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it, I mean. It’s a well-established genre; you could fill a hundred galleries with them. But I find it moving. There’s no father. Did he die, and are they leaving his remains there? It asks questions. I suppose he might have gone on first, but somehow the figures suggest otherwise.”
    Barrand gave him a knowing nod. “You always did have an abundance of brains. Yes, there is a story. A family of five was planning to go to Granath Beta. Then the husband and the other two children were killed in a freak storm. She and the remaining child went on alone.”
    He got up and went over to the painting, speaking quietly and intensely now. “It’s always been a challenge to me. It says a lot about faith. About what the Assembly is about. What our calling as a family is. Resolve. Faith. You know. All those things.
    â€œIt is a well-established genre. But all genres are now.” He stared at the painting. “Funny business, the Assembly, when you think about it. All the emphasis on a stable, sustainable society. The caution over innovations.”
    He nodded toward the horse grazing on some hay just in front of the window. “Take animals now. Like Blackmane there. He’s a horse, but his genes are different from the first horse that left Earth. Or even that arrived here. Look at him: rounded extremities, reduced ears, nostril flaps, more recessed eyes, thicker hair, heavier hooves. He has adapted to this world with its cold and heat and dust.”
    â€œOf course,” Merral said. “You can hardly freeze adaptation. But what’s your point?”
    His uncle creased his large forehead in puzzlement. “My point? Yes. Oh, I don’t know. The paradox that we have frozen our culture, but that we have let life evolve. I know it’s not a new thought—what is after so long?—but it has just struck me with some force.”
    â€œBut, Uncle, the wisdom of the centuries is that the stable culture is best. You can’t just let a culture evolve; certain limits must be defined. Long, long ago the Assembly decided the parameters in which human beings flourished and set them down. It was a choice; a fixed, conservative, and stable society over one that was open, fluid, and unpredictable.”
    There was a deep silence as Barrand, his large frame totally dominating the room, stroked his beard in profound thought. Then he gave a grunt that seemed to indicate mystification.
    â€œAbsolutely. What a strange idea for me to have.” He shook his head. “Ho, to business! Oh, I don’t need that cross section. Come and have a look at these maps and let’s switch into official mode, Forester D’Avanos.”
    For half an hour they looked at the maps and imagery, and Merral listened intently as his uncle explained why he wanted to quarry the ridge outside the settlement rather than wait for a new access road to the already-planned quarry site fifteen kilometers to the north. Only he wasn’t his uncle now. He was Barrand Imanos Antalfer, Frontier Quarrymaster, and he was presenting his case to Merral Stefan D’Avanos, Forester and head of the team that decided the citing of things such as quarries and forests. Funny, Merral thought, how we distinguish official and family discussions to the extent that it would now be unthinkable for him to call me Nephew and me to call him Uncle.
    Eventually Barrand wound to a halt. “So you see, Merral, we could start in the spring and save two years. And think of the energy saving in skipping that thirty-K round-trip. . . .” He trailed off, looking at Merral.
    Merral rose to his feet, walked to the window, and looked out at the bare black ridge they had been talking about.
    â€œBarrand,” he said, gesturing at the ridge, “let’s go and look at it.”
    Zennia was free to come, and an hour later the three of them were standing on the rocky summit of the hill recovering their breath after the