“Going off to share the work to spare Sixty-One the pain,” Dad said. “He’s the best of us all.”

We walked towards Thessaly. Dad had his cloak tightly wrapped against the chill, though I was snug enough in my fishing clothes. “I wonder if they’ll have any Workers on the space human ship, and what they’ll be like. The other Workers, the younger ones who came to consciousness here on Plato, are different from Crocus and Sixty-One,” I said.

“Well, we were expecting consciousness with them, educating them for it, like bringing up babies. As I understand from Father, what happened with the original Workers was completely unexpected—nobody but Sokrates imagined that they might be people rather than tools. That had to have had an effect on how they turned out.” Dad sighed. “Still, people are different from each other, but they also have a lot in common, whether they’re Workers or aliens or humans. What really matters is their souls.”

I couldn’t help saying it. “I sometimes feel I have more in common with Crocus than I do with Thee.”

“Well, metal can be stronger than blood,” Dad said. “That reminds me. I heard today that Selagus is appealing the decision.”

I blinked. “That’s the first time for ages.” Usually people who don’t agree with their classification flounce off to another city, often Sokratea, where they don’t have classes at all. Sometimes they come back later and accept it after all. Outright appeal against classification is allowed, but rarely happens.

“It could be messy, and it could come up for judgement on your watch,” Dad said.

“Thanks for warning me. I’ll look up the procedure and consult. I suppose there will have to be a committee?”

“Yes, and you should be really careful who you choose for it. There should be one Ikarian, so Selagus can’t claim religious prejudice, but no more. It’s so awkward. We’ve only ever had a handful of reclassifications. We should go through them together soon and consider precedents.” Dad was frowning.

“I can’t understand why he doesn’t want to be a Gold. He could still work at his embroidery.” I thought of my work on the boat.

Dad shook his head. “I suppose he doesn’t want the responsibility. If so, that might be a sign that he’s right, and he should have been a Bronze all along.”