There was hardly enough room in the last few rows to lay down the improvised modifications. Fortunately, their opponents didn't place another cyclone near the boundary. Maia's new glider gun lay right along the border, with no room to spare. She was exhausted by the time the last piece had been set. And I thought this was a lazy man's game. I guess spectators never know until they try a sport for themselves.

It was long past sunset. Lanterns were lit. Thalia arrived with a pair of coats. Slipping hers on, Maia realized everyone else had already dressed for the chill of evening. She must have been putting out too much nervous energy to notice.

Captain Poulandres approached, dressed in a cowled robe and carrying a crooked staff in his role as master and referee. Behind him, all the ship's company save the helmsman, lookout, and sailmaster found perches from which to watch. They lounged casually, many wearing amused expressions. Maia saw none of the usual laying of bets.

Probably no takers for our side, whatever the odds.

Silence fell as the captain stepped forward to the edge of the game board, where the timing square was ready to send synchronized pulses to all pieces. At a set time, each of the sixteen hundred tiny units would either flip its louvers or rest quiet, depending on what its sensors told it about the state of its neighbors. The same decision would be made a few seconds later, when the next pulse arrived. And so on.

"Life is the continuation of existence," the captain intoned. Perhaps it was the cowl that lent his voice a deep, vatic tone. Or maybe it was part of being captain.

"Life is the continuation of existence," the ship's company responded, echoing his words, accompanied by a background of creaking masts and flapping sails.

"Life is the continuation of existence, yet no thing endures. We are all patterns, seeking to propagate. Patterns which bring other patterns into being, then vanish, as if we've never been."

Maia had heard the invocation so many times, recited in countless accents at dockside arenas in Port Sanger and elsewhere. She knew it by heart. Yet this was her first time standing as a contestant. Maia wondered how many other women had. No more than thousands, she felt sure. Maybe only hundreds.

Renna listened to the ancient words, clearly entranced.

". . .We cannot control our progeny. Nor rule our inventions. Nor govern far consequences, save by the foresight to act well, then let go.

"All is in the preparation, and the moment of the act.

"What follows is posterity."

The captain held out his staff, hovering above the winking timing square.

"Two teams have prepared. Let the act be done. Now . . . observe posterity."

The staff struck down. The timing square began chiming its familiar eight-count. Even though she was prepared, Maia jumped when the flat array of sixteen hundred black and white pieces seemed all at once to explode.

Not all at once: In fact, fewer than half flipped their louvers, changing state because of what they sensed around them. But the impression of sudden, frantic clattering set Maia's heart racing before a second wave of sound and motion suddenly crossed the board. And another.

Fortunately, she did not have to think. Any Game of Life match was already over the moment it began. From now on, they could only stand and watch the consequences unfold.

Peripatetic's Log:

Stratos Mission:

Arrival + 43.271 Ms

I found it hard overcoming prejudices, during my first visit to a Stratoin home.

It wasn't the concept of matriarchy, which I've met in other guises on Florentina and New Terra. Nor the custom that men. are another species, sometimes needed, often irksome, and fortunately rare. I was prepared for all that.

My problem arises from growing up in an era obsessed with individuality.

Variety was our religion, diversity our fixation. Whatever was different or atypical won favor over the familiar. Other always came before self. An insane epoch, say psychohistorians . . . even if its brief glory produced ideal star travelers.

In voyaging, I've encountered many stabilized societies, but none more contrary to my upbringing than Stratos. The unnerving irony of this world's fascinating uniqueness is its basis in changelessness. Generations are not rent by shifting values. Sameness is no curse, variety no automatic friend.

It's just as well we never met. Lysos and I would not have gotten along.

Nonetheless, I was delighted when Savant Iolanthe asked me to spend some days at her family's castlelike estate, in the hilly suburbs of Caria. The invitation, a rare honor for a male in summer, was surely a political statement. Her faction is the least hostile toward restored contact. Even so, I was cautioned that my visit was to be "chaste." My room would have no windows facing Wengel Star.

I told Iolanthe to expect no problems in that regard. I will avert my gaze, though not from the sky.

Nitocris Hold is an ancient place. Iolanthe's clone-line has occupied the sprawling compound of high walls, chimneys, and dormered roofs for most of six hundred years. Related lineages dwelled on the site almost back to the founding of Caria.

Our car swept through an imposing gate, cruised along a garden-rimmed drive, and halted before a finely sculpted marble entrance. We were formally greeted by a trio of graceful Nitocri who, like Iolanthe, were of stately middle age, dressed in shimmering yellow silken gowns and high collars. My bag was carried off by a younger clan-sister. More siblings bearing distinctive Nitocris features — soft eyes and narrow noses — rushed silently to move the car, seal the gate, and usher us inside.

So, for the first time, I entered the sanctum of a parthenogenetic clan, prime unit of human life on Stratos, "They aren't bees or ants," I thought silently, suppressing idle comparisons. Within, I repeated the motto of my calling —

"Let go of preconceptions."

The savant cheerfully showed me courtyards and gardens and grand halls, unperturbed by a crowd of children who whispered and giggled in our wake. The Nitocri keep no domestic employees, no hired vars to carry out unpleasant tasks beneath the dignity of wealthy clones. No Nitocris resents taking her turn at hard or dirty chores, such as scouring fire grates, or scrubbing lavatories, or laying down roof tiles. All is well-timed according to age, with each girl or woman alternating between onerous and interesting tasks. Each individual knows how long a given phase will last. After a set interval, a younger sister will be along to take over whatever you are doing, while you move on to something else.

No wonder even children and youths move gracefully, with such assurance. Each clone-daughter grows up watching elders just like her, performing their tasks with a calm efficiency derived from centuries of practice. She knows the movements unconsciously before ever being called upon to do them herself. No one hurries to take on power before her time. "My turn will come," appears to be the philosophy.

At least, that's the story they were selling me. No doubt it varies from clan to clan, and almost certainly works less than perfectly even among the Nitocri. Still, I wonder …

Utopians have long imagined creating an ideal society, without competition, only harmony. Human nature — and the principle of selfish genes — seemed to put the dream forever out of reach. Yet, within a Stratoin clan, where all genes are the same, what function remains for selfishness? The tyranny of biological law can relax. Good of the individual and that of the group are the same.

Nitocris House is filled with love and laughter. They seem self-sufficient and happy.

I do not think my hosts noticed when I involuntarily shivered, even though it wasn't cold.