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system, thousands of years will have passed for them. We'll be strangers. That's not just true of you, it's true of all of us. We need to stick together."
    She seemed startled.
    What kind of blind, unfeeling monster does she think I am? "We never will be children," he concluded. "Come on, Ariel. We don't need to lose any more, and I don't need threats."
    "Why didn't the moms stop them?" she asked plaintively.
    Martin shook his head. "They don't want us to be cattle, or zoo animals. Maybe that's it. I don't know. We have as much freedom as they can give us, even the freedom to die."
    "We're getting so sad," Ariel said, looking away from him. "It's been so long."
    Martin swallowed hard. "I…"
    "Go, please," she said.
    He pushed away abruptly and bounced from wall to conduit to wall, then summoned a field and climbed up the length of the neck toward the second homeball, where William kept his quarters.
    "Why weren't you in the meeting?" Martin worked to keep his voice level. William Arrow Feather twisted within his corner net, pulled himself out, and nudged his head against a climbing field summoned with a mudra-like hand signal. "I didn't want to make things tougher for you."
    "You're supposed to be present for Job discussions," Martin said. "And you didn't vote."
    William smiled and shrugged. "No harm. I got the info. I can make my decision for the big one." His expression shifted slightly. "Have you made yours?"
    "We're going to investigate—"
    "Not that," William said. "That was a foregone conclusion. I mean, have you decided who you are, what you are?"
    "I don't understand," Martin said.
    "It's important for you." William looked away. "And for Theresa."
    "I thought you approved."
    "I said I approved, but then we made love again, for the first time since you started this thing with Theresa—and I saw things a little differently."
    Martin settled grimly in an opposite corner, as if he were about to be forced to take medicine. "Explain."
    "Your heart wasn't in it."
    "I've always enjoyed you."
    "Martin, how many lovers have you had?"
    Martin looked away. "I'm not a fruitpicker," he said.
    "Right. You're not shy, you're just a little afraid… of hurting somebody, of being hurt."
    "Wise William," Martin said.
    "Slick that," William said, not unkindly. "You picture me as some sort of brotherly saint, Saint Francis maybe. I'm not. I'm a fruitpicker. Most of us are. You… and Theresa… are not."
    "She's had and been had," Martin said, eyes rolling.
    "Right. But nowhere near the average."
    "More than I," Martin said. Weak defense.
    "So how many have you had?"
    William had never asked before; such things were seldom mentioned, being almost common knowledge in a group so small and tightly knit. "It's not important."
    "Some say you're a bad choice for Pan because you lack connections. That you have to slick with somebody to understand them, and you haven't made love to enough of us to know who we are."
    Martin frowned. "Nobody's said it to my face."
    "They wouldn't, because they're gossips and cowards, like all the humans on this ship."
    "I'm not human?"
    "You try not to make mistakes."
    "Oh, Christ, William. What are you talking about?"
    William spread out his muscular brown arms and legs. Martin noted the play of muscles, the ripple of skin on strong arms, the beautiful sheen of upper thigh—and felt nothing physical—a mental admiration, a brotherly recognition and approval of William's health and supple vigor. "I'm homosexual, most of the time," William said, "one of eight males and seven females among the children. You're a crosser. You can slick or fall in love or whatever you want with so many more people… But I know something about you, Martin—you're probably more passionate than I am. I've crossed, and found the experience enjoyable but not fulfilling—so I've slicked with maybe twelve of the children. You've had five or six, I'd guess. What are you afraid of?"
    Martin pushed from the corner, angry again.
    "You hate