“Modernizing Genoa,” Mayer mused, “should be considerably easier than the task of semi-primitive Texcoco.”

Plekhanov shrugged heavy shoulders, in a manner betraying his Slavic background. “Not necessarily,” he rumbled.

The Co-ordinator held up a hand and smiled at them. “Please, no discussion on methods at this point. An hour from now you will be in space with a year of travel before you. During that time, you’ll have opportunity for discussion, debate and hair pulling on every phase of your problem.”

His expression went more serious. “You are acquainted with the unique position you assume. These colonists are in your control to the extent that no small group has ever dominated millions of others before. No Caesar ever exerted the power that will be in your collective hands. For half a century, you will be as gods and goddesses. Your science, your productive know-how, your medicine—if it comes to that—your weapons, are many centuries ahead of theirs. As I said before, your position should be humbling.”

Mayer said suddenly, unhappily, “Why not check upon us, say, once every decade? In all, our ship’s company numbers but eighteen persons. Almost anything could happen. If you were to send a departmental craft each ten years…”

Kennedy whispered to Natalie Wieliczka, “Old Amschel’s trying to hedge our bets.”

She ignored him, making a prim moue. The Co-ordinator was shaking his head. “Your qualifications are as high as anyone available. Once on the scene you will begin accumulating information which we here, in Terra City, do not have. Were we to send another group in ten years to check upon you, all they could do would be interfere in a situation with which they would not be cognizant.”