry must have been hiding in the bushes for most of the day.

"There's a first aid kit under the table," he told Sera in Simelan. "Could you get it for me?"

"Sure," she said.

Either her moving field, the sight of the growing tentacle sheaths on his newly-bared arms, or both, proved too much for Zakry. He moaned and clutched at Den dizzily. Stage six transition, the Donor identified. Ignoring the incipient bruises that the boy's Sime-strong hands had left behind, he grinned his thanks as Sera handed him the first aid kit and a mug of cold tea from the still-unemptied pot.

"Here," he said, passing the tea on to Zakry and opening the first aid kit. Zakry sipped cautiously, then spat vigorously into the wastebasket. "What is this stuff?" he complained. "It tastes awful."

"It's just trin tea," Den reassured him. "It tastes a lot better when it's fresh, but it's perfectly harmless, and there isn't any water."

Zakry looked unconvinced.

Den held out a pair of brown pills. "Here," he said. "These will make you feel a little better."

"I don't want any medicine from Simes," the boy protested, pushing Den's hand away.

"The last time I looked, Sera and I didn't have any tentacles," Den pointed out. "You, on the other hand, have a fine set of tentacles growing there. Do you think that medicine for Gens would do you any good?"

Zakry looked down at his swollen arms, gave a muffled sob, and reached for the pills.

While Zakry gulped the sedative, Den sent Sera off to find the nearest phone and call the Center for a channel. It was too late to try to get Zakry to the Center; the boy had no more than an hour and probably less before he would be in breakout. The power station basement was adequately insulated, though, and everything seemed to be progressing normally. Zakry even seemed to have an adequate selyn reserve, although that was just an educated guess.

This last surprised the Donor; it was very unusual for an untrained out-Territory child to get so close to breakout without using up most of his resources. They were simply too frightened of becoming Sime. The kid was probably so sure his God wouldn't let him go through changeover that he didn't figure out what was happening to him.

However, now that Zakry knew, he was not at all enthusiastic about cooperating. It took painful cunvulsions to persuade the boy to try some breathing exercises, and he did his best to ignore Den's pep talk about life in-Territory.

Den knew that the mutual dislike between himself and his patient was not helping matters any. The Donor could keep his feelings from overrunning his nager, but no matter what he did, Zakry would still think of him as the "evil Sime-loving Devil-worshipper" who was his uncle's most active opponent in the battle against pro-Sime heresy. Of all the channels and Donors in Clear Springs, Den was probably the worst choice to help Zakry through changeover.

As the boy's tentacles began to swell with fluids, Den checked his watch yet again, trying to calculate exactly how long it would be before help would arrive. He frowned as he realized that it would be close, maybe too close.

Zakry gasped and tried to clench his fists as the pressure built. "No, not yet," Den warned, straightening the boy's hands. "Just relax and save your strength. I know it tickles, but you're not ready for breakout yet."

He would be soon, though, and there was no sign of the channel who should have arrived long since. For the first time since Rital had spoken to him that morning, Den was glad that he had not given his cousin transfer after all. If he had, by staying with the boy he would have been risking an unpleasant death by being drained of selyn. As it was, although the Donor was technically lowfield, the inadequate transfer with Tyvi had left him more than enough selyn to satisfy a renSime, even without the increased selyn production stimulated by the presence of a Sime in need. Den began to offer Zakry more nageric support, preparing to give the boy First Transfer if necessary.

It wasn't something he would have done in-Territory for a renSime in changeover. Zakry's need was so shallow that it was difficult for Den to respond properly to it, and despite the sedative, the boy resisted the Donor's attempts to calm him and moderate his fear-induced excess selyn consumption. It was almost as if Zakry's self-hatred at becoming Sime prevented him from zlinning the Donor's compassion (such as it was), because to acknowledge that concern was to admit that a Sime could be worthy of consideration. That was a problem with which Den had little experience, and he didn't know enough about Conservative Congregation theology to even guess what arguments might be effective in winning Zakry's cooperation. If there were any. The Conservative Congregation had broken off from the rabidly anti-Sime Church of the Purity shortly after the First Contract, because unlike their parent sect, they considered any end to the Sime/Gen wars other than the total extermination of all Simes to be rank heresy.

Den almost cheered when the basement door opened and footsteps clumped rapidly down the stairs. "It took you long enough!" he scolded in Simelan. "Did you stop off for dessert on the way over or something?"

"Silence, Sime-lover!" Reverend Sinth commanded, brandishing a double-barreled rifle as he paced grandly into the room. "You will not use that heathen tongue around decent people." A scared-looking Bethany Thins trailed in his wake.

"Well, Zakry," the preacher continued, flushing with anger as he glared down at his nephew. "I would have thought better of you, at least. What did you do to give the Devil a foothold in you?"

