The president tapped an alarm instruction on his timer, giving himself thirty-five minutes, then returned his attention to the Masadan document, and continued reading as if he'd never been interrupted.

He arrived on the dot, to find Farrukhi there ahead of him, not yet seated. The psychologist was a thin man with an apologetic expression, and a fringe of black hair framing an expanse of bald brown head. If allowed to, his blue jaw would grow far more hair than his cranium. In other company he would have seemed tall, but in the same room with Foster Peixoto…

Farrukhi worked in the Office of Technical Recruitment. The previous afternoon, he'd sent Peixoto a brief description of a problem. Without suggesting possible action; a lack the prime minister despised. But the description seemed to say it all: War House had issued a confidential document outlining the intended conduct of the war. A description that, if carried out, required more than twelve hundred savant communicators. However, Farrukhi pointed out, only four hundred and forty seven suitable savants were known to exist. Nearly three hundred of them were at Commonwealth embassies on colony worlds, their only effective means of communication with Kunming.

The prime minister waved his two guests to chairs. "So," he said to Farrukhi, "what do you suggest?"

The man squirmed. Literally. "I hesitated to enter this into the system, but there are many verified savants in institutions, in very delicate health. Some have critically defective hearts or immune systems, some physiological processes that fluctuate beyond sustainable limits. Most die in childhood. If they could be transferred… their central nervous systems that is… " His dark face grew even darker with blood. "Transferred into mobile, life-support modules… "

Say it, man, Chang thought. The word is "bottled"! But the idea was excellent. It was a solution.

"Unfortunately… " Shrugging, Farrukhi spread his hands.

"I know," Peixoto finished. "Bottling is illegal. But with our new war powers, that will be changed by supper." To be followed by outrage, he added silently.

The psychologist nodded. "I am also aware of another at least potential source. Worldwide there are many… `defective' children not identified as savants. And most in fact are not, but surely some are. If we could screen them… But… "

"But unfortunately," Peixoto finished for him, "it will further outrage our watchdogs."

Again Farrukhi's head bobbed. "And equally important is the matter of finding suitable sensitives to serve as attendants, to manage their communication function."

"Surely there are more psychically sensitive persons than there are savants."

"I'm sure there are. But again, the problem is to identify them. Many will seem quite ordinary, and prefer to keep their sensitivity private."

The president spoke now. "How have they been identified in the past?"

"In the past, sensitives were hired who were already known to institutions researching the field."

"Ah!" said Chang. "But surely some of the anonymous sensitives associate with others. Identify such groups and their meeting places. Post notices on the Ether: `good money and secure, satisfying jobs for qualified sensitives.' Make the wages suitably attractive, perhaps equivalent to a PS-12. Consult with the attendants of savants already in government service. Ask their advice."

Farrukhi's face brightened. He shifted to the edge of his seat, as if to dash out and get started.

"Doctor," the prime minister said, "the president and I thank you for your astute help. I want you to sketch out quickly-before you break for supper-a rough plan to carry all this out. Now, don't let me keep you from getting started."

Abdol Farrukhi's long legs raised him from his chair. "Thank you, Mr. Prime Minister," he said, then looked at Chang Lung-Chi. "Thank you, Mr. President."

When he had gone, Peixoto turned to Chang. "It distresses me," he said glumly, "to outrage the honest if mistaken scruples of so many people. It could lead to demonstrations."

Chang grunted; his own distress threshold was higher than the prime minister's. To him there were reasonable people, and there were problem people, the latter including the chronically indignant. "We do what we must," he said, "and when we've won the war, or lost it, any demonstrations will be forgotten."

"Nonetheless… " said his friend, and shrugged. "Why don't we have lunch together? On your balcony over the rotunda. We can talk about other things than problems."

The president agreed, and they did their best to talk about grandchildren, the food, and the weather. It wasn't much of a conversation, but they'd get plenty of practice before the war was over.

Drago Dravec

The flood of early human migration to outsystem worlds was almost entirely atavistic-agrarian, ethnic, sectarian, or some combination of them. By the 26th century, however, humankind in the Sol System had evolved enough, socially, politically and spiritually, that sectarianism had greatly shrunken. Ethnic and racial mixing was widespread and accepted, chauvinism had lost its edge, and tolerance had far outgrown intolerance. As a result, colonization almost stopped; only nine new projects left Terra in the 26th century.

Colonization picked up strongly, though, in the 27th, with new projects directed largely at the Ultima Fornax Sector, to facilitate eventual intercolonial commerce-a factor ignored during the centuries when colonists sought isolation. Most of the new colonists wanted to expand financially, and felt inhibited by Terran legal and cultural restrictions, or by established competitors, or both. Or simply wanted to start over on a virgin planet, this time to "do it right." In any case they had the goal of creating interacting, high-tech societies, using Terran technology and experience. As a result, by the 29th century, interplanetary commerce had become significant in the remote Ultima Fornax Sector.

Syllabus of Human History

Collegiate Books, Lyon, France

Sky Harbor was the political and commercial capital of Hart's Desire, and Drago Dravec, Henry Morgan's surrogate, knew it well. And while he had nothing to fence this trip, Morgan had done business there with Harlan Cheregian for more than a decade. And Cheregian, who knew everything and everybody worth knowing on Hart's Desire, also had the ear of government there.

The monsoon had arrived, hot and humid, and Drago Dravec set the Minerva down at the port of Sky Harbor in an afternoon deluge. (The squadron's other three ships had put down at Nuevo Oaxaca, far from Hart's central government. Summers at Nuevo Oaxaca were relatively cool and dry, the entertainment district less restricted, and the port authority more flexible. And Harlan Cheregian had a branch office there.)

A cabby had seen the Minerva land, and moved hopefully to her pad. Dravec sprinted the few unprotected yards to it, jumped in and slammed the door behind him, somewhat less than soaked.

"Where to?" asked the cabby.

"The roof of the Cheregian Building."

"They expecting you?"

"I wouldn't go if he wasn't."

He. The cabby nodded. The spacer was indifferently dressed, but he'd arrived in what appeared to be a very expensive yacht, and gave the impression of someone in charge. Cheregian probably did expect him. The cabby lifted his floater against the downpour, riding lights flashing a penetrating blue, then swung toward the commercial district, headed for the Cheregian Building. "You from offworld?"

"Yep."

"Did you hear about the alien invasion?"

"Yep."

The spacer's answers didn't inspire follow-ups. Minutes later the floater hovered inches above the Cheregian Building's passenger pad, as close to the canopy as the cabby could get it. A flunky in a suit waited with an umbrella. The cabby turned to Drago, expecting plastic, and wondering what sort of tipper the guy was. Instead of plastic, the spacer handed him a Commonwealth 50-credit note, and got out saying, "Keep the change." He'd hoped for more, but it wasn't too bad.