"They can't draw maps, but they can return to where they've been," Andrew said, no longer trying to conceal his displeasure at the turn the meeting had taken. "That's all we require of them. The implanted clones will do the thinking for them."

"Then it's true," Miriam said. "If you change the formula, you can produce only those clones you are talking about."

"Right. We can't handle two different chemical processes, two formulae, two kinds of clones. We've decided this is the best way to proceed at this time, and meanwhile we'll be working on the process, I can assure you. We shall wait until the tanks are empty, in seven months, then make the changes. And we are working out a timetable to plan for the best time to clone the council members and those others who are needed in leadership capacities. We are not rushing into a new procedure without considering every aspect, I promise you, Miriam. At each step we will inform this group of our progress…"

In a tightly thatched lean-to near the mill Mark rested on his elbow and looked at the girl at his side. She was his age, nineteen. "You're cold," he said.

She nodded. "We won't be able to do this much longer."

"You could meet me in the old farmhouse," he said.

"You know I can't."

"What happens if you try to cross the line? A dragon comes out and breathes fire on you?"

She laughed.

"Really, what happens? Have you ever tried?"

Now she sat up and hugged her arms about her bare body. "I'm really cold. I should get dressed."

Mark held her tunic out of reach. "First tell me what happens."

She snatched, missed, and fell across him, and for a moment they lay close together. He pulled a cover over her and stroked her back. "What happens?"