Derek was attentive.

“Will he ever?” I asked.

“Randy was supposed to be on the ship that docked this week, and we expected we’d find ourselves working for him.

But he died on the trip, so it’s all up in the air.”

“What will happen?”

Fenn gestured toward the building we were about to enter.

“This is the second-largest feed mill on the planet. It’s entirely automated. Takes only three men to run it.” We looked in. “Randy had a son, some snot born in Upper New York.

They say he’s on the ship. The joeyboy’s never even been here, so he doesn’t know squat about planting. I guess he’ll be sent back to Earth for schooling. I don’t know; Mr. Plumwell’s made the arrangements. The joeykid won’t have any say until he’s twenty-two.”

“Then what?” A new tension was in Derek’s voice.

Fenn grinned. “Between you and me, boys, I wouldn’t be surprised if by that time Carr Plantation’s books were in such a state he’d need Mr. Plumwell more than ever.”

I grinned. “The Carrs should have stayed if they wanted to run the place.”

Fenn looked serious. “You’re lighter than you know.

Someday we’ll have a law about absentee owners. Sure, they’re entitled to profits, but a resident manager who stays all his life and runs things, he should have rights too. The management should pass down in his family, not the owner’s.

If--”

“Now wait a min--” Derek broke in.

I overrode him fast. “Anthony, don’t interrupt!”

“But he--”

“Haven’t you learned your manners?” I shoved Derek with force. “Apologize!” He looked surly. I squeezed his arm. “Go on!” Derek mumbled an apology, and I breathed easier. Perhaps when he calmed, he’d realize he’d nearly blown our cover.

Fenn asked, “Aren’t you a bit rough on the joey?”

“Sometimes he needs sitting on.” My tone was cross.

“His father let him believe he was too good for discipline.”

Derek shot me a deadly glance but kept quiet.

“You see how it is,” Fenn said. “Mr. Plumwell’s been here thirty years, and he knows every inch of this plantation.

Last year we cleared thirty million unibucks, even after the new acreage. Carr Plantation has to be run by a professional.”

“Where do you keep all the cash?” Derek was back in character.

Fenn smiled mirthlessly. “Some of it goes to the Carr accounts at Branstead Bank and Trust. The rest goes for salaries and expenses.”

“So the Carr boy gets to play with the money even if he can’t boss the plantation,” I said.

“Not quite. The account is in the Carr name but Mr.

Plumwell has control until a Carr shows up who has the right to run the estate. Mr. Plumwell makes sure the right people are on our side, that sort of thing. That money pool helps protect our way of life.” He looked at me closely. “How did we get on this subject?”

“I’m not sure.” My tone was bright and innocent. “What’s this conveyor belt do?”

That night we were invited to dine with Plumwell and his staff. I made a show of nagging Derek about his table manners; he retaliated by calling me “Nicky”. All the while Derek’s penetrating glance was taking in the oil paintings hanging above the huge stone fireplace, the fine china, the crystal glassware, the succulent foods and drink. He eyed Mr. Plumwell’s place at the head of the table with something less than delight.

In our room, after dinner, he moped on his bed while I got ready to turn out the light.

“What’s bothering you, Anthony?”

His voice was quiet. “Please belay that, Mr. Seafort.”

“What’s wrong, Derek?”

“This is my house. I should be at the head of the table.”

“Someday.”

“But in the meantime...” He brooded.”Fenn mentioned one point two million bushels of wheat. The reports they sent my father listed seven hundred thousand. Someone’s been skimming. Who knows what else Plumwell’s stolen? I’ve got to do something.”

“Why?”

He was surprised. “It’s my money.”

I had no sympathy. “You have your pay billet. Are you hurting?”

“That’s not the point,” he said with disdain. “Should this--this thief get away with what’s not rightfully his?”

“Yes, if he’s improving your estate.” He was shocked into silence. “You’re out of the picture, Derek. You’re so wealthy you won’t even miss what he steals. In the meantime, he’s opening up new acreage that permanently benefits your plantation. He’s doing a good job, stealing or not.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Derek said bitterly. “You never had anything, and you never will!”

I snapped off the light, determined not to speak to him before morning. I yearned for the isolation of the Captain’s cabin.

Presently he said, “I’m sorry.” I ignored him, cherishing my hurt.

After a while he cleared his throat. “I apologize, Mr.

Seafort.” I made no answer. He snapped on the light. “Am I talking to the Captain now, or Mr. Seafort the ex-midshipman?”

A good question. In fairness to him, I wasn’t Captain at the moment. “The ex-midshipman.”

“Then I won’t stand at attention. I didn’t mean what I just said. I was angry and wanted to hurt you. Please don’t make me grovel.”

I relented. “All right. But I repeat what I told you. He’s doing a good job building Carr Plantation even if he does skim the profits.”

“What if I tell him who I am, just before we leave. That’ll show him he can’t--”

I felt a sudden chill. “Don’t even think about it, Derek.”

Thousands of uncleared acres adjoined the cultivated fields.

Some of them had hardly been explored.

He shivered. “Well, maybe not while we’re still here. But when I get back to town I’ll file suit.”

“No.”

“He can’t be allowed to get away with it. If I move fast I’ll save--”

“No, I said.”

“Why not?”

I was nettled. “Do you plan to stay on Hope Nation to fight a lawsuit?”

“I guess I can’t, unless you let me resign, but--”

“Get this straight, Mr. Carr! For the next four years you’re a midshipman in the United Nations Naval Service! You go where the Navy sends you. Understand? You took an oath, and a gentleman shouldn’t need reminding. The life you see here--it doesn’t exist yet.”

“But--”

“This is a form of time travel. Perhaps someday you’ll live here and worry about your riches, but not now. I took you on a visit to the future. You can’t touch anything and nobody can hear you!” There was silence. “Understand?”

He didn’t answer. I rolled over and snapped off the light.

Presently I heard Derek Anthony Carr, scion of the Hope Nation Carrs, cry himself to sleep after his Captain’s tonguelashing.

In the morning I felt guilty for having spoken so sharply.

We brought our duffels down to breakfast. I had Anthony thank everyone in sight. Even Plumwell smiled as we tooled down the drive in our electricar.

“Now what?” I asked when we were out of sight.

Derek’s tone was petulant. “I’ve seen enough plantations, if I won’t be--” His fingers drummed on the armrest; when he spoke again his voice was subdued. “Sorry, sir. Do you still want to take me to the Venturas?”

“Yes.”

“I think I’d like that.”

We headed back to Centraltown, camping once along the way. By the time we were back Derek was in good spirits, and I found to my surprise I’d begun to miss the organized bustle of shipboard life.

I decided to shuttle up to Hiberniafor a couple of days before leaving for the Ventura Mountains; Derek opted to stay in Centraltown. The peasant and the aristocrat parted company with awkward shyness.

I changed back into Navy blues and tried to tame my wild hair before checking in at Admiralty House. Forbee confirmed that there was still no interstellar Captain in the Hope Nation system. Unless Telstarunexpectedly appeared, none was scheduled to arrive for another five months. In the meantime they’d radioed all local vessels to ask for lieutenants and midshipmen. If none volunteered, Forbee would simply assign me the necessary officers, and leave the local fleet shorthanded.