“What’s that?”

“It’s about my father. You were the last person on Ragna to see him and were closest to him except for my mother. What kind of a man was he?”

Old Pete studied her for a moment. “You’re a lot like your grandfather,” he said finally. “Junior-your father-was different. He was never a very happy person; he was a born achiever, but his major problem was that he was born at the top, the heir apparent to IBA. He tried his best to make it with the company while your grandfather was alive, but after Joe died he became increasingly restless.” Old Pete’s mind drifted back to the day of Junior Finch’s departure.

“But where are you going?” Paxton asked.

Joe Finch, Jr. shrugged. “I haven’t really decided yet. It’s only for a year, Pete, and I’m sure IBA won’t miss me. You’ve been running the show ever since Dad’s death anyway.” He put his hand on Pete’s shoulder. They were close-Junior had called him “Uncle Pete” as a kid-and Pete now and then tended to take on a fatherly attitude. “I’m a big boy now, Pete. I’m thirty-three, I have a wife who understands and a ten-year-old daughter who’ll miss me but who’ll somehow survive a year without me.”

“I know what’s eating you, Joe,” Pete said gravely. “But can’t you climb a mountain, or something?”

Junior laughed. “I’ve no desire to be a mountain goat. I just don’t feel a part of IBA, that’s all. It’s not my company. I had nothing to do with its growth, or founding … it was just handed to me.”

“But the company has a lot of growing to do,” Pete said. “You could be part of that. Its future will ultimately depend on you, you know.”

“IBA’s present momentum will carry it another ten or twenty years with little help from anyone. I’ve got no qualms about taking out a year to go somewhere.”

“And do what?”

“I dunno … something.” He stuck out his hand. “Good-bye, Pete. I’ll contact you when I get where I’m going.”