The Way of Decision

by M. C. Pease

He jumped up and started pacing up and down, gesturing with his arms. "Is this the great and beautiful thing they want to preserve? Or will they admit the realities? Will they admit the truths of anthropology? Realize that the idea of the family unit has had real meaning only when it has been the economic unit as well? And that in the modern world the economic unit is larger—and, therefore, the family must be, too? In the modern world, the economic unit is a team of workers; therefore, the family must be large enough to include the team. What's immoral about this? It gives the family meaning in the modern world, and it gives the individual something to live by. It gives him a reality that he could not have alone."

"Clear, concise, and possibly illuminating if I didn't know it already," Tom smiled at the younger one's missionary instincts. "Why don't you tell Graves this? Maybe we would not have to absorb his daughter."

"What do you think I've been telling him?" Ricky asked. He looked a trifle abashed, knowing that his enthusiasm had run away with him. "He hit the ceiling when Marcia first started talking up the clan idea, vowed that no daughter of his would ever disgrace the family name. I managed to talk him out of that, anyway. But, I'm no magician; he's still a Free-Trader of the old school. So my convincing him meant that he was willing to use his power to get his daughter what she wants. Which is us."

"In other words," Tom said, "you talked him out of thinking the clans are immoral, so he decided to buy one." He bit the sentence off.

"Well, yes," Ricky admitted; "that's one way of looking at it. But let's look at it another way. The rules of the clan are that a new member is provisional for a year. Any time in that year, we can always throw her out if we have to. And even afterwards—when we can no longer throw her out, and it could be we won't want to—there'll still be no reason why we should have to bow down to the old man. We can walk out on him, at least, any time. If Marcia doesn't want to come, then she can stay behind; and neither Graves nor anybody else can stop us."

"It sounds good," Tom said. "It's just that I don't believe it. The strength of the clan is its independence. We thirteen, and our children, against the world. One unit, free, and in a sense, complete. If we let anyone else decide who shall be in us and who shall not, then we are less free by that much. And by that much we are less strong. Maybe I'm a stubborn fool, Ricky, but that's the way I see it."

Ricky leaned against the porch railing. His face was thoughtful. "I wish I could convince you," he said. "The trouble is, I haven't got time. Graves has to have his answer now, to plan his production. Anyway, Marcia's getting restless; I think I'll have to tell them yes or no tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Tom looked startled. "What are you going to do? Caucus it tonight?"

Ricky nodded. "I have to, Tom. It isn't that I want to bull it through you. But if we don't get a vote on it tonight, then we've given up. Graves has said he has to know, so he can plan; we can't keep it in the air any longer. And I think the clan has a right to vote on the problem." He looked apologetic.

Tom sighed. "We seem to have agreed to disagree," he said. "So maybe it's better to get the showdown over with." He got up, walked over to Ricky, and punched him lightly in the shoulder. "Let's break clean and come out fighting at the bell." And he walked back inside the house to his room.