off his drink. "What do you propose to do?"

"I propose to let Graves pay our bills, in spite of his opinions," Ricky said. "And if that includes Marcia, why I don't really mind. One has to put up with some inconveniences; and when the inconvenience is a dish like her, I don't really mind at all." He leered in an exaggerated way.

Tom chuckled. "Yeah," he said, "I know what you mean." He became serious. "But that's my point; the girls will hardly take this point of view."

"They don't seem to object particularly," Ricky said. "Why should they? They're only six to our seven—so Marcia will just round things out, nice and even-like.

"Marcia, as you say, is a 'dish'," Tom agreed "and I can't quite see her rounding anything out to make it come out even. I think you're a damned optimist. Besides, I'm not so sure the girls don't mind. They joke about it, yes, but some of the jokes bite. I think maybe they hope they won't have to object. Afraid we'll call them jealous. After all, what would you do in their place?"

"I don't know," Ricky said. "But if that is a factor, then I think they ought to argue their own case. Where are they?"

"Oh, Betsy and Rita have taken the kids down to the beach. Sandy is out shopping for food. She figured she'd go down to Mark's Place, so she'll be a bit late. Esther went over to see about shoes; she thinks she may get a better bargain at a place she heard of down the line. Polly and Joan went in with the boys to work; they're trying to wind up the contract with Midland by this week. Decided there's no point in stringing it out. Get it wound up and then take a vacation. I've been over at Midland finishing up the legal details. Also had to go downtown this morning to see the Income Tax people. When do you suppose they're going to get a system set up that's reasonable for the clans?" His voice betrayed a chronic irritation.

RICKY shrugged. "When the clans carry most of the votes. The whole idea of a clan is too new in society for the law to have caught up with it. If the clans had a majority, they could force things—and eventually they will. But not yet. Particularly, since the most vocal part of the non-clan majority considers us immoral. Destroyers of the family, mockers of the sacrament of marriage."

The sarcasm was heavy in his voice. "Someday, they'll see we've saved the home and the family—not destroyed it. We've brought it into line with the social facts of today, rescued it from the perennial frustrations that filled the divorce courts. Aye, and the insane asylums, too. Damn few people used to get out of marriage anything like what they ought to. Take the average Free-Trader and Monogamist: His family is just one small part of his life. Separate, distinct. It should be a solid rock on which he can build his life outside. But it isn't, except maybe in a very rare case. Mostly, it's just a thing that occupies some certain hours of his day, with no relation to the rest. He is left without an anchor. And the girl? She is boxed into a small sphere of activity, bound by her duties to an inexorable frustration of limited horizons."

He jumped up and started pacing up and down, gesturing with his arms. "Is this the great and beautiful thing they want to preserve? Or will they admit the realities? Will they admit the truths of anthropology? Realize that the idea of the family unit has had real meaning only when it has been the economic unit as well? And that in the modern world the economic unit is larger—and, therefore, the family must be, too? In the modern world, the economic unit is a team of workers; therefore, the family must be large enough to include the team. What's immoral about this? It gives the family meaning in the modern world, and it gives the individual something to live by. It gives him a reality that he could not have alone."

"Clear, concise, and possibly illuminating if I didn't know it already," Tom smiled at the younger one's missionary instincts. "Why don't you tell Graves this? Maybe we would not have to absorb his daughter."

"What do you think I've been telling him?" Ricky asked. He looked a trifle abashed, knowing that his enthusiasm had run away with him. "He hit the ceiling when Marcia first started talking up the clan idea, vowed that no daughter of his would ever disgrace the family name. I managed to talk him out of that, anyway. But, I'm no magician; he's still a Free-Trader of the old school. So my convincing him meant that he was willing to use his power to get his daughter what she wants. Which is us."

"In other words," Tom said, "you talked him out of thinking the clans are immoral, so he decided to buy one." He bit the sentence off.

"Well, yes," Ricky admitted; "that's one way of looking at it. But let's look at it another way. The rules of the clan are that a new member is provisional for a year. Any time in that year, we can always throw her out if we have to. And even afterwards—when we can no longer throw her out, and it could be we won't want to—there'll still be no reason why we should have to bow down to the old man. We can walk out on him, at least, any time. If Marcia doesn't want to come, then she can stay behind; and neither Graves nor anybody else can stop us."

"It sounds good," Tom said. "It's just that I don't believe it. The strength of the clan is its independence. We thirteen, and our children, against the world. One unit, free, and in a sense, complete. If we let anyone else decide who shall be in us and who shall not, then we are less free by that much. And by that much we are less strong. Maybe I'm a stubborn fool, Ricky, but that's the way I see it."

Ricky leaned against the porch railing. His face was thoughtful. "I wish I could convince you," he said. "The trouble is, I haven't got time. Graves has to have his answer now, to plan his production. Anyway, Marcia's getting restless; I think I'll have to tell them yes or no tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Tom looked startled. "What are you going to do? Caucus it tonight?"

Ricky nodded. "I have to, Tom. It isn't that I want to bull it through you. But if we don't get a vote on it tonight, then we've given up. Graves has said he has to know, so he can plan; we can't keep it in the air any longer. And I think the clan has a right to vote on the problem." He looked apologetic.

Tom sighed. "We seem to have agreed to disagree," he said. "So maybe it's better to get the showdown over with." He got up, walked over to Ricky, and punched him lightly in the shoulder. "Let's break clean and come out fighting at the bell." And he walked back inside the house to his room.

2

IT WAS only a short time later that Tom heard the sound of tires on the drive. He went out to find that it was Sandy in the beach-wagon. The name Sandy fitted her, even if it was short for Sandra. Blonde, with something of a tendency to freckle, she had a quick alertness that was almost tomboyish. Almost, but not quite, for she was very much a woman.

"Need help?" Tom asked, giving her a quick kiss and moving to the back to start unloading the bundles. "How did you make out?"

"Not bad," she said; "In fact, it was fun. I don't know whether it was worth it or not; it's a long drive down there. Maybe I saved enough to pay for the gasoline. But they're more used to dealing with the clans. The stores around here play both sides of the fence. Much more congenial atmosphere down there."

Tom could guess what she meant. The clans, buying in semi-quantity for their groups of people, could demand and get preferential treatment of a sort. But a number of the stores that still wanted the business of private individuals—many of whom were bitterly anti-clan—did their best to balance the issue with a lack of courtesy. He looked at