The voice on the phone was the prime minister's. "Mr. President," he said, "I have granted Dr. Farrukhi an audience, and you may want to be present. It is about the savant situation, of course."
"When?"
"At 11:30—in forty minutes. The hour will help him be brief. He called only moments ago." Peixoto chuckled. "He wanted to bring Ho and Sriharan. I told him to come by himself."
Chang glanced at the screen. On it was page 17 of a hypertext document on Masadan military training, and its applicability to the Commonwealth's new army. He was skeptical; the Masadan culture was far more homogeneous than the Terran. Unlike any other human world, Masada had maintained and cherished a tradition of compulsory military training. Through centuries without enemies. From a 30th century viewpoint, it was one of the more unlikely marvels of human social behavior.
"Eleven-thirty? I will be there," said the president, and disconnected. Unlike himself, the prime minister preferred electronic conferencing. "People need not leave their desks," he'd explained. "And we are more concise. There is less protocol and small talk." Occasionally he asked someone to his office, especially if they were officed on the same wing and floor. But for those like Farrukhi, officed elsewhere, such requests were rare.
The president tapped an alarm instruction on his timer, giving himself thirty-five minutes, then returned his attention to the Masadan document, and continued reading as if he'd never been interrupted.
He arrived on the dot, to find Farrukhi there ahead of him, not yet seated. The psychologist was a thin man with an apologetic expression, and a fringe of black hair framing an expanse of bald brown head. If allowed to, his blue jaw would grow far more hair than his cranium. In other company he would have seemed tall, but in the same room with Foster Peixoto . . .
Farrukhi worked in the Office of Technical Recruitment. The previous afternoon, he'd sent Peixoto a brief description of a problem. Without suggesting possible action; a lack the prime minister despised. But the description seemed to say it all: War House had issued a confidential document outlining the intended conduct of the war. A description that, if carried out, required more than twelve hundred savant communicators. However, Farrukhi pointed out, only four hundred and forty seven suitable savants were known to exist. Nearly three hundred of them were at Commonwealth embassies on colony worlds, their only effective means of communication with Kunming.
The prime minister waved his two guests to chairs. "So," he said to Farrukhi, "what do you suggest?"
The man squirmed. Literally. "I hesitated to enter this into the system, but there are many verified savants in institutions, in very delicate health. Some have critically defective hearts or immune systems, some physiological processes that fluctuate beyond sustainable limits. Most die in childhood. If they could be transferred . . . their central nervous systems that is . . . " His dark face grew even darker with blood. "Transferred into mobile, life-support modules . . . "
Say it, man, Chang thought. The word is "bottled"! But the idea was excellent. It was a solution.
"Unfortunately . . . " Shrugging, Farrukhi spread his hands.
"I know," Peixoto finished. "Bottling is illegal. But with our new war powers, that will be changed by supper." To be followed by outrage, he added silently.
The psychologist nodded. "I am also aware of another at least potential source. Worldwide there are many . . . `defective' children not identified as savants. And most in fact are not, but surely some are. If we could screen them . . . But . . . "
"But unfortunately," Peixoto finished for him, "it will further outrage our watchdogs."
Again Farrukhi's head bobbed. "And equally important is the matter of finding suitable sensitives to serve as attendants, to manage their communication function."
"Surely there are more psychically sensitive persons than there are savants."
"I'm sure there are. But again, the problem is to identify them. Many will seem quite ordinary, and prefer to keep their sensitivity private."
The president spoke now. "How have they been identified in the past?"
"In the past, sensitives were hired who were already known to institutions researching the field."
"Ah!" said Chang. "But surely some of the anonymous sensitives associate with others. Identify such groups and their meeting places. Post notices on the Ether: `good money and secure, satisfying jobs for qualified sensitives.' Make the wages suitably attractive, perhaps equivalent to a PS-12. Consult with the attendants of savants already in government service. Ask their advice."
Farrukhi's face brightened. He shifted to the edge of his seat, as if to dash out and get started.
"Doctor," the prime minister said, "the president and I thank you for your astute help. I want you to sketch out quickly—before you break for supper—a rough plan to carry all this out. Now, don't let me keep you from getting started."
Abdol Farrukhi's long legs raised him from his chair. "Thank you, Mr. Prime Minister," he said, then looked at Chang Lung-Chi. "Thank you, Mr. President."
When he had gone, Peixoto turned to Chang. "It distresses me," he said glumly, "to outrage the honest if mistaken scruples of so many people. It could lead to demonstrations."
Chang grunted; his own distress threshold was higher than the prime minister's. To him there were reasonable people, and there were problem people, the latter including the chronically indignant. "We do what we must," he said, "and when we've won the war, or lost it, any demonstrations will be forgotten."
"Nonetheless . . . " said his friend, and shrugged. "Why don't we have lunch together? On your balcony over the rotunda. We can talk about other things than problems."
The president agreed, and they did their best to talk about grandchildren, the food, and the weather. It wasn't much of a conversation, but they'd get plenty of practice before the war was over.