“I will learn, if you wish it,” Dawn answered.

“Consider yourself hired—until there’s a vacancy for a high priestess somewhere. Jill, have we forgotten anybody?”

“No, Boss. Except that all those who have left feel free to camp on you anytime, too. And they will.”

“I assumed that. Nest number two, when and as needed.” He went over to the range and joined Duke, glanced into the pan he was stirring. It held a small amount of broth. “Hmm . . . Mike?”

“Yup.” Duke dipped out a little in the spoon, tasted it. “Needs a little salt.”

“Yes, Mike always did need a little seasoning.” Jubal took the spoon and tasted the broth. Duke was correct; the flavor was sweet and could have used salt. “But let’s grok him as he is. Who’s left to share?”

“Just you. Tony left me here with strict instructions to stir by hand, add water as needed, and wait for you. Not to let it scorch.”

“Then grab a couple of cups. We’ll share it and grok together.”

“Right, Boss.” Two cups came sailing down and rested by the sauce pan. “This is a joke on Mike—he always swore that he would outlive me and serve me up for Thanksgiving. Or maybe the joke’s on me—because we had a bet on it and now I can’t collect.”

“You won only by default. Split it evenly.”

Duke did so. Jubal raised his cup. “Share!”

“Grow ever closer.”

Slowly they drank the broth, stretching it out, savoring it, praising and cherishing and groking their donor. Jubal found, to his surprise, that although he was overflowing with emotion, it was a calm happiness that did not bring tears. What a quaint and gawky puppy his son had been when first he saw him . . . so eager to please, so naive in his little mistakes—and what a proud power he had become without ever losing his angelic innocence. I grok you at last, son—and would not change a line!

Patty had his lunch waiting for him; he sat down and dug in, hungry and feeling that it had been days since breakfast. Sam was saying, “I was telling Saul that I grok no need to make any change in plans. We go on as before. If you’ve got the right merchandise, the business grows, even though the founder has passed on.”

“I wasn’t disagreeing,” Saul objected. “You and Ruth will found another temple—and we’ll found others. But we’ll have to take time now to accumulate capital. This isn’t a street corner revival, nor yet something to set up in a vacant shop; it requires staging and equipment. That means money—not to mention such things as paying for a year or two on Mars for Stinky and Maryam . . . and that’s just as essential.”

“All right already! Who’s arguing? We wait for fullness . . . and go ahead.”

Jubal said suddenly, “Money’s no problem.”

“How’s that, Jubal?”

“As a lawyer I shouldn’t tell this . . . but as a water brother I do what I grok. Just a moment—Anne.”

“Yes, Boss.”

“Buy that spot. The one where they stoned Mike. Better get about a hundred-foot radius around it.”

“Boss, the spot itself is public parkway. A hundred-foot radius will cut off some public road and a piece of the hotel grounds.”

“Don’t argue.”

“I wasn’t arguing, I was giving you facts.”

“Sorry. They’ll sell. They’ll reroute that road. Hell, if their arms are twisted properly, they’ll donate the land—twisting done through Joe Douglas, I think. And have Joe Douglas claim from the morgue whatever was left when those ghouls got through with him and we’ll bury him right on that spot—say a year from now . . . with the whole city mourning and the cops that didn’t protect him today standing at attention.” What to put over him? The Fallen Caryatid? No, Mike had been strong enough for his stone. The Little Mermaid would be better—but it wouldn’t be understood. Maybe one of Mike himself, just as he was when he had said, “Look at me. I am a Son of Man.” If Duke didn’t catch a shot of it, New World did—and maybe there was a brother, or would be a brother, with the spark of Rodin in him to do it right and not fancy it up.

“We’ll bury him there,” Jubal went on, “unprotected, and let the worms and the gentle rain grok him. I grok Mike will like that. Anne, I want to talk to Joe Douglas as soon as we get home.”

“Yes, Boss. We grok with you.”

“Now about that other.” He told them about Mike’s will. “So you see, each one of you is at least a millionaire—just how much more than that I haven’t estimated lately . . . but much more, even after taxes. No strings on it at all . . . but I grok that you will spend as needed for temples and similar stuff. But there’s nothing to stop you from buying yachts if you wish. Oh, yes! Joe Douglas stays on as manager for any who care to let the capital ride, same pay as before . . . but I grok Joe won’t last long, where-upon management devolves on Ben Caxton. Ben?”