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“Care to tell me about it?”

Dan’nor told him, leaving out only the most insignificant details. When he had finished, he somehow felt better about it. It still hurt, but the pain no longer had an edge to it.

“You were unlucky,” said Trien’nor, “that’s all. No less efficient, no less cautious than anyone else would have been in the same position. Just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

The Military had never been a topic of discussion between them. What little he knew of Trien’nor’s aborted career he had learned from his mother.

And yet, here they were-discussing Military matters. It felt strange-but no stranger than the rest of this conversation.

They came to the bottom of the hill and the river narrowed to a dark blue violet band-a reflection of the deepening sky. The wharf was a few blocks down on their right; Dan’nor’s flat was to the left, past the tavern and over the footbridge.

“Perhaps,” he said, “we could go to my place instead. Or at least stop there first-to turn on the videoscreen.”

Trien’nor shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. Lots of people miss an evening at home to see the Conflicts in the taverns. As long as you don’t do it too often, no one at the Viewership Service will think twice about it.”

Dan’nor hesitated. Something inside him wondered if he could trust that advice.

And then he almost laughed. This is my father, he told himself. A little different, maybe, but still my father. If I can’t trust him, who can I trust?

He stifled his doubts.

They turned to the right and walked along the water. On the other side, downriver and beyond the buildings, clouds were gathering. The dying sun, slipping out of sight, painted them in dusky reds and pinks. The river’s version of the clouds made them look darker-like blood.

Trien’nor muttered something beneath his breath. Dan’nor couldn’t make it out very well, but the Viewership Service seemed to be at the heart of the matter.

The older man shook his head. “Do you remember the Two Rules?” he asked.

Dan’nor dredged them out of memory. They came up easily-so easily it surprised him.

“Yes,” he said. “I believe I do.”

“Rule One,” said Trien’nor. “That which is withheld is more greatly desired. Things are more precious in small quantities.”

Dan’nor was about to recite the second rule, but suddenly he felt ridiculous. After all, he was no longer a child.

When he saw his son’s reluctance, Trien’nor voiced the second rule as well. “That which costs nothing is worth nothing. Something of true value is always expensive.”

It was a game they had played when Dan’nor was young. A cryptic sort of game, the meaning of which had always escaped him.

Now, at long last, he thought he’d figured it out. “Is that what the Rules were about?” he asked. “Viewership?”

Trien’nor shrugged a second time. “Certainly, viewership is a good example. If they let us watch the Conflicts all day and all night, we would quickly tire of them. But by doling them out only at certain times, they keep us hungry-eager for the next viewership period.”

“And the second Rule,” said Dan’nor, “would apply to the viewership fee.”

“A fee,” added his father, “which most of us can’t afford. But if it were any less costly, we might not look on it as such a luxury-such a thing to look forward to.”

Dan’nor nodded. It was twilight now. The clouds had lost their color; they were nearly as dark as the rest of the sky. In the east, there were faint stars.

The breeze had just shifted, and the stench of the river was all around them. It was thick with dead fish and garbage and factory waste.

“But you say viewership is only an example,” continued the younger man. “The Rules apply to something else as well?”

Trien’nor seemed to hesitate before speaking. And when he finally broke the silence, it was with a question of his own.

“Why did you join the Military?”

Dan’nor looked at him. It seemed that he should have been able to snap out an answer-but it wasn’t quite that simple. Nor, when he finally