wasn't she? She's going to have it awfully tough."

"Do you think she can take it?" Tom asked.

"Not knowing the lady, that's guessing too hard," Betsy answered. "I think it's possible that she can learn. And maybe it's not entirely against her that she doesn't know anything about the clans except what's wrong. She'll soon find out she doesn't know a thing, and then she can start from scratch—learn like the kids do. Maybe that's easier than the unlearning of the 'almost-right' that people like me have to do. At least she's got no preconceived ideas that will stand more than a day or two of actual experience." She shrugged.

"The thing that I'm worried about," Tom said, "is that she may be able to split us—divide us up into factions and set us against each other. I hope she can't, but what happens if she does?"

"Then we split," Betsy answered. "But so what? I don't think she can do it; but even if she can, so what? I wouldn't want it to happen but it wouldn't be a disaster. We'd all land on our feet somewhere. I know I'd head out for the nearest clan and I'd get into that clan just as soon as I could. When I got into it, and got accepted as a real part of it, then I'd think of the rest of this as just an unhappy incident. A tragedy, but not the end of life. But as far as I'm concerned, this is too remote a possibility to worry about."

"You are quite unafraid, aren't you?" Tom said.

"Yes," she answered simply, her voice calm and cool. "I'm not afraid of Marcia—not of what she can do to the kids or to myself. I think the kids are strong enough emotionally to stand anything. And I think I am, too."

There was a quiet confidence in her voice. She reached out and patted his hand. Then, getting up, she started to get out the food for the evening meal while Tom continued to sit there, thinking. And when Tom got up and walked out, she still said nothing but looked after him with a look that had something warm and tender in it.

AS HE walked through the livingroom, he saw Rita stretched out on the couch. He looked questioningly at her wondering if the day had been too hard for her, being, as she was, six months along towards the twelfth child of the clan. But she smiled at him and shook her head. "Don't be worried," she said; "I'm just a little tired but not too much."

"Anything I can get you?" he asked.

"No, thanks," she said, her voice cheerful. "I just need to get off my feet."

He started to say something about Marcia, but then stopped. What good would it do? he asked himself. Rita, with the instinct of birth close upon her, was too absorbed in herself and the life she carried. The problem, to her, would exist only if it threatened herself or her child. And by all the signs, she felt no threat. Her calm acceptance of the daily life, her quiet absorption in the now and here, measured a confidence in the clan that was complete.

No, to talk of Marcia could do no good. If he succeeded in impressing her with the importance of the problem, it would be because he made her realize that Marcia was a threat. It would be at the expense of her feeling of security, the security that let her wait her time out in calm acceptance and assurance. And if he did not persuade her of the problem's significance, she could not contribute to it. Under normal circumstances, she was not one to deal with abstract questions. She had an acute awareness of personalities that transcended logic. She had an instinct, a sixth sense, almost, for responding to the needs of others. But she was not a philosopher, and neither could she handle abstract problems.

And so he smiled at her and told her: "Call me if you do want anything. I'll be outside." And he passed on through and out the door.

4

AS HE walked out the door, he saw, coming in the gate, the rest of the clan returning from work. The children were rushing to meet them, whooping their greetings. The whole scene was one of happy chaos. Out in front was Paul, his round, cherubic face beaming with delight. He bent down to whisper something in little Randy's ear which sent that boy off shrieking with delight. Behind him was Sam, Polly, and Herb.

Sam's face was dark and his eyes deepset. Generally, he looked sullen and dour. But those who knew him, could also see the twinkle in his eye and knew that he had a subtle and penetrating sense of humor. The kids liked him, and both Alice and Ken, aged five and six, were crowding around him now while he gravely asked them something.

Polly, beside him, was peering around delightedly, sparkling with the general excitement. Her eyes were darting all around looking, Tom knew, not for any one thing or person, but simply to absorb it all.

On Polly's other side was Herb. The mechanic of the crowd, he had an eager interest that was somewhat boyish. His happiest moments were spent under the car or bus with his face all smeared with grease. With people, he lacked the touch that he had with machines. There was an awkwardness, almost an uncouthness, that would have been tragic, Tom thought, anywhere but in the haven of a clan.

Behind them, Joan walked with Mike. Her face was still earnest and intense, and Tom thought that she was probably expounding some theory of the art. He felt sorry for Mike, but, then, Mike was a chap that invited that sort of thing. He seemed to be chronically unable to express a disinterest in anything and, as a consequence, was the one on which most of them poured out their troubles and their ideas. But, then, perhaps he was interested. Maybe he was interested in the people even when he was not in the ideas.

Finally, there came Esther and Pete. Esther was the feminine organizer of the clan. She it was that planned the details of what should happen when, and who should do what. The others were just as glad to leave these matters to her. She had a passion for fairness that made them trust her distribution of the chores. And she had the will to get things organized, the wish to see things settled long in advance. Tom saw she was talking earnestly to Pete; he wondered what project she was working on.

Pete was the philosopher of the clan. With a somewhat pixyish mind, he was afraid of no thoughts, and took nothing at all for granted. As to whether he was a really deep thinker, or just one who liked to play with logic and semantics, Tom did not know. Perhaps it was too soon to tell. Philosophers are not made at the age of twenty-five, but only when they have lived their lives, and are ready to profit fully by its experience. At the moment, Tom saw, he was looking rather bored by Esther, and seemed to welcome the onrushing crowd of kids.

TOM looked at them all. Whom should he talk to? he wondered. Or should he talk to any of them? There was no longer in him the same drive about the problem. In some way he did not yet understand, his talks with Sandy and with Betsy had boiled off some of the urgency. And yet, the problem still was urgent. Ricky still meant to bring it up at caucus, and Tom still had to know what his own response would be. It was with something of a shock that he realized that he did not know—but the fact was that he did not. And he did not even know why he was uncertain. The problem had seemed so clear when Ricky had first mentioned it; but now, now it was not clear at all.

Tom waited until they all had washed off the dust of the road and combed their hair and changed their dresses. In the meantime, he mixed them cocktails ready for their return. And when they had once more assembled, he let them trade around the items of the day's news. It was not until he saw Pete wander off to gaze out the window at the gathering sunset that he made any move.

When he saw that Pete was alone,