The Way of Decision

_History records numerous small colonies, based upon unusual ideas of the family unit and social group. Most of these have failed in practice, but usually because they were based upon idealistic notions which had little to do with the economic or social necessities of their times. But what of a new theory of the family and social unit which is designed to conform with actual conditions? And what is such a group likely to face when a new member, a person without any understanding of the actual conditions, has to be accepted as a member?_

The Way Of Decision

by M. C. PEASE

Tom Vord sat on the porch of his clan's house with his feet on the railing. Across the valley, he could hear the muted roar of the commuter track that led south to New Haven; but all he could see were the sprawling rows of private houses that strung along the belt. And behind them, more isolated from each other, the larger structures of the homes of other clans. The bright greenness of spring lay over the land, and it was fresh and sparkling. A typical suburban scene in this year of 2013, Tom thought. Even the mixture of private houses and clan was symbolic of the time. And in a way, symbolic also of the problem he had.

Tom's face was brooding. His was a nature not easily satisfied, or content with half-solutions--and he took the problems of the clan seriously. Partly as a consequence of this, but also because he had the self-control to avoid crises, he was the unacknowledged leader of the clan, and its chief administrator. His age was hard to guess. He was not old; his face was unlined, and his hair both present and dark; his eyes showed an enthusiasm that indicated youth. And yet he was not young; there was a maturity in his glance, an acceptance in his attitude that made him seem older than he was. And so he sat there, relaxed, idly looking out over the countryside, even as he wondered if the present crisis was enough to disrupt the clan.

Below him Ricky Vord came toiling up the steps to the house. Ricky was the opposite of Tom. Young and intense, with a devil-may-care attitude, he was the born salesman. His enthusiasms came bubbling out, and he had the ability to carry with him anyone who might object. And if he did not have the deepness of thought fully to understand the implications of all that he said or did, he was the better salesman for it.

With a wave, Ricky entered the house. There were muffled sounds from the interior, and it was not for several minutes that the boy appeared on the porch. Then it was with two tall glasses in his hands. "I consider this Tom Collins weather," he said. "I suspect you do, too, only you're too lazy to mix your own." He handed Tom the second drink and sat down beside him.

"Possibly," Tom said with a smile. "I certainly won't refuse. What do you know?"

"A lot of things," Ricky answered. He took a long drink. "Ah, that's good," he said. "You know, I been down talking to Graves again. We got that thing in the bag if we want it." His voice was off-hand, deliberately so, Tom knew.

"We have?" Tom's voice also was careful. "Do you mean with or without the girl?"

"Well ... You can't blame Graves for wanting to see his daughter settled. He figures that if she gets into a clan, maybe she'll calm down. And he could be right. Maybe she will; who knows? After all, she does want to come in. That must mean something."