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tragedy in it, though he could not determine why he felt that way.
    The light he perceived at this instant had been generated by many of those stars over a century ago, or even much longer. Perhaps one of those brilliancies dated from the time he, as a lad of fourteen, had organized a company of some fifty youths like himself, to train with bows and arrows. Thus “Archer” — so fiercely patriotic, as the clouds of national dissension gathered, signifying the end of life as he had known it. Yet he might as readily have been named for the flute with which he used to serenade the young ladies. “Tutor,” when he later taught at college, had indeed been corrupted to “tooter” by the students. Or “Plowman,” because of the passages he liked to quote from
Piers Plowman
…
    He had been cultured then, polite, affable, dignified, replete with moral refinement. Not quite fifteen, he had entered Oglethorpe University at Midway, Georgia, parting his fair hair to the side and brushing it behind the ears. He wore good, but not ostentatious, apparel. Already a hint of a stoop to the shoulders, but brisk of gait. He had no taste for athletics.
    There were fifty students at the college.
    Music and books were his dearest companions — but those fair young ladies were never quite forgotten.
    Once a student misunderstood him and denounced him as a liar. He struck that person immediately, though he was not himself strong. The student drew a knife and stabbed an inch deep into his left side, but he did not capitulate. Never was he known as a coward, then.
    “What do you think of Afra?” Brad asked him.
    That name brought him instantly back. What availed past courage, when the present battle was lost? “You’re serious about her?”
    “Who wouldn’t be? You saw her.”
    “Brad, she’s a hundred and two per cent cauc in the shade!”
    “I’ll say! Her DAR pedigree goes back to the Saxon conquest.”
    Ivo smiled dutifully. “The project—”
    “The project’s over. You know that. We’re free citizens now.”
    “You can’t erase the past. If she knew—”
    Brad looked at him oddly. “I told her there were several projects, related but discrete. That I was a washout from the IQ set.”
    “A washout!”
    “What would you call an intelligence quotient of one hundred and sixty, when the target was two hundred?”
    “I see. And where did you tell her
I
was from?”
    “Nothing but the truth, Ivo. That a private foundation gathered together selected stock from every corner of the sphere and—”
    “And bred back to the multiracial ancestor they presumed mankind started from. So I’m Paleolithic.”
    “Not exactly, Ivo. You see—”
    They were interrupted by the lifting of a panel. Admittance was at hand.
    The interior was a cramped mass of panels, but there was room for several people if they watched their elbows. A short tunnel beyond the airlock opened into a roughly spherical compartment. Ivo’s first impression was of machinery; there were dials and levers everywhere, projecting from every side. He found it hard to orient because there was no gravity here and no visual “up.” Wherever he planted his feet was ground; the slight magnetism that had held him to the outer hull remained effective.
    The technician in charge was already getting into his suit. Brad spoke to him in a foreign language, received a curt reply, and said: “Ivo Archer — American.” The man nodded politely.
    “You see, it is all very carefully arranged,” Brad said as they waited for the man to complete his suit-checkout. “Thirty nations have put up the cash for this project, and each is allotted — but you must know that. We send in precise reports every day.”
    “This is the American Hour?”
    “No. Personnel here don’t bother with the official foolishness. This gentleman is not a gentleman — that is, not a Gentile. He’s an Israeli geologist doing work for Indonesia. Their own geologist is busy on a private