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A political movement calling itself "Pragmatist" had emerged, initially among the Terran contingent but
finding sympathizers too in certain sectors of the Kronian population. Consolidating behind Valcroix, they
were making a case to the Kronian governing administration for a "fairer" Terran voice in the making of
policy decisions that would now apply to everybody. Yes, they conceded, it was true that Kronia had
been founded specifically for the freedom to pursue its own independent ideals. But circumstances had
changed since then, forcing a situation whereby, like it or not, Kronia had become de facto the common
heritage of all that was left of human civilization. The Terran-originated portion of that civilization along
with its views and its values, they argued, was entitled to representation accordingly. The real issue, of
course, was finding an angle that would get a bigger say in the way things were going to be run. In short,
as always, where the power would come to lie.
Keene left the pedestrian way via a fire door into a side passage and descended in what had been
intended as a freight elevator to emerge at a three-way intersection of corridors with floors of metal mesh
and ribbed yellow walls interrupted by doors spaced at intervals. It always put Keene in mind of the
lower decks of a cargo ship. With the influx of Terran refugees in addition to the general migration of the
population underground, accommodation in Kropotkin was still in short supply. Also, damage repair
took precedence over new construction, which didn't help matters. The unit that Vicki occupied was the
same one that she and Robin had been assigned when they first arrived, hastily improvised from storage
levels in the lower parts of the complex as a temporary measure until something became available in the
regular residential sectors. More recently, Robin had moved into dormitory quarters with fellow students
from the Academy, and Vicki, finding the extra space useful, had stayed on. Keene came to a
cross-passage bearing the unlikely sign Mimosa. The first door to the right carried the number 2 and a
sign reading Delucey, Vicki. Keene waved his card at the scanlock and went in.
Vicki and Cavan were sitting at the bench seat in the living area, talking across the remains of the meal
they had finished earlier on a foldaway table hinged down from the wall. Alicia was in the kitchen alcove,
loading dishes into the washer. Vicki acknowledged Keene with a wave as he came in. "How's the
weather out?" Cavan quipped, turning his head.
"Hasn't changed much."
"Vicki's been telling me this stuff about Mars coming by periodically and hanging over India. Absolutely
astounding, Landen! And do you go along with it too?"
"I'm just the engineer. But Sariena and Charlie seemed to be impressed by it. They're the experts."
"Astounding!" Cavan said again, shaking his head. He was in his sixties, with wrinkles beginning to
collect in pink skin about a frame that had once been fuller, and thinning silver hair combed conventionally
to the side. But his eyes betrayed him, alive and alert, harboring the same penchant for intrigue and
mischief that made him an invaluable ally to have on the inside of a political situation for as long as Keene
had known him. These days, Cavan spent most of his time circulating among the various departments of
the governing administration at Foundation. What he involved himself in there, Keene still wasn't sure.
Alicia cleared some space on the worktop for Keene to set the bags down and began helping him
unload them. Blond, curvaceous, still managing to look stunning in Kronian tunic garb and with her
once-long hair cut short, she was little more than half Cavan's age but everyone thought them ideally
matched. Cavan had joined Keene in California with a military unit from Washington during Earth's final
days, bringing Alicia with them too when it became plain that there would probably be no going back.
Her background on Earth had been medical. Since coming to Kronia she had been working to help
rehabilitate Terrans suffering from traumatic disorders and depression.
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
"Hello, what's this?" Alicia held up the bottle of Tennessee Amber. "Claiming the good stuff, I see."
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