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ng them to understand what work they're supposed to do. As a

wingman on a wagon train I was never close enough to 'em. But I must

admit I never tried. First because, if it's not your job, it's not

encouraged; second, because it's, well, uhh - not healthy to hang

around them too long; third because it just wouldn't enter my head to

talk to a lump -' He broke off with an embarrassed smile. 'I mean,

they're not like you and Cadillac. They're..."

'Stupid...?" volunteered Mr Snow.

Steve shrugged. 'If you want me to be honest, yes, most of them

probably are. They don't know anything and they can't learn

anything."

Steve hesitated then concluded lamely, 'Well - that's what we were

told."

Mr Snow nodded with an understanding smill. 'How do you think they

feel?"

'Feel...?" Steve looked puzzled - as if he couldn't quite grasp the

idea that a Mute could feel anything; could have expectations of

anything other than the life to which history had condemned him.

'Yes,' said Mr Snow. 'How do you think they feel about working in

slave-camps?"

Steve pursed his lips and pondered the question. 'I don't know.

They're alive aren't they? They get regular meals.

They don't have to fight other clans."

'They are also bound with iron ropes."

'Iron...? Oh you mean chains,' said Steve. 'Yeah, that's true. But

not everybody. Only the troublemakers."

Mr Snow nodded then said quietly, 'Why do you think they make

trouble?"

Steve responded with a quick laugh. 'I guess they don't like work."

'Maybe they have a different way of looking at the world."

'Maybe they have,' said Steve. 'What they have to learn to do is look

at it our way." He smiled to take the hard edge off his words. 'This

is our world. This country belongs to us. The Mutes in those work

camps are there because they lost out. They had a choice - and they

chose not to die."

'Are those the only two options we have?" asked Mr Snow. 'Slavery or

death? We think, we feel, we draw breath.

Don't we have a right to exist?"

Steve chewed over his reply. 'I don't know quite how to put it."

'Put it anyway you like. Shoot to kill."

'Then the official answer is "No". Not in the eyes of the

Federation.

We've been raised to think of you as lower than animals; that it is our

duty to Wipe you off the face of the earth. But..."

'But what...?"

'Now that I've met you and Cadillac I'm not so sure. I'm - well, kind

of- confused. I mean you talk like a - real person."

Mr Snow chuckled. 'Thank you."

'And Cadillac - if you ignore the colour of his skin ' '- looks like a

real person. Yes, I can see the problem.

Never mind." Mr Snow patted Steve's shoulder. 'I'm sure you'll work

it out." He uncrossed his legs and stood up. He began to walk away,

then turned back. 'What would you say if I told you that the ancestors

of the Plainfolk were people from the Old Time - straight-limbed

people, many of them with skins the same colour as yours?"

Steve decided it was time to be diplomatic. 'After meeting you I'd

have to say that anything is possible."

Mr Snow chuckled heartily. 'You're a smart cookie, Brickman. You'll

go far,' As he watched Mr Snow walk away he had the distinct feeling

that the old wordsmith and his heir apparent were stringing him

along.

Steve had always prided himself on staying one step ahead of the game

and it annoyed him to be kept in the dark. It was Mr Snow who was the

smart cookie.