“Because it’s not the most efficient form of government. Major decisions require a lot of debating and, if the diameter of the Terran Sphere gets too long, the Tribunes won’t be able to learn what the folks at home think about an issue until after it’s decided and done with. That means that unpopular decisions get rammed down the throats of the voters, until they start rebelling. The rebellions’re put down, but that turns into repression, which breeds even more rebellion. So eventually, the democracy either falls apart, or turns into a dictatorship.”

“You’re saying, then, that the size of a democracy is limited by its communications.” Father Al gazed off into space, nodding slowly. “It sounds logical. But how does this affect Gramarye?”

“Because most of the people there are latent telepaths—and about 10 percent are active, accomplished, and powerful.”

Father Al stared, feeling excitement thrum through his blood. Then he nodded. “I see. As far as we know, telepathy is instantaneous, no matter how much distance separates the sender and the receiver.”

Yorick nodded. “With them in the DDT, democracy could expand indefinitely. But they’d have to be willing volunteers, Father. You can’t expect much accuracy in your communications if you’re using slaves who hate you.”

“Quite apart from the fact that the requirement for membership in the DDT is a viable planetary democracy. So the DDT has to see to it that the planet develops a democratic government.”

Yorick nodded again. “That’s why the DDT has SCENT—to sniff out the Lost Colonies, and see to it that they develop democratic governments. And SPITE and VETO have to see to it that SCENT fails.”

Father Al’s mouth tightened in disgust. “Is there no place free of political meddling any more? How many agents does SCENT have on Gramarye?”

“One.” Yorick sat back, grinning.

“One? For so important a planet?”

Yorick shrugged. “So far, they haven’t needed any more—and too many cooks might spoil the brew.”

Father Al laid his hand flat on the table. “The agent wouldn’t be the Rodney d’Armand who discovered the planet, would it?”

Yorick nodded.

“And Rod Gallowglass? Where does he fit into this?”

“He’s Rodney d’Armand. The man always feels more comfortable using an alias.”

“Insecure, eh?” Father Al gazed off into space, drumming his fingers on the table. “But effective?”

“Sure is. So far, he’s thwarted two major attempts by SPITE and VETO together. What’s more, he’s used those victories to put the current monarchy on the road to developing a democratic constitution.”

Father Al’s eyebrows shot up. “Extremely able. And he’s about to discover some psionic talent of his own?”

“He’s about to disappear,” Yorick corrected, “and when he reappears in a few weeks, he’s going to be a genuine, full-fledged, twenty-four-carat wizard, able to conjure up armies out of thin air. And that’s just the beginning of his powers.”

Father Al frowned. “And he won’t do it by psi talents?”

Yorick shook his head.

“Then what is the source of his power?”

“That’s your field, Father.” Yorick jabbed a finger at the priest. “You tell us—if you can catch up with him before he disappears, and go with him.”

“You may be sure that I’ll try. But why isn’t he a psi? Because he comes from off-planet?”

“Only the genuine, Gramarye-born article occasionally turns out to be a telepath—and usually a telekinetic or teleport, too, depending on sex. The women are telekinetic; that means they can make broomsticks fly, and ride on them, among other things.”

“The witches of legend,” Father Al mused.

“That’s what they call ‘em. They call the esper men ‘warlocks.’ They can levitate, and make things, including themselves, appear and disappear, sometimes moving ‘em miles between.”

“But Rod Gallowglass can do none of these things?”

“No, but he wound up marrying the most powerful witch in Gramarye—and they’ve got four kids who’re showing a very interesting assortment of talents. In fact, they’re all more powerful than their mother. When they start realizing that, she’ll really have trouble.”

“Not necessarily, if they’ve raised them properly,” Father Al said automatically (he’d been assigned to a parish for several years). “Odd that they should be more powerful than their mother, when they don’t have psionic genes from both parents.”

“Yeah, isn’t it?” Yorick grinned. “I just love these little puzzles—especially when someone else gets to solve ‘em. But it might not be all that strange—there’re still new talents that keep cropping up on that planet. I mean, they’ve only been inbreeding for a few hundred years; they’ve got a lot of untapped potential.”

“Inbreeding… yes…” Father Al had a faraway look. “The answers would lie with their ancestors, wouldn’t they?”

“Buncha crackpots.” Yorick waved them away. “Ever hear of the Society for Creative Anachronism, Father?”

“No. Who were they?”

“A hodgepodge collection of escapists, who tried to forget they were living because of an advanced technology, by holding gatherings where everybody dressed up in medieval outfits and performing mock battles with fake swords.”

“Ah, I see.” Father Al smiled fondly. “They tried to restore some beauty to life.”

“Yeah, that was their problem. That kind of beauty requires individuality, and reinforces it—so they weren’t too popular with the totalitarian government of the Proletarian Eclectic State of Terra. When PEST came in, it broke up the SCA and executed the leaders. They all requested beheading, by the way… Well. The rest of the organization went underground; they turned into the backbone of the DDT revolution on Terra. Most of ‘em, anyway; there’s a rumor that about a quarter of ‘em spent the next few centuries playing a game called ‘Dungeons and Dragons.’ They were used to being underground.”

“Fascinating, I’m sure,” Father Al said drily, “but what does it have to do with Gramarye?”

“Well, a dozen of the richest SCA members saw the PEST coup coming, and bought an outmoded FTL space liner. They crammed aboard with all the rank-and-file who wanted to come along, renamed themselves the ‘Romantic Émigrés,’ and took off for parts unknown—the more unknown, the better. When they got there, they named it ‘Gramarye,’ and set up their version of the ideal medieval society—you know, architecture out of the Fourteenth Century, castles out of the Thirteenth, armor out of the Fifteenth, costumes out of any time between the fall of Rome and the Renaissance, and government out of luck. Well, they did have a King, but they paid him a fine medieval disregard. You get the idea.”

Father Al nodded. “A thorough collection of romantics and misfits—and a high concentration of psi genes.”

“Right. Then they proceeded to marry each other for a few centuries, and eventually produced telepaths, telekinetics, teleports, levitators, projective telepaths…”

“Projectives?” Father Al frowned. “You didn’t mention those.”

“Didn’t I? Well, they’ve got this stuff they call ‘witch moss.’ It’s a telepathically-sensitive fungus. If the right kind of ‘witch’ thinks hard at it, it turns into whatever she’s thinking about. And, of course, the whole population turned latent-esper fairly early on, and they loved to tell their children fairy tales…”

“No.” Father Al blanched. “They didn’t.”

“Oh, but they did—and now you’ll find an elf under every elm. With the odd werewolf thrown in—and a few ghosts. Hey, it could’ve been worse! If they hadn’t had this thing against anything later than Elizabethan, they might’ve been retelling Frankenstein.”

“Praise Heaven for small blessings!”

Yorick nodded. “You’ll have trouble enough with what they’ve got there already. Be careful, though—new talents keep showing up, from time to time.”

“Indeed? Well, I thank you for the warning. But I’m curious… Why did you come tell me all this? Why didn’t Dr. McAran just put it all into his letter?”