“It’s the judgment calls that age you,” said Santiago as they walked alongside a stream that made a natural boundary between two of the fields. “There’s an enormous amount of work to be done, and we have very little money and manpower. Do we spend it on salvation or retribution? Do we put everything we have into patching up the Democracy’s victims and sending them back to be stomped on again, or do we let them lie where they’ve fallen and take steps to see that the same thing doesn’t happen to their neighbors?”

“You prevent it from happening again,” said Cain firmly.

“Answered like a bounty hunter,” replied Santiago. “Unfortunately, it’s easier said than done. The Epsilon Eridani raid was atypical. We don’t have the firepower to stand up to the navy.” He sighed. “Oh, well, that’s what keeps it challenging. We do what we can, where we can. It’s a balancing act—saving people when it’s possible, punishing others when we can get away with it, and financing the whole thing with enterprises and associates that make the Swagman look honorable by comparison.”

“How did you miss killing Whittaker Drum?” asked Cain.

“Socrates?”

“Yes.”

“Because I’m not some kind of phantom avenger, righting all the wrongs of the galaxy,” said Santiago. “I knew what he had done on Sylaria, even before I knew that you had fought for him.” He turned to Cain and stared at him. “But that was twenty years ago, and Sylaria is thousands of light-years away. Socrates was useful to me, so I used him, just as I’ve used hundreds of men who are far worse than him.”

He stopped and inspected an enormous ear of corn.

“Three more weeks and it’ll be ready to harvest,” he announced. “Four at the most. Have you ever been on a farm at harvesttime, Sebastian?”

Cain shook his head. “No, I haven’t.”

“There’s a sense of accomplishment, of nature fulfilled and renewed,” said Santiago. “Even the air smells better.”

Cain smiled. “Maybe you should have been a farmer.”

“I suppose I am, in a way.”

“I meant full-time,” said Cain. “I wasn’t referring to this.”

“Neither was I,” replied Santiago. “Saint Peter was a fisher of men. I’m a sower of revolution.” He seemed pleased with himself. “I rather like that.”

They walked another quarter mile or so. The cornfields were supplanted by long rows of soybeans, which in turn dwindled into nothingness as they reached the top of a ridge.

“What’s that down there?” asked Cain, pointing to a neatly manicured clearing within a small dell. There was a wooden bench facing a pond that was dotted by colorful water plants.