"Prima-" Hazel was leaning forward. "I'm sorry, but-I really need to talk to you about your plans."

"My plans?" Prima stiffened, her fingers pausing for a moment in their busy work. "What do you mean?"

"Everyone wants to know what you are going to do-about the children's schooling, about supporting yourself-"

"Supporting myself!" Prima fastened on that; she was not about to discuss sending the children out to one of the heathen schools. "But the Serranos promised protection-"

"Protection, yes. But there are hundreds of you, all told-they can't afford to support all of you, not like this-"

Like this, in a warren of indoor rooms in a tall building, with windows that looked out on more tall buildings. Prima would have given anything for a bit of ground to walk on, sky to look at.

"And there are laws about the children, about schooling."

That she could answer. "I am not sending my children to some heathen school to be taught vileness-"

"There are religious schools," Hazel said. "I brought you a cube-"

A cube. Which she could access only with a cube reader. A machine. Machines, the parsons had always said, would make women lazy.

"I need to change my name," she said abruptly. Hazel looked surprised. "I'm not Mitch's Prima anymore," she said. "Ruth Ann was my birth name, and I should be Ruth Ann again."

"Ruth Ann," Hazel said softly, tasting it in her mouth. "It's a pretty name."

"It sounds strange to me; no one's called me that since my parents, years ago."

"Didn't they keep calling you-?"

"No, it wouldn't have been fitting. I was Prima Pardue from the day I married Mitch, and Prima Bowie from the day he became Ranger." She fidgeted a bit, wishing she didn't have to ask what she wanted to know. "Hazel . . . I never see anyone like Simplicity, even on the vid, when I do watch it. Surely your people have children that turn out . . . not quite . . . right?"

"Not many," Hazel said. She flushed; Prima knew something forbidden was in her mind. "I know you don't like to hear it, but-people do tests and medical treatment even before babies are born, to be sure nothing is wrong with them. Then, if something happens during pregnancy or birth, they fix it."

"Fix it." Like a door? But people weren't doors and shutters and shoes and . . . "How can you fix a mind?" she asked, greatly daring.

"I don't know." Hazel's flush faded. "I'm still young; I haven't finished my schooling, and I never studied any medicine."

"Could they fix . . . Simplicity . . . now?"

"I don't think so," Hazel said. "I can ask. But I think they have to be younger." She cocked her head. "But Prima-Ruth, I mean-there's no need to 'fix' Simplicity. She's a sweet, loving person the way she is."

"Your people don't value sweetness," Prima said. "They value intelligence."

Hazel paused, looking thoughtful. "There are many places in the Familias where that's true, but there are also many places that will value Simplicity for her gentleness, her kindness. I think you misjudge us. If you want to find a place-"

"No. I don't want to send her away! That's what Mitch said!" That's what Mitch had done. It still hurt her, that Simplicity had had to endure months in that nursery away from the home she loved.

"I didn't mean send her away. I meant go with her to a place where she'd be welcome."

"I can't go anywhere without my-without Ensign Serrano's permission."

"You could tell him what you want."

"Hazel-you know I can't do that. He's my-well, not husband, the way he should be, but he's our protector. It is for him to decide what to do with us."

"That's not how it works, here," Hazel said. Prima had heard that before, but it was hard to believe. Ensign Serrano was her protector, on the guarantee of his grandmother; he had the right to decide where they would live, and how. "He'd probably be delighted if you found a place where you and the others could be happy."

"I don't know how to do that," Prima said. "I don't know where to start."

"You could ask Professor Meyerson."

"Waltraude?" This had not occurred to Prima; she knew that Meyerson claimed expertise in Texan history-though a very strange version of it, from Prima's viewpoint-but what could she know about other worlds?

"She's a professor-finding things out is what she does best."

"Could you explain it?" Prima asked. She was much more comfortable with Hazel, even Hazel in men's pants, than with Waltraude in a dress. Waltraude looked at them all as if they were carrots and beets and potatoes on the kitchen table-as if she were considering how they would fit in a stew.

"If she comes back in time. Prima-one thing I came to tell you-I'm leaving later today. I should be on my way to the ship now-clearing customs is going to take longer than usual. I'm going back to my family."

"Oh." She had known, in a way, that Hazel would leave, as the former captive women had left. Those women-she still worried about them, but they had all insisted on going, some to restorative surgery, others with voice synthesizers, back to their families if they had any, or a life of independence that Prima could not imagine wanting. "I'll miss you, Hazel," Prima said, feeling the hot tears rise.

"You were good to me," Hazel said, and came to hug her. Prima could feel the girl's young breasts now . . . Hazel was breeding age, but she would not breed. She would do-might already have done-terrible things to herself so that she would have no babies until much later. She might already be an Abomination.

Yet Hazel was a good girl-honest, kind, gentle. She had been so desperately worried about the two little girls, in the beginning; she had been so sweet to all the children. If she'd been Prima's daughter, Prima would have been proud of her. But now she'd go off to some school, or fly on a

ship, or-Prima could not even imagine all the possibilities, and knew she couldn't. How could a child like this know what she wanted, what was right?

"God's blessing on you," Prima said, greatly daring in offering a blessing to a heathen. She wanted to tell Hazel not to use any abominable technology, but she knew that was futile. The girl was the product of that technology; her family used it, she would use it too. She prayed silently that God would keep Hazel safe.

SECTOR SEVEN HEADQUARTERS.

"We now know what happened, Admiral." The chief medical officer touched the display controls, and blurred blots of color sharpened into focus. "The Surgeon General's office sent this out by ansible; the research labs finally figured it out. In a normal rejuvenation, on the left, the metabolites of the rejuv drugs are each involved in scavenging specific degradation products."

"In plain language?" Vida Serrano asked. She knew, and knew they knew, what was meant, but she was determined to make them say it in language that anyone could understand. She had already been briefed, very secretly, by Marta Katerina Saenz.

"The rejuv drugs break down in the body into other chemicals, and those chemicals-metabolites-bind to and remove the chemical compounds characteristic of aging."

"Very well."

"In a normal rejuvenation, that leaves only healthy, undegraded tissues as a matrix for replication, the second part of the rejuvenation process."

"So the first part throws out the old, as it were, and then the second part builds up the new?"

"Yes, Admiral. But on the right-if you'll look right here-you can see that these tissues, which stain green, are not being removed. No green on the left, and green-"

"On the right. Yes. And I presume that means that age-deteriorated tissues are left in the matrix when the rejuv proceeds."

"Exactly. Which replicate into age-deteriorated tissues, so that after some years-it depends on the amount of deterioration in the original as well as the exact kind of faulty drug-the deterioration affects brain function like any other senile dementia."