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speaker’s thoughts, noted something new. An escape plan . . . bribe money paid to a shuttle commander . . . intended refuge on one of the orbiting solar power stations. How did he find out? Munoz wondered.
    Hudson, responding to McConnel, said: “Ninety-eight point nine-one percentile. We’ve been monitoring it from deep space tracking stations. It’s coming back along the identical course of our garbage . . . and burial . . . shots. We’ve since corrected the error, of course.”
    “Wonderful,” President Ogg said, his voice dripping sarcasm. Mumbling something about bodies coming back, he spun his chair again and watched a distant transport shuttle land at Robespierre Magne-Launch Base. “How much time do we have?” he asked.
    “Fourteen days,” Hudson said, trying not to betray uncertainty in his tone.

    As the ministers left the oval office single file, President Ogg singled out Hudson: “Dr. Hudson, I would have a word with you in private.”
    Surprised, Hudson turned back and resumed his seat. “What is it, Mr. President?” he asked, timidly.
    Ogg scanned the papers which had fallen to the floor, leaned down and retrieved a long, narrow piece of electronic billing paper. Looking at Hudson, he said stiffly, “This is the monthly microwave radio call log for the therapy orbiter of Saint Elba.”
    Hudson gulped.
    “It states that you called my sister six times this month, all on scramble code.” Ogg glared ferociously. “What did you discuss with her?”
    “N-nothing important, Mr. President.”
    “Then why was it necessary to use a scramble code?”
    “P-personal matters, sir.”
    “Personal matters?” Ogg sat back, a sneer on his face. “How can you have personal matters with someone tens of thousands of kilometers away?”
    “L-look, Mr. President. I know you don’t like me. That’s why you made Nancy mayor of Saint Elba three months ago . . . to get her away from me.” Hudson read Ogg’s thoughts to confirm this statement.
    A faint smile touched the edges of Ogg’s mouth.
    “I love her, Mr. President. And . . . she loves me!” Hudson took a deep breath. He stared at the broken lamp on the floor.
    “Love? You’re right about one thing, Hudson. I don’t like you. You’re a weak, sniveling—”
    “I’m not good enough for your sister, right, Mr. President?” Hudson said, feeling his face flush hot with anger. He adjusted his glasses, focused upon the massive black man seated on the other side of the desk.
    “That’s exactly right, Hudson. If not for Munoz’s influence, you’d still be a lab technician.” Hudson had read this thought previously and was not surprised to hear it spoken.
    I’ll ruin you, Hudson thought. I’m going to show General Munoz an invention this afternoon that will knock you out of the oval office! “I do have certain . . . talents, shall we say?” Hudson said, beginning to taste the pleasure of prospective revenge.
    Noticing a twinkle in Hudson’s eyes, Ogg was thrown off balance momentarily. Ogg fumbled with the call log sheet, glanced down at it and said, “I notice you called her almost daily in the early part of the month . . . but in the past week and a half there have been no calls. Why is that?”
    “A minor disagreement, Mr. President.”
    “Over what?”
    Hudson felt the advantage swinging to Ogg again. “She wants me to s-stand up to you, sir.”
    Ogg laughed cruelty. “And tell me what you think of me, eh, Hudson? You don’t have the guts!”
    “M-maybe I do, sir.”
    “Eh? What’s that?”
    “May I speak candidly, sir?”
    “Yes.” Ogg set the call sheet down, clasped his hands on the desktop and glared ferociously at Hudson.
    “YOU’RE A BIGOT, MR. PRESIDENT!” Hudson said, blurting it out. Hudson’s eyeglasses slipped to the end of his nose. He pushed them back.
    “A bigot!” Ogg rose out of his chair, hulked forward over the desk. “A bigot, you say?”
    “That’s the real reason you don’t want me to be permies