Instead of worrying about it, uselessly, the High Admiral stretched out in his chair and slept. He dreamt of the skiing, which he missed, north of the town of Atlanta, by the huge and growing Dahlonega Glacier.

It was going to be one of those cocktail receptions, Robinson decided.

"The FSC has become a rogue state," insisted the slender, well coiffed blonde. This was the intense-and, so Robinson thought, even more intensely vapid-commissioner for culture from the Tauran Union, one of the new supra-nationals coming to prominence on the planet. The commissioner was on Atlantis with special permission to bid for objets d'art for a consortium of TU museums. "Unni Wiglan," she had introduced herself as.

Robinson considered her for what she was likely to be worth. As high admiral he could have his pick of the Novan women at the reception, of course. On the other hand, although he had a taste for blonde women (that hair color having become rather rare on Earth), she really seemed so earnestly dull that he wasn't quite sure that the no-doubt enjoyable use of her body could quite make up for the torment of having to listen to her talk afterwards. With mixed feelings, he decided, No, it really wouldn't be worth it.

Robinson simply asked, "And what do you think we can do about it?"

Which question ended that discussion, as well as short-circuited any discussions in the immediate future that might have been of a more pleasant nature.

It was a good question, actually, the high admiral later reflected in his ashore quarters. What can I do about it? Options? Hmmm.

A. I nuke the planet. It'll cost me the fleet and Atlantis Base-no big deal since I don't have a family here, and I could make sure I was safe and away before we struck-but at least I can still nuke them. Set them back… oh… maybe four or five hundred years. Then they come looking for Earth.