Chapter 39 · destroying bridges, washing out culverts, battering and devouring roadsides. Repairs had been hurried and rough — rocks and rubble. The bridges were temporary but

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Chapter 39 AD 2017

Marrakech

When the Infinite Soul incarnates, it creates profound spiritual

change in its disciples, and in fact touches everyone deeply, though all

are free to resist the influence. But when the Transcendental Soul

incarnates, the spiritual effects, though important, are less profound.

They operate primarily by the force of their axioms, their expressed

truths, altering the social system and its dynamics, and improving

justice.

Islam has the concept of a Mahdi, a great leader acclaimed by Islam

for the role. A Transcendental Soul would fill the bill beautifully, and in

fact it has. For Yusuf Hassan, recently acclaimed the Mahdi, is in fact a

Transcendental Soul incarnate. The genuine article, like Zarathustra,

Socrates, Gandhi, and of course Muhammad. The past has caught up

with the future — and the future with the past.

Dove and now the Mahdi! We are a blesséd generation.

From Collected Observations of Lor Lu

Yusuf Hassan had been ten years old when, with his father, he'd first visited Marrakech. Though many would say it was less esthetic than Casablanca, for young Yusuf, Marrakech had seemed a special place. His father had taken him to pray at Kutubyyah, the Mosque of the Scribes, and that had been the best of all. Yet since he'd returned to Casablanca from the hajj, he'd repeatedly delayed visiting Marrakech. Had intended to go, but things came up one after another.


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Meanwhile his meditations, and discussions with friends, had refined and deepened his understanding, a process furthered by writing and editing it on his computer. And when at last he handed his editor the final draft of Discourses with Friends, he felt ready for Marrakech. Bashir, his remaining guard, had no roots in this world, knew neither home nor country, and assumed from the first that he would accompany his teacher. "Will I drive or will you?" he asked. Yusuf smiled. "You will drive, and I will guide you. I know the way well." Then grinned, and clapped Bashir's thick solid shoulder. "I've been in touch with them there. We're to stay at the Mosque of the Scribe, where I will speak first. The nadir will see to our needs, and the prefect of police to our security. And Allah? If Allah wills, we shall live a long time.

◊ As with most roads, that to Marrakech was rough. The Great Rain had spawned unprecedented torrents, filled with boulders, rumbling out of the High Atlas, destroying bridges, washing out culverts, battering and devouring roadsides. Repairs had been hurried and rough — rocks and rubble. The bridges were temporary but sturdy — thick oak planks spiked to massive timbers, held up by timbered, rock-filled piers. The 140-mile drive took five hours, with the great, 13,660-foot mass of Jebel Toubkal looming to the east. The Mahdi's earlier talks had been copied and recopied. Many now could be had as far away as Mindanao and Montana! And the Vatican! In every land were those who honored him. Marrakech was eager for him, and at the mosque that evening, the crowd, avid or sober, drank his words attentively.

◊ The next morning, at a soccer field, the crowd was even larger, and now more exuberant, chanting "Mahdi! Mahdi!" even before he stood up. He raised his hands overhead, and when the shouts stilled, he began, addressing the usual interests and issues. And as always, when he'd finished, he invited questions. "Mahdi," someone called, "I have an uncle who curses whenever he hears your name. What can I tell him, to quell his hatred?"


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"Tell him Allah loves him. For it is true. And love him yourself, if you are able. And if he remains hostile, let him say what he will, without arguing with him. Allah's love is endless." "Hajji Yusuf," called another, "at what time did you first know you are the Mahdi?" "I have never claimed to be the Mahdi. I am a man who listens to Allah as best I can, and I say what I hear. Nor do I insist that anyone believe what I say, any more than the Prophet did, or Jesus, peace be upon them. I..." In a front row of the crowd before him, a robed man covertly drew a pistol from his garment, and without pausing, or cursing, or screaming a slogan, pulled the trigger. Bashir hadn't seen the pistol until it was pointed, and with too little time to point his own, lunged into the line of fire, three bullets striking him as his momentum carried him from the platform. His corpse, heavy and hard, knocked the gunman down, then bystanders swarmed on the assassin, who emptied his clip into them, killing another and wounding two more. He was dead before the police could rescue him.