Despite his weakness, Zakry struggled to sit up on the couch. "I didn't do anything," he insisted with a peculiar mixture of sullen fear and self-righteous belligerence. "It was all her fault." He pointed at Bethany, wincing as the movement brought pain from the developing tissues in his arm. "If my loving sister there hadn't gone sneaking off to donate last week, this would never have happened."

Bethany is Sinth's niece? Den wondered why he was so surprised. Now that he was looking, he could see a definite family resemblance. I guess that explains where she picked up those weird ideas about donating; she did learn everything she knows about Simes, Gens, and transfer at Reverend Sinth's knee!

Whatever Sinth had been expecting to hear, this was obviously not it. He turned to Bethany, who flushed red with shame.

"I didn't mean to!" she insisted, long-suppressed guilt bursting out of her like pus from a lanced abscess. "I was just trying to do what you suggested, but it didn't work out right."

"And when did I suggest that you go and donate?" the preacher demanded icily. "At the last SOK meeting," Bethany quavered, avoiding his glare. "You said that it would really help if someone could get into the Sime Center's waiting room, and tell all those people what they're doing to themselves. You said if even one person could be persuaded to walk out without donating, a lot of others might follow."

"I also said that the idea wasn't practical, because the snakes wouldn't allow us time to work," Sinth said in a voice cold enough to cause frostbite. "What prompted you to go against the judgment of your elders?" "Well, Myra and I..." She looked down at the floor, kicking it with one foot. "We haven't been demonstrating, so we figured the Simelovers wouldn't recognize us, especially if I gave a false name." She shot a guilty glance at Den. "I was going to say I wanted to donate, and Myra was supposed to 'talk me out of it' by reading some of the pamphlets. We were hoping that when we walked out, some of the other people would come with us."

"So you endangered your friend as well." Sinth's voice neared the temperature of liquid nitrogen. "What went wrong?"

"Well, we'd hardly gotten started when their leader--Controller Madz--called me, so I told Myra to try talking to some of the other people, while I stalled as long as possible, to give her time to work. I was going to tell him I had changed my mind at the last minute, but..." She shot Den another glance, then met her uncle's eyes for the first time. "It all happened so fast!"

No, Hajene Tellanser was slow, when she watched him back at Valzor, Den thought, realizing the source of Bethany's miscalculation.

"You donated," Sinth finished for her. "You deliberately endangered yourself, your friend, and your brother. And while you and Myra seem to have gotten off lightly, your brother is not so lucky. I want you to watch closely while I do what I must. And I want you to remember that if you had obeyed my clear instructions and stayed away from the Sime Center, your brother would not have to die to protect the lives of others!"

Bethany began to cry. Ignoring her, Sinth turned and leveled his gun at Zakry. Den stepped between them. "Nobody has to die," he said firmly. "Not Zakry, and certainly not anybody else. Reverend Sinth, Zakry will be reaching breakout soon. Please leave, so that I can take care of him until the Center's ambulance gets here."

Sinth grinned unpleasantly. "Oh, don't hold your breath waiting for reinforcements. That lady you sent isn't getting near a phone until I get back to the church and give the order personally."

Back to the church? Den thought in disbelief. Sera, don't tell me you were stupid enough to walk into the anti-Sime headquarters of Clear Springs and ask for a phone to call the Center!

Sinth nodded. "I see you understand your position. Now understand mine. Scripture clearly teaches that a child who dies in changeover can still hope for mercy, but a child who survives to kill is damned forever. I can't yet stop you from meddling with the salvation of others' children, but you will not meddle with my family! Now, will you step aside while I fulfill my responsibility to my nephew, or do I have to shoot you first, and then Zakry?"

"Uncle Jermiah," Bethany protested weakly.

"Silence, girl!" Sinth ordered. He leveled the rifle at Den. "Move." The diameter of the gun barrel suddenly seemed to triple, a geometric phenomenon which would have interested Den much more under less trying circumstances. It swayed back and forth as the hand holding it wobbled.

Den looked at the unsteady gun barrel, and the white-knuckled hands clenching it so tightly. Sinth's right index finger rested uncomfortably close to the trigger. The nail was thickened and almost claw-like, and there was a slightly orange tint to it. Startled, the Donor looked more closely at Sinth's face. The preacher's pupils were dilated, and he was sweating freely, although the basement was cool. There was a peculiar odor to the sweat, almost like crushed tomato leaves, and that was enough for Den to make an unpleasant diagnosis. He's been chewing melic weed, the Donor realized. He doesn't show it much, but the signs are there if you know what to look for.

When chewed, the leaves and seeds of melic weed produced a powerful high in Gens, during which the user felt invincible. There were also some very interesting toxic side ef