“That will be awkward. Our leading name is on the Fringe.”

The Regent bashed one fist into the opposite hand. “I don’t care if it’s as far as Outworld! Fetch it here!”

The Minister permitted himself a fleeting smile. “It is on Outworld. Star Etamin, one hundred and eight light-years distant. Our farthest viable colony.”

“The Stone Age planet!” the Minister of Culture exclaimed. “Disaster!”

“We’ll have to use the second choice, that’s all,” the Minister of Alien Spheres said. “Where’s that one?”

“Sirius.” Again a small smile.

“That’s close—and civilized! Saves us ninety-nine light-years’ postage. Much better.”

The Minister of Population shook his head. “It’s a woman.”

There was a general, discreet groan. The cultural prejudices of the Ministers were emerging in the absence of the alien envoy. “Worse yet!” the Minister of Culture said.

“Stop this bickering!” the Regent cried. “Bring them both—and the next three. I’ll decide when the time comes.”

“But the expense!” the Minister of Finance cried, appalled.

The others ignored him; expense was irrelevant when the Regent gave an order. If he overreached himself, he would have to answer to the Emperor, whereupon there just might be a new Regent. This particular Regent was unusually competent, and therefore it was likely that his tenure in the office would be brief.

“What’s the top name?” the Minister of Alien Spheres asked. The arrival of the envoy from Sphere Knyfh had enhanced his prestige of the hour considerably, and he spoke with a new timbre of authority.

“Flint. Flint of Outworld. Age two-thirds—”

“What?” the Minister of Culture squawked.

“Sorry. Their year is thirty years long; I forgot to interpolate. Age about twenty-one. Male. Single. Heterosexually inclined. Intelligence about one point five.”