“Prolong?” Benjamin suddenly sat up straight behind his desk, and Clinkscales nodded.

“Exactly. Her Key could pass to a sibling if she had one, but she doesn’t. At the moment.”

“Sweet Tester!” Prestwick murmured in something very like awe. “I never even considered that!”

“Nor I,” Benjamin admitted, eyes narrow as he pondered furiously.

Howard’s right, he thought. That possibility never even crossed my mind, and it should have. So what if Doctor Harrington—both Doctors Harrington—are in their eighties? Physically, Honor’s mother is only in her early thirties. And even if they were too old to have children “naturally,” we’ve got all of the Star Kingdom’s medical science to draw on! We could have a child tubed, assuming the Harringtons were willing. And if the child were born here on Grayson, then he’d have Grayson citizenship whatever his parents’ nationality may have been.

“It really would tie things up rather neatly, wouldn’t it?” he said finally, his voice thoughtful.

“For that matter, there’s another possibility entirely,” Prestwick pointed out. Both of the others looked at him, and he shrugged. “I’m quite certain Lady Harrington’s mother has samples of the Steadholder’s genetic material, which means it would almost certainly be possible to produce a child of Lady Harrington’s even at this date. Or even a direct clone, for that matter!”

“I think we’d better not start getting into those orbits,” Benjamin cautioned. “Certainly not without consulting Reverend Sullivan and the Sacristy first, at any rate!” He shuddered at the mere thought of how the more conservative of his subjects might react to the chancellor’s musings. “Besides, a clone would probably only make matters worse. If I remember correctly—and I’m not certain I do, without looking it up—the Star Kingdom’s legal code adheres to the Beowulf Life Sciences Code, just as the Solarian League’s does.”

“Which means?” Clinkscales asked, clearly intrigued by the notion.

“Which means, first of all, that it’s completely illegal to use a dead individual’s genetic material unless that individual’s will or other legal declaration specifically authorized the use. And secondly, it means that a clone is a child of its donor parent or parents, with all the legal protections of any other sentient being, but it is not the same person, and posthumous cloning cannot be used to circumvent the normal laws of inheritance.”

“You mean that if Lady Harrington had had herself cloned before her death, then her clone would legally have been her child and could have inherited her title, but that if we have her cloned now, the child couldn’t inherit?” Prestwick said, and Benjamin nodded.

“That’s exactly what I mean, although it’s also possible—and legal—for someone to stipulate in his will that he be cloned following his death and that his posthumous clone inherit. But no one can make that decision for him, which would be essentially what we would be doing if we decided to clone Lady Harrington at this point to solve our difficulties. And if you think about it, there’s some sound reasoning behind the prohibition. For example, suppose some unscrupulous relative managed to arrange the death of someone like Klaus Hauptman or Lady Harrington without getting caught. And then that same relative had his victim cloned and himself appointed as the clone child’s guardian, thus controlling the Hauptman Cartel—or Harrington Steading—until the clone attained his majority and inherited? And that doesn’t even consider the sticky question of when a will would properly be probated! I mean, if a second party could legally produce a posthumous duplicate of the person who wrote the will, would that duplicate’s existence supersede the will? Would the clone be entitled to sue those to whom ‘his’ estate had already legally been distributed—in exact accordance with his ‘own’ legally written and witnessed directions—for recovery of assets? The ramifications could go on and on forever.”