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teachings.   And, not coincidentally, to demonstrate the superiority of Palani science.
    But the Elanasal could be more than that.   The boy could be more than just a symbol of the Palani future.   According to the countless tests they had subjected him to, he was the Palani future.   The only viable future for his people.
    Surely, thought Ontelis, the boy would come back.   How could he not?   This was his home; these were his people.   Even without knowing everything about how he was created, he would certainly see his significance to the Palani people.   Wouldn't he?
    Balhammis' voice was a deep rumble.   "Your thoughts, Ontelis?"
    Ontelis lifted his head up, feeling the bones in his neck creak in protest.   Balhammis was quiet and calm, watching him.
    "The boy is wise," said Ontelis.   "I should have told him more."
    "Perhaps," said Balhammis, carefully putting his glasses back on.   "I look forward to what you will tell the rest of the Pentarch.   Good night."   He bent forward at the waist in a polite bow, looming over Ontelis.
    Ontelis returned the bow, and watched as Balhammis walked to the door, barely clearing the top of the doorway as he left.   The man moved like his mind worked, Ontelis mused.   Silently and gracefully, in ways completely unexpected for an Ensannon.  
    Lowering himself into the Prophet's desk chair, Pentarch Ontelis picked up the handwritten note.   He turned it over in his hand before reading it again.

CHAPTER FIVE

    There was a hesitant knocking at the door, far away.   "Heather?" came a familiar voice.   "You gotta get up."
    Her mind jerked toward the surface, even as she struggled to swim deeper back into sleep.
    More knocking; it sounded closer now.   "Heather?"
    Blaine's voice.   Every sentence was a question.   Heather struggled to find a word, something to make Blaine and the door-knocking go away.   "Murder," she mumbled.   She snorted, trying to inhale through the one nostril that wasn't mashed against the pillow.
    "What?   What did you say, Heather?"
    She could feel the fingertips of her right hand brushing the floor.   Her left leg was cold, hanging outside the warm cocoon of blankets.   With great effort, she moved her head closer to the edge of the pillow.   "I will murder you, Blaine."
    "Come on, Heather.   Get up.   It's really important."
    Now she felt the stiffness in her shoulders.   Her left wrist began to throb; the slow, steady ache that never went away.   And her bladder was making itself known.
    Heather took a deep breath.   "God damn it, Blaine!" she yelled at the door.   With a sweep of her arm, she threw back the covers.   The rush of cold air invaded, extinguishing any hope of drifting off again.   No going back now, she thought.   "Damn it," she repeated, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.   Her shoulders and wrist protested as she shoved down on the mattress, pushing herself to sit upright.   The light of day assaulted her eyes, bringing with it the throb of a headache.   She curled forward, clamping her hands over her face and leaning her elbows on her knees.
    Blaine knocked again.   Normally he had the good sense to steer clear of her in the morning, at least until she'd had a cup or two of coffee.   Apparently he'd now grown tired of life and wished to die a messy death at her hands.  
    "Heather?" he called through the door.   "You getting up?"
    "Yes!" she yelled into her hands.   "Jesus, Blaine.   I will murder you, right in your perfect goddamned face, if you don't—"
    "Okay," came the defensive voice through the door.   "Okay.   I'm sorry.   It's just that we really need you out here.   There's—"
    "Blaine," she called out, trying not to yell again.   "Is the house on fire?"
    Silence.   That had made him think.   "Well, no," he said at last.
    "Then it can wait, Blaine.   I'll be out in a minute."
    Heather exhaled, withdrawing her hands from her face and surveying the room around her.   The