The Way Of Decision

by M. C. PEASE

TOM VORD sat on the porch of his clan's house with his feet on the railing. Across the valley, he could hear the muted roar of the commuter track that led south to New Haven; but all he could see were the sprawling rows of private houses that strung along the belt. And behind them, more isolated from each other, the larger structures of the homes of other clans. The bright greenness of spring lay over the land, and it was fresh and sparkling. A typical suburban scene in this year of 2013, Tom thought. Even the mixture of private houses and clan was symbolic of the time. And in a way, symbolic also of the problem he had.

Tom's face was brooding. His was a nature not easily satisfied, or content with half-solutions—and he took the problems of the clan seriously. Partly as a consequence of this, but also because he had the self-control to avoid crises, he was the unacknowledged leader of the clan, and its chief administrator. His age was hard to guess. He was not old; his face was unlined, and his hair both present and dark; his eyes showed an enthusiasm that indicated youth. And yet he was not young; there was a maturity in his glance, an acceptance in his attitude that made him seem older than he was. And so he sat there, relaxed, idly looking out over the countryside, even as he wondered if the present crisis was enough to disrupt the clan.

Below him Ricky Vord came toiling up the steps to the house. Ricky was the opposite of Tom. Young and intense, with a devil-may-care attitude, he was the born salesman. His enthusiasms came bubbling out, and he had the ability to carry with him anyone who might object. And if he did not have the deepness of thought fully to understand the implications of all that he said or did, he was the better salesman for it.

With a wave, Ricky entered the house. There were muffled sounds from the interior, and it was not for several minutes that the boy appeared on the porch. Then it was with two tall glasses in his hands. "I consider this Tom Collins weather," he said. "I suspect you do, too, only you're too lazy to mix your own." He handed Tom the second drink and sat down beside him.

"Possibly," Tom said with a smile. "I certainly won't refuse. What do you know?"

"A lot of things," Ricky answered. He took a long drink. "Ah, that's good," he said. "You know, I been down talking to Graves again. We got that thing in the bag if we want it." His voice was off-hand, deliberately so, Tom knew.

"We have?" Tom's voice also was careful. "Do you mean with or without the girl?"

"Well ... You can't blame Graves for wanting to see his daughter settled. He figures that if she gets into a clan, maybe she'll calm down. And he could be right. Maybe she will; who knows? After all, she does want to come in. That must mean something."

"Sure, it means something," Tom agreed, his voice slightly sardonic. "It means she wants to collect a whole clan. And as far as I am concerned, she's welcome to it—as long as it isn't the Vord one."

"Look," Ricky swung up onto the edge of his chair, turning to face Tom and leaning towards him, "you're only seeing one side of this. You think Marcia's just looking for a thrill, for something new, and different—and that that's why she wants to join us. Maybe it is; I won't deny it. I don't happen to think that's the reason, but it could be. But what if it is? Why do we have to rear back and stand on our dignity? Why can't we take her in, let her have her thrill, and then get out. If a thrill is all she's looking for, she'll get out quick enough. Unless she gets converted—that could happen, too. What do we lose?

"And look what we lose if we do sit blindly on our dignity," he went on with a rush. "The job at Midland's running out. Times are tough. There's not many openings for a bunch of wiring-assemblers. As it stands now, the choice is between Eltron Electric and Universal. Universal we can get with no strings, except that we have to go to Detroit—and except that it doesn't pay very well.

"Eltron, on the other hand, is Graves; and Graves doesn't like the clans. He's never had anything to do with them. A Free-Laborite from way back. Only he's got a daughter, Marcia; and Marcia, bless her sweet little soul, wants to join a clan. So the old man's willing to take another look at things; he'll give us a contract when Marcia's a Vord, and it'll be a good contract. In fact, he'll damn near let us write it. What can we lose?"

"You think we should take her in," Tom said.

"Yes I do," Ricky answered. "Otherwise, we have to pull up stakes and move, and that job out at Universal is no picnic. We won't do much more than break even on it, and maybe it'll only last a few months; it's that kind of a thing."

TOM smiled suddenly. "You are not quite consistent," he said. "You are worrying about Universal being temporary. And yet you brush aside the fact that Marcia may pull out. What would happen to us at Eltron if she did?"

"I don't know," Ricky answered, unabashed. "Maybe by that time we'd have Graves convinced. Most guys who run companies get to like the idea of contracting the clans, when they give it a try."

"They should," Tom grunted. "It's the answer to their labor problems."

"Sure," Ricky answered. "Only there are still guys like Graves around who don't see it. His pet topic of conversation is the Iltor Clan; he mentions it every time anyone suggests that the clans bring stability."

"But the Iltor clan was wrong from the first," Tom said. "The guys who put it together were unstable themselves; they tried to make the clan a small-size empire of their own—almost a bunch of slaves.

"So, eventually, they had a revolt. It had gotten to be a large outfit, since they were willing to accept anybody who would be a slave—and there are always lots of those—so the revolt was extensive and bloody. That's not typical of the clans. Not of the better ones; not of those that are really clans—and not empires. With any new idea like the clans, you are bound to get some bad results. But do you hang the good examples for the bad ones?" He sounded irritated.

"Don't argue with me," Ricky said. "I'm just telling you what Graves has in mind. Of course, actually, there's more to it than that. The thing is, he took over Eltron Electric when it was practically on the rocks; he salvaged it, built it up, made it what it is today. All by himself. Using his own wits and his own guts. It all came out of him. Oh, sure, he had help—some pretty able guys were in with him. But they were the same type: Each of them knowing his own value, depending on himself and not on any others. They worked together because that was where their self-interest lay. A bunch of Free-Traders in the best tradition of the word. Free-Trading's been their life-blood; naturally none of them are apt to welcome the clan idea, and Graves least of all."

"Do they really think they can hold out indefinitely?" Tom asked. "They must know they are being left behind, that they're getting out of step."

"I doubt it," Ricky said. "Graves says that the world is off on a cock-eyed binge with this clan idea, and I'm quoting his words. He figures it's going to come to its senses, eventually. At least that's what he says; what he really believes deep down in his heart, I don't know. Maybe, underneath, he's convinced; maybe if you could get him to admit the truth, he knows he has to accept us if he's going to survive. Maybe that's why he's letting Marcia twist his arm; it could be."

Tom nodded. "In any case, we're in the middle," he said. He looked sardonic. "Caught between the hammer of present reality and the stubborn anvil of Graves." He finished