Ran noticed him for the first time. "Your father won't approve of your taking prime stock for an extra kill. Take one of the culls."

"I'll talk to Father," Rimon said with a boldness born of desperation. "Taking a cull guarantees I won't be able to go four weeks. With this one, at least there's a chance."

"All right, I'll put him aside, but you don't get him until I have your father's say-so."

Relieved at not having to argue longer amid the emotional fields charged with Gen fear, Rimon set about his morning's duties.

The Farris Genfarm was the largest supplier of choice Gens in the Territory. They purchased the best Wild Gens captured, and also raised their own from the finest breeding stock. The Farris mark—a diagonal notch filed in the left front tooth—was a guarantee of health and spirit. As Syrus Farris said, "It doesn't cost any more to raise a spunky Gen than to raise a broken Gen." And spunky Gens brought more profit. Farris Gens were a luxury product that went to the choice auctions, the exclusive bazaars, and occasionally to wealthy individuals who would come to the Genfarm and pick out a year's supply at once.

One day, Rimon knew, all this would belong to him. And then what? Home-grown Gens made him nervous. He had never had one for a kill, and he knew that his father had him overseeing the cultivating to force him into proximity with them. How can I oversee others when I can't oversee myself? What will I do when it's all my responsibility?

The selyn nager of the working Gens was clear to him before he came over the crest of the hill and saw them toiling, sweating in the sun. They were all strong, healthy, equal to the task, the older children working beside them at the lighter jobs. Although everyone on the Farris Gen-farm earned his keep, children of Gens were never mistreated. The children of these Gens could still lead normal lives if they should go through changeover. Some of the best overseers were Simes who had come out of their own Pens. But the supervisor of this particular group was Gen.

Seeing who it was, Rimon wanted to turn and run. Nerob. Once Nerob had been Yahn Keslic, son of one of the Sime supervisors. Years ago, the four kids, Yahn and Rimon, Kadi, and Rimon's cousin, Zeth, had been inseparable. Now Yahn was Nerob, one of the Farris breeding Gens. And Zeth… Zeth was dead.

Rimon shuddered, but forced himself to ride to the end of the row that Nerob was striding, to meet him when he finished that lap of his inspection. Nerob was conscientious, keeping his crew working steadily and well. No wonder. If Syrus Farris were displeased with him, he could be sold tomorrow.

"Tuib Rimon," Nerob said as he bowed, then looked up at Rimon still astride his horse, "Tuib Farris said you'd be checking this section today."

"I hardly have to check your crew, do I?" asked Rimon, sliding off his horse to make a perfunctory examination of the work. As they walked the length of the row, Nerob eyed Rimon, warily gauging his state of need.

Rimon dropped a few paces back from the Gen, sensitive to the fear-tension in the man's nager. About halfway down the furrow, Nerob stopped, waiting for Rimon to catch up. "I expect we'll make it to the irrigation ditch road by evening."

Rimon had to close the distance to hear and speak normally, consciously controlling himself. "Don't drive them too hard, Nerob. There's always tomorrow."

"Is there?" The Gen's eyes met Rimon's. Then, under his breath, he added, looking away, "For you, maybe there is, not for us."

Rimon seized the Gen's arm and whirled him around. But then, despite Nerob's leap of fear, Rimon thrust the cringing Gen away, thinking, You're alive, Nerob. You're Gen, and you're still alive. Zeth was Sime, and he's dead! But Nerob wasn't to blame for Zeth's death. Rimon had nobody to blame for that but himself.

"You can't take me, Tuib Rimon," said Nerob. "I'm under your father's personal protection. You won't disgrace the Farris honor."

Rimon stood back, letting himself become conscious of the complex fields surrounding the Gen, readings the hidden meanings behind the man's emotions. He wants to hurt me. He wants to use my need against me. He resents me more than I resent him. Why, when Father's saved his life?

When Rimon came back to normal consciousness, the Gen was flinching away from the raw need in Rimon, his fear almost too much to bear. Shaking, Rimon said, "Calm down. I wouldn't take you—unless you goad me to it. We were—after all—friends."

Rimon whirled and stalked back to his horse. But then, instead of following impulse and galloping away, he sat and watched until Nerob had rejoined the distant group of fieldhands. Here in the field, those Gens felt temporarily safe. Anyone coming to buy today would be shown first the Wild Gens in the compound, and then the Domestic Gens down around the big house. Good workers could count on being safe until after harvest. Most of them settled into unthinking routine, their selyn fields high but unresponsive.

Gradually, Rimon's breathing returned to normal. He wheeled his horse and trotted toward the next group of workers.

Relief washed through him. He usually avoided Nerob and the few other Gens he had known before they established—began producing selyn. It was hard to remember that someone was not a person if you'd grown up with him. Gens looked like people, after all, seemed just like everybody else until the time of changeover when, instead of becoming Sime, they began producing selyn, the biologic energy that Simes had to have to live. Clearly, nature intended Gens to produce selyn for Simes, for Simes were faster, stronger, and equipped with special organs to draw the selyn from a Gen's system.

Those organs, the delicate lateral tentacles that lay along either side of Rimon's forearms, protruded slightly from their sheaths under the combined influence of his need and the impinging Gen fields. Deliberately, he retracted them, but that put pressure on his ronaplin glands, swollen with the selyn-conducting fluid that moistened the laterals for transfer.

Extending his handling tentacles relieved some of the pressure, so he extended all four on each arm, curling the ventrals around the reins and letting the dorsals lie across the backs of his hands, along his fingers. The primary purpose of those tentacles was to immobilize the arms of a Gen so the smaller laterals would not be dislodged during the selyn draw. However, they served that purpose only once a month, on the average. The rest of the time the strong, resilient handling tentacles were extra fingers– even extra hands. Gen arms seemed pitifully naked and awkward without them.

As he rode to the next group of workers, the fresh air revived Rimon's spirits. There the supervisor was Sime, as were all the others that he checked that morning. The flat fields of the Gens and the undisturbing fields of the Simes were little problem compared to what Nerob had put him through. All was calm and normal. By the time he had circled the furthest field and started working his way back, Kadi met him under the trees by the reservoir, bringing a double-walled container of trin tea, fresh and hot. They sat down under a tree, where the shade was still cool in the late spring morning.

"You're feeling better," Kadi said after Rimon had had a long drink of tea.

"Yes, I'm fine for the moment but I'm having trouble controlling around the Gens." Her nager remained unlinked to his, her body consuming selyn only at the almost imperceptible rate of a child.

She took his hand and laid it in her lap. Two fingers stroked along the ventral sheaths, causing the tentacles to emerge from the wrist orifices. They twined about her fingers, and she squeezed them gently, then began to play with them, trying to tie a bow. Rimon wriggled them just enough to frustrate her, laughing at her attempts. She could always make him laugh, even when he was feeling his worst.