◊ Yusuf Hassan had been hit twice, both bullets doing double duty. One, already mushroomed by smashing through Bashir's body, burst through the Mahdi's heart. Yusuf Hassan felt an instant of shocking pain. Ah-h-h! he thought. Then turned his attention to Bashir, who was in grief not from his own death, but at having failed to protect his teacher. <Rejoice, beloved friend,> the Mahdi told him in the spirit, <it is Allah's will, and ours to accept.>


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Chapter 40 AD 2017

The UN General Assembly

The road to Hell is paved with good intentions.

Old proverb The United Nations General Assembly hadn't convened since the Rock. Now jet fuel, though still scarce and expensive, was available, and most countries sent their representatives. The secretary general had invited Lor Lu to give the keynote address at the opening session, and Lor Lu had agreed. Actually, he'd voiced his interest in advance, to the American ambassador, Stu Wengert. Wengert in turn took the message to the secretary general, who'd intended to make the address himself, but saw no graceful way of refusing the little Hmong. So when the session was called to order, it was Lor Lu who stepped to the podium. His preamble was short: "Thank you for inviting me. I am truly honored." He scanned the Assembly and the public galleries, then got down to business. "The United Nations has been criticized as nothing more than a debating society." He let this register for two or three seconds before continuing. "This overlooks its long role in planning, administering and coordinating the thousand and one humanitarian and educational activities for which it has taken responsibility, and received too little credit. In fact, it does not pretend to be a world government. And as for 'debating society?' International debates are appropriate and necessary." He paused. "As for the virtues of world government? Those who believe in it have the right idea, but those who think the world is ready for it — do not. There is a long and emotional history of violence, oppressions, horrors and hatreds between peoples, tribes, cultures, states, religions...philosophies! Between Christendom and Islam, Islam


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and Judaism, Judaism and Christendom. And between the worlds of Buddha and Marx and Mao, for three others. "Dove, Ngunda, the Rock — have softened our intolerances and lessened our hostilities. But an effort to coerce — to coerce! — any part of humankind to bow to foreign beliefs — spiritual or secular! — can revive those hostilities, hardening and sharpening them. And coercion is not necessary. Even with today's technologies of power, they can often coexist for as long as it takes, while the differences shrink. For a case in point, consider Norway's historical, great and heated language issue." He paused, scanning again the assembly hall with its rows of representatives, the full public galleries, the cameras and microphones. "There is force," he went on, "and there is force. There is that age-old insistence by faction A, that faction B must yield to principles and practices that A holds dear — and that B finds unacceptable, even repugnant. Practices that A may try to legislate, and enforce by arms if need be. Actions that in the past, the UN has been admirably reluctant to take. "On the other hand, economic coercion has been common: 'do it our way, if you want our help. If you wish to survive on this stage, it must be on our terms.' "Also, B may be faced with ruthless but legal economic practices that give to A substantial advantages. Practices that B, for cultural or spiritual...or ecological reasons, may feel constrained from matching. Too often, supremacy has gone to the heedless, the aggressive — the ruthless and overbearing! "The coercive. "'But,' cries A, 'our principles and practices have proven efficient. B's unwillingness is a stumbling block on their own road to progress. We only want to help them.' "Only want to help them!" When you hear those words, examine them critically. Too often they are self righteous and self-serving. "The reply is another question: Efficient toward what? The quarterly profit statement? Serious pollution? Maximized debts? Maximum crowding? Conspicuous consumption? Disruptions of ecological systems? Meanwhile consider. Environmental degradation can result from overgrazing, as well as from oil spills and acid rain.


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"Slavery does not require ownership. It can grow out of exclusion from the means of life and joy — exclusion from resources, markets, opportunities in general. "Too often, self-righteousness reflects not the truth, but ignorance and arrogance. Hubris, yours and theirs. None of us knows all there is to know about anything. A degree of honest humility is always appropriate, regardless of how many badges of accomplishment we wear: D.Sc, CEO, Distinguished Service Order, Reverend, Doctor of Laws, Ayatollah..." Pausing he looked them over, then spoke slowly and calmly. "Life is the making of choices, individual and collective choices, choices often guided by consideration of national, class, and personal advantage. But you, individually and collectively, can choose not to coerce. "You might instead try defining and discussing, