“You believe in all this Earthseed stuff, don’t you?” “Every word,” I answered. “But . . . you made it up.”

I reached down, picked up a small stone, and put it on the table between us. “If I could analyze this and tell you all that it was made of, would that mean I’d made up its contents?” He didn’t do more than glance at the rock. He kept his eyes on me. “So what did you analyze to get Earthseed?” “Other people,” I said, “myself, everything I could read, hear, see, all the history I could learn.

“But how do you know you’re right?” he insisted. “How do you know Earthseed is true. Who says it’s true?” “You do, Dan.” I let him chew on that for a while, then went on. “You learn, you think, you question. You question us and you question yourself. Then, if you find Earthseed to be true, you join us. You help us teach others. You help others the way we’ve helped you and your sisters.”

wound up with a couple of books on drawing. I haven’t tried to draw anything since I was seven or eight. Now, all of a sudden, I find myself interested in learning to draw, learning to draw well—if I can. I want to learn something new and unrelated to any of our troubles.

Earthseed is true—is a collection of truths, but there’s no law that says it has to succeed. We can always screw it up. I can always screw it up. There’s so much to be done.”