The afterbirth slid out onto the clean rags covering the bed.

The baby cried, a whimpering sound, not the lusty cry of a full-term baby, and the poor lad was still as scrawny as could be, but he could breathe, and now almost every path in the child's life showed him in his father's arms, as the three of them, father, mother, and son, stood on the bluff overlooking the river.

The sound of an axe chopping against wood rang out and Alvin came out of his deep concentration. It had been hours and hours, working on the baby's lungs, but somehow the child had stayed alive through all of it, and now it was done. The child was breathing on his own. The cord was cut. And Alvin was surprised that it was still light. Surely it had taken him all day.

He got up from the stone, his body stiff from resting in one position for so long. He walked to the edge of the bluff, expecting to see many trees fallen.

Instead, there was Verily making his way down the hill. What had he been doing, coming up and checking on Alvin all day? Couldn't he do this by himself? And instead of teams of axemen toppling trees, only the one axe was being wielded, and by a man who seemed to be no part of an organized plan.

What had Verily been doing all day, while Alvin wrestled to keep his baby alive?

Only as he was about to cry out to Verily impatiently did Alvin take note of the fact that Verily's shadow still fell long beyond him, down the hill, toward the west.

It was still morning. Early morning. Only minutes after Verily had left Alvin. Somehow, all those hours of work- and as sore as his body was, it had to have been hours-had been compressed into only a few minutes.

"Verily!" he called. "Wait!"

Verily turned and watched as Alvin leapt and slipped and slid down the hill to join him.

"What is it?" said Verily.

"How long ago did we talk?"

Verily looked at him as if he were crazy. "Three minutes."

"I did it," said Alvin. "Somehow in just those minutes, I did it."

"Did what?"

"The baby's born. He can breathe, He's alive."

Only then did Verily understand. "Thank God, Alvin."

"I do," said Alvin. "I do thank God."

Then he burst into tears and wept in the arms of his friend.

17

Foundation

Alvin leaned on the fireplace, watching Margaret nurse little Vigor. "Got a mighty good suction in him," said Alvin.

"Like a tick," said Margaret. "Can't pry him loose till he's full."

"He's getting strong, don't you think?

"Getting some muscle on him," said Margaret. "But I don't think he'll ever be one of those fat little babies."

"That's fine," said Alvin. "Don't want to raise a spoiled child."

"You'll raise him whatever he is," said Margaret. "And if anyone's likely to spoil him, it's you."

"That's my plan, more or less," said Alvin.

"Don't want him to be spoiled, but you plan to spoil him."

"Can't help it. Only way to save this boy is to have another child to divide up my doting."

"I'll do my best," said Margaret.

"Do you mind, not traveling now, not being in the world of affairs?"

"I don't look beyond this town now," said Margaret. "I try to forget that the world outside is maneuvering itself toward war. I pretend that somehow it will stay beyond the borders of our little county."

"Not so little. Very and Abe got us good boundaries. Lots of room to grow."

"I'm more concerned about how much our people grow inside them."

"Can't make them," said Alvin.

"I know."

Vigor was done with breakfast, and now Alvin cracked the boiled eggs and sliced them onto a plate for his and Margaret's breakfast.

"Mayor of the fastest-growing city in Noisy River, and you have to fix your own breakfast."

"I'm fixing your breakfast, and that's all the difference."

"My but we're in love," said Margaret.

Old pain and ancient loneliness hung in the air between them.

"Alvin," said Margaret. "I always tried to do what was best."

"I know," said Alvin.

"And sometimes what was best was not to tell you all that I knew."

Alvin said nothing.

"You never would have gone to Barcy," she said. "We never would have had all these people, the core of this City of Makers."

"Might have gone to Barcy all the same," said Alvin.

"But you would never have gone near Rien."

"You sure that saving her was what spread the fever?"

"In all the paths where you never met her, she died without a single other soul catching the disease."

Alvin smiled a wan smile and stuffed an entire egg into his mouth. "At least I've got good manners," he said, spraying bits of yolk onto the table.

"Yes, I can see that all those lessons I gave you have paid off. I can't take you out in company."

"Guess we'll just have to stay in."

"You'll never listen to me again, will you?" she said.

"I'm listening right now."

"But you'll never do something just because I tell you that you ought to."

"Have you changed?" asked Alvin. "Or do you still think you're the one best able to decide whether I should know the consequences of my deeds?"

"I've already promised a dozen times over."

"But I don't believe you," said Alvin. "I believe you mean it now, but in the moment, when you're deciding what to tell me and what not to tell, I think you'll hold back the things I most want to know, if you're afraid that knowing will cause me harm."

"You're not the most important thing in the world to me now, you know," said Margaret.

"Am so," said Alvin.

"The baby is."

"The baby's just little and he can't get into much trouble yet."

"You did."

"You got the habit of looking out for me too deep set. I can't trust you to let me decide for myself."

"Yes you can," said Margaret. "Besides, you don't need me to tell you everything now."

"I can't control what the crystal ball shows me. It's not like your knack."

"It's better."

"I think the blood and water make more of a mirror than a window."

"I think it shows good people how to do good, and bad people how to do bad. You won't come asking me what to do, when you can see what's good and right in the walls of the house you're building."

"Don't know if we should rightly call it a house," said Alvin.

"It's not a chapel-nobody's going to preach."

"A factory, maybe," said Alvin. "Or a house of mirrors, like in that carnival in New Amsterdam."

"Then it's a house after all," said Margaret. "And I was right."

"Didn't say you weren't right," said Alvin. "Just said I'd like to have chosen for myself."

"You'd rather have chosen wrong, knowing, than chosen right, not knowing."

"Well, when you put it that way, it makes me sound like a dunce on purpose."

"Indeedy," said Margaret.

"Do I have to be mayor?" said Alvin. "I'd rather just spend my time building the ... crystal."

"They all look to you, anyway, whether you have the title or not. You're the one who looks out for them, who watches the borders. You're the one who causes the slave-catchers who come near here to keep losing their way. You're the one who figured out that draining the swamp would stop the malaria."

"It was Measure who suggested it," said Alvin.

"You're the one who watches over everybody like a mother hen."

"Then let me run for mother hen."

"Alvin," said Margaret. "So what if you don't care for the title? You're going to be doing the job anyway, and it would be quite unkind of you to make someone else take the title, when everybody will know you're the real leader. Take the name upon you, and don't burden someone else with it, when they'll never have the authority."