"Very good. Now I will tell you something about The Prophet, the Blessed Flenyaagor. You remember that it was he who gave us the words of Kargh the all-master, the all-seeing…"

Ralankoor was tempted to cut her off. The commodore had ordered him specifically to minimize the information the prisoner was exposed to, consistent with getting her reasonably fluent in Imperial. And Ralankoor had gone to considerable trouble to edit instructional material to comply with that order. The technician was going beyond it.

But just now he let her continue.

"The Blessed Flenyaagor was born more than 4,700 years ago-imperial years. He was a sailor, a man who traveled on a small ship that went upon the sea, driven by the wind. He owned that small ship, and at night, on the sea, he would watch the stars, and wonder about them. He also wondered about many other things. In time, Kargh spoke to the Blessed Flenyaagor, answering many of his questions. And began to tell him how men should live on the world, and how they should treat one another.

"He also told Flenyaagor to write it down. And then to go forth upon the land and tell the people all that Kargh had told him…"

When the specialist had finished her little story, Ralankoor spoke. "Specialist Zoranjee," he said mildly, "wait in the corridor. After I have spoken privately to our guest for a few minutes I will speak with you."

The tech nodded. "Yes, Commander," she said, and rising, left. Ralankoor sat down opposite the prisoner, the seat warm from the specialist's body.

"Specialist Zoranjee told me yesterday that she found you dancing. And that you dance very nicely."

The prisoner answered in Imperial. "Yes, sir."

"Do you remember ever dancing before? Before you were brought on board this ship?"

The violet eyes slid away, and she shook her head. "No, sir."

"Well. Perhaps you will dance for me sometime."

The eyes brightened. "I will dance for you now, if you'd like."

Childlike, thought Ralankoor. According to the chief medical officer, amnesiacs were not ordinarily childlike. In fact, her symptoms did not match anything that DAAS had on amnesia, except of course that she could not remember. And his instruments had assured him that she wasn't faking.

He nodded. She stood and began dancing, humming the music. It was not at all like any dancing he'd seen before. Her movements were larger, fuller, more athletic, requiring greater flexibility and balance, their appeal more purely artistic than sensual. It seemed to him that musicians would add greatly to both performance and appreciation.

After a minute or two she stopped, sweat sheening her forehead. A smile parted her lips.

"That was very nice, Tain," he said. "I'm going to leave now, to talk with Specialist Zoranjee. We won't be long. Then she'll come back in and continue your lessons."

With that he left, stepped into the corridor and closed the door behind him. He wondered if she'd begin dancing again.

"Specialist," he said, and his voice was stern, "do not tell her further stories about The Prophet."

The specialist's face registered brief surprise, then indignation, though of course she said nothing. Ralankoor knew her problem: It was written that the believer had a duty to inform the non-believer about The Prophet and his words. When one could find a non-believer.

"Use only the material I've specified in DAAS," he continued. "Nothing more. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir." The words came stiffly.

"Good. And something else: Why were you drilling her on the names of the planets?"

"Because they, most of them, are based on the ordinal numbers, which she had just learned."

"Mmm. I see. Specialist, I had you assigned to this duty because I felt sure you were the best person for it. You are intelligent, responsible, and considerate. I will not put you on report this time, but there must not be another." He repeated an earlier lecture now. "The commodore wants her to know no more about Klestron and the empire than necessary to complete the language drills. Then we'll put her in stasis till we arrive home. She'll be interrogated by SUMBAA there, and her answers must be as little influenced as possible by knowledge of our ways and beliefs." His voice softened for a moment. "After she has talked with SUMBAA then she'll be taught about The Prophet, and Kargh, and no doubt many other things."

Once more he made a stern face. "Do not deviate from this policy again."

Specialist Zoranjee nodded, contritely now. "Yes, sir."

"But encourage her to dance," Ralankoor went on. "It's good for her, physically and probably spiritually."

He turned and started for his office. Tain. Tain Faronya. Even the name was lovely. It was all they'd learned from her before the foreign artifact had stripped her of her memory and almost her life.

It occurred to him that she might have lost more than memories and attitudes. She might have lost some reasoning capacity, leaving her like a child, a lovely, agreeable child. Spiritually. Physically she was no child. She was undoubtedly the loveliest woman he'd ever seen, especially dancing. And the most desirable.

He wondered what would be done with her on Klestron when SUMBAA had finished questioning her. She'd be without family there, a woman without family to shield her. Even if she wasn't noble, which wasn't proven, gentry had the same values, the same sensibilities, and it had been wrong not to release her before they left. There were those on Klestron-even on this ship-who'd take advantage of her, given half a chance. And on Klestron those who'd make the chance, who'd be in a position to. He was tempted to himself, though he wouldn't. Certainly not with the morality and threat of the commodore in the background.

But he'd allow himself to fantasize occasionally.

Three

The new Kalif sat scanning rapidly through a bound packet of printouts, then slowed, frowned, and turned backward a page. "What is this?" he muttered, then looked up at his secretary. "Industrial riots at Chingarook on Saathvoktos, this coming Veethkar." (Veethkar is the eighth month in the imperial calendar.) Mid Veethkar! Partiil, how can SUMBAA come up with a prediction like this? With such seeming precision?"

His secretary blinked nervously. "It's what he was designed to do, Your Reverence. To know."

The Kalif snapped his reply: "That's no answer! Obviously he was designed to do it. But how does he do it? Useful prediction requires data, at least for a computer. In matters like this it also requires an improbable knowledge of complex, constantly changing relationships."

He paused, frowned thoughtfully. "How good are SUMBAA's predictions?"

"Quite good, I believe, Your Reverence."

The Kalif grunted. "That's been my impression, but I've never seen actual data on it." He gestured with the report. "Go. And call Alb Jilsomo. Tell him I want to see him. Right away, unless it will cause him problems."

"At once, Your Reverence." The secretary, a small wiry man, hurried from the room as if glad to be leaving. Then, leaning forearms on his desk, the Kalif continued to read. After several minutes, his secretary's voice spoke from the desk speaker.

"Alb Jilsomo is here to see you, Your Reverence."

"Send him in."

The Kalif leaned back in his chair. A large man entered-the exarch who'd urged his crowning, and the only exarch without the mark of nobility on his forehead. He was rather tall and very fat, his white robe tentlike. "You wanted to see me, Your Reverence?"

"Right." The Kalif held up the report he'd been reading. "SUMBAA's monthly summary report on industrial conditions. There's a prediction I want you to see. Here."

Alb Jilsomo Savbatso walked over to him and took the bound packet of printouts, his eyes settling on the place the Kalif indicated. He read quickly. "Yes, Your Reverence?"