Five years had now passed since the Leaving. Crile Fisher found that hard to believe since it seemed so much longer than that, infinitely longer. Rotor was not in the past, but in another life altogether, one that he could only view with gathering incredulity. Had he really lived there? Had he had a wife?

He remembered only his daughter clearly, and even that had its element of confusion, for sometimes it seemed to him he remembered her as a teenager.

Of course, the problem was compounded by the fact that his life in the last three years, ever since Earth had discovered the Neighbor Star, had been a hectic one. He had visited seven different Settlements.

All of these were inhabited by Settlers of his own skin shade who spoke more or less his language and shared more or less his cultural orientation. (That was the advantage of Earth's variety. Earth could supply an agent similar in appearance and culture to the general population of any Settlement.)

Of course, there was a limit to how closely he could melt into any Settlement. No matter how he matched its population superficially, he still had a distinctive accent of speech, he could not remain as graceful as they under changes of gravitational pull, he could not skim along as they did in low gravity. In a dozen ways, he betrayed himself on each Settlement he visited, and always they withdrew from him just slightly, even though, in each case, he had gone through quarantine and medical treatment before being allowed to even enter the Settlement proper. Of course, he remained on each Settlement only a few days to a few weeks. Never was he expected to remain on a Settlement on a semi-permanent basis or to build himself a family there as he had done on Rotor. But then Rotor had had hyper-assistance, and since then Earth had been looking for items of narrower importance, or at least he had been sent on tasks of narrower importance.

He had been back now for three months. There was no word of a new assignment and he was not anxious for one. He was tired of the uprooting, tired of not fitting in, tired of the pretense of being a tourist.

And there was Garand Wyler, his old friend and colleague, fresh from a Settlement of his own and staring at him with tired eyes. The dark skin of his graceful hand glimmered in the light as he raised his sleeve to his nose for a moment, then let it drop.

Fisher half-smiled. He knew the gesture, had gone through it himself. Each Settlement had its own characteristic odor, depending on the crops it grew, the spices it used, the perfumes it affected, the very nature of the machinery and lubricants it used. It quickly went unnoticed, but on the return to Earth, the Settlement odor clung to one quite detectably. And though the person might be bathed, and the clothing washed so that others did not notice, one still noticed the smell on himself.

Fisher said, ‘Welcome back. How was your Settlement this time?’

‘As always - terrible. Old Man Tanayama is correct. What all the Settlements fear and hate most is variety. They don't want differences in appearance, tastes, ways and life. They select themselves for uniformity and despise everything else.’

Fisher said, ‘You're right. And it's too bad.’

Wyler said, ‘That's a mild, unfeeling way of putting it. “Too bad.” “Oops, I dropped the dish. Oh, too bad.” “Whoops, my contact seal is out of line. Oh, too bad.” We're talking humanity here. We're talking about Earth's long struggle to find a way of living together, all cultures, all appearances. It isn't perfect yet, but compare it to how it was even a century ago, and it's heaven. Then, when we get a chance to move into space, we shuck it all off and move right back into the Dark Ages. And you say, “Too bad.” That's some reaction to something that's an enormous tragedy.’

‘I agree,’ said Fisher, ‘but unless you can tell me something practical I can do about it, what does it matter how eloquently I denounce it? You were at Akruma, weren't you?’

‘Yes,’ said Wyler.

‘Did they know about the Neighbor Star?’

‘Certainly. As far as I know, the news has now reached every Settlement.’

‘Were they concerned?’

‘Not a bit. Why should they be? They've got thousands of years. Long before the Neighbor Star is anywhere near, and if it should seem to be dangerous, which isn't absolutely certain, you know, they can wander off. They can all wander off. They admire Rotor, and only wait for a chance to get away themselves.’ Wyler was frowning, his tone bitter.

He went on, ‘They'll all leave, and we'll be stuck. How are we going to build enough Settlements for eight billion human beings and get them all away?’

‘You sound just like Tanayama. What good will it do us to chase them down and punish them, or destroy them? We'll still be here and we'll still be stuck. If they all stayed behind like good kids and faced the Neighbor Star with us, would we be better off?’

‘You're cold about this, Crile. Tanayama is hot, and I'm on his side. He's hot enough to pull the Galaxy apart if necessary to find hyper-assistance on our own. He wants it so we can chase after Rotor and blow them out of space, but even if that does no good, we're going to need hyper-assistance to get as many people off Earth as possible if it turns out that the Neighbor Star will make it necessary. So what Tanayama is doing is right, even if his motives are wrong.’

‘And suppose we have hyper-assistance and then we find we only have the time and the resources to get a billion people off. Which is the billion that goes? And what happens if those who are in charge start saving only their own kind?’

Wyler growled, ‘It doesn't bear thinking of.’

‘It doesn't,’ agreed Fisher. ‘Let's be glad we'll be long gone before even the barest beginning can be made.’

‘If it comes to that,’ said Wyler, his voice suddenly dropping. ‘The barest beginning may already have been made. I suspect we have hyper-assistance now, or just about have it.’

Fisher's expression was one of deep cynicism. ‘What makes you think that? Dreams? Intuition?’

‘No. I know a woman whose sister knows someone on the Old Man's staff. Will that do you?’

‘Of course not. You'll have to give me more than that.’

‘I'm not in a position to. Look, Crile, I'm your friend. You know I helped you get back your status in the Office.’

Crile nodded. ‘I do and I appreciate it. And I've tried to make an adequate return now and then.’

‘You have done so and I appreciate that. Now what I want to do is give you some information which is supposed to be confidential and which I think you will find useful and important. Are you ready to accept it and keep me clear?’

‘Always ready.’

‘You know what we've been doing, of course.’

Fisher said, ‘Yes.’ It was the kind of useless, rhetorical question that required no other answer.

For five years agents of the Office (for the last three years, Fisher among them) had been rummaging in the informational garbage heaps of the Settlements. Scavenging.

Every Settlement was working on hyper-assistance, just as Earth itself was, ever since the word had leaked out that Rotor had it, and certainly ever since Rotor had proved the fact by leaving the Solar System.

Presumably most Settlements, perhaps all, had obtained some scrap of what it was that Rotor had done. By the Open Science Agreement, each one of those scraps should have been laid on the table and if all were then put together, it might have meant practical hyper-assistance for all. That, however, was clearly too much to ask in this particular case. There was no telling what useful side effects might be born of the new technique and no Settlement could abandon the hope that it might be first in the field and, in this way, gain an important lead on the others in one way or another. So each hoarded what it had - if it had anything - and not one of them had enough.

And Earth itself, with its vastly elaborate Terrestrial Board of Inquiry, sniffed at all the Settlements indiscriminately. Earth was fishing, and Fisher, appropriately enough, was one of the fishermen.

Wyler said slowly, ‘We've put what we've got together and I gather it's enough. We'll be able to have hyper-assisted travel. And I'm thinking we'll go out to the Neighbor Star. Wouldn't you want to be on that trip when it goes out there?’

‘Why do I want to be on it, Garand? If there's going to be such a trip, which I doubt.’

‘I'm pretty sure there will be. I can't give you my source, but take my word for it, it's reliable. And, of course, you'll want to make the trip. You might see your wife. Or if not her - your kid.’

Fisher moved restlessly. It seemed to him he spent half his days now trying not to think of those eyes. Marlene would be six years old now, talking in a quiet deliberate way - like Roseanne. Seeing through people - like Roseanne.

He said, ‘You're talking nonsense, Garand. Even if there were such a flight, why would they let me be on it? They would send specialists of one sort or another. Besides, if there's one person the Old Man will keep off, it's me. He may have let me get back into the Office and given me assignments, but you know how he is about failures, and I certainly failed him on Rotor.’

‘Yes, but that's the very point. That's what makes you a specialist. If he's going after Rotor, how can he fail to include the one Earthman who lived on Rotor for four years? Who would understand Rotor better and who would know better how to deal with them? Ask to see him. Point this out, but remember, you're not supposed to know that we have hyper-assistance. Just talk possibilities, make use of the subjunctive. And don't drag me into it in any way. I'm not supposed to know about it either.’

Fisher's brow furrowed in thought. Was it possible? He dared not hope.

The next day, while Fisher was still wondering whether to risk asking for an interview with Tanayama, the decision was taken out of his hands. He was summoned.

A simple agent is rarely summoned by the Director. There are plenty of deputies to grind away at them. And if an agent is summoned by the Old Man, it is almost never good news. So Crile Fisher prepared himself with grim resignation for an assignment as an inspector of the fertilizer factories.

Tanayama looked up at him from behind his desk. Fisher had seen him only rarely and briefly in the three years since Earth's discovery of the Neighbor Star, and he seemed unchanged. He had been small and shriveled for so long that there seemed no room for any further physical change. The sharpness of his eyes had not abated either, nor the withered grim set of his lips. He might even be wearing the same garments he had worn three years before. Fisher could not tell.