“I’ll be flogged if I understand it!”
“Because you are almost as much fraki as I am . . . and haven’t had my training. Thorby, most things are right or wrong only in their backgrounds; few things are good or evil in themselves. But things that are right or wrong according to their culture, really are so. This exogamy rule the People live by, you probably think it’s just a way to outsmart mutations — in fact that’s the way it is taught in the ship’s school.”
“Of course. That’s why I can’t see –”
“Just a second. So you can’t see why your Grandmother should object. But it’s essential that the People marry back and forth among ships, not just because of genes — that’s a side issue — but because a ship is too small to be a stable culture. Ideas and attitudes have to be cross-germinated, too, or Sisu and the whole culture will die. So the custom is protected by strongest possible taboo. A ‘minor’ break in this taboo is like a ‘minor’ break in the ship, disastrous unless drastic steps are taken. Now . . . do you understand that?”
“Well . . . no, I don’t think so.”
“I doubt if your Grandmother understands it; she just knows what’s right for her family and acts with forthrightness and courage. Do you still want to send a message?”
“Uh, well, could you tell Mata that I’m sorry I didn’t get to say good-by?”
“Mmm, yes. I may wait a while.”
“All right.”
“Feeling better yourself?”
“Uh, I guess so . . . since you say it’s best for Mata.” Thorby suddenly burst out, “But, Margaret, I don’t know what is the matter with me! I thought I was getting the hang of things. Now it’s all gone to pieces. I feel like a fraki and I doubt if I’ll ever learn to be a Trader.”
Her face was suddenly sad. “You were free once. It’s a hard habit to get over.”
“Huh?”
“You’ve had violent dislocations, Thorby. Your foster father — your first one, Baslim the Wise — bought you as a slave and made you his son, as free as he was. Now your second foster father, with the best of intentions, adopted you as his son, and thereby made you a slave.”
“Why, Margaret!” Thorby protested. “How can you say such a thing?”
“If you aren’t a slave, what are you?”
“Why, I’m a Free Trader. At least that’s what Father intended, if I can ever get over my fraki habits. But I’m not a slave. The People are free. All of us.”
“All of you . . . but not each of you.”
“What do you mean?”
“The People are free. It’s their proudest boast. Any of them can tell you that freedom is what makes them People and not fraki. The People are free to roam the stars, never rooted to any soil. So free that each ship is a sovereign state, asking nothing of anyone, going anywhere, fighting against any odds, asking no quarter, not even cooperating except as it suits them. Oh, the People are free; this old Galaxy has never seen such freedom. A culture of less than a hundred thousand people spread through a quarter of a billion cubic light-years and utterly free to move anywhere at any time. There has never been a culture like it and there may never be again. Free as the sky . . . more free than the stars, for the stars go where they must. Ah, yes, the People are free.” She paused. “But at what price was this freedom purchased?”
Thorby blinked.
“I’ll tell you. Not with poverty. The People enjoy the highest average wealth in history. The profits of your trading are fantastic. Nor has it been with cost to health or sanity. I’ve never seen a community with less illness. Nor have you paid in happiness or self-respect. You’re a smugly happy lot, and your pride is something sinful — of course you do have a lot to be proud of. But what you have paid for your unparalleled freedom . . . is freedom itself. No, I’m not talking riddles. The People are free . . . at the cost of loss of individual freedom for each of you — and I don’t except the Chief Officer or Captain; they are the least free of any.”