That’s what you find yourself involved in when you talk to the UN, Leo reflected. Afro-Asian politics. A swamp. It’s run, staffed, directed by foreigners. He glared at the blank vidscreen.

While he was wondering what to do his secretary Miss Gleason clicked on the intercom at her end and said, “Mr. Bulero, Mr. Mayerson is in the outer office; he’d like a few moments with you.”

“Send him in.” He was glad for a respite.

A moment later his expert in the field of tomorrow’s fashions came in, scowling. Silently, Barney Mayerson seated himself facing Leo.

“What’s eating you, Mayerson?” Leo demanded. “Speak up; that’s what I’m here for, so you can cry on my shoulder. Tell me what it is and I’ll hold your hand.” Re made his tone withering.

“My assistant. Miss Fugate.”

“Yes, I hear you’re sleeping with her.”

“That’s not the issue.”

“Oh, I see,” Leo said. “That’s just a minor aside.”

“I just meant I’m here about another aspect of Miss Fugate’s behavior. We had a basic disagreement a little while ago; a salesman—”

Leo said, “You turned something down and she disagreed.”

“Yes.”

“You precogs.” Remarkable. Maybe there were alternate futures. “So you want me to order her in the future always to back you up?”

Barney Mayerson said, “She’s my assistant; that means she’s supposed to do as I direct.”

“Well… isn’t sleeping with you a pretty fair move in that direction?” Leo laughed. “However, she should back you up while salesmen are present, then if she has any qualms she should air them privately later on.”

“I don’t even go for that.” Barney scowled even more.

Acutely, Leo said, “You know because I take that E Therapy I’ve got a huge frontal lobe; I’m practically a precog myself, I’m so advanced. Was it a pot salesman? Ceramics?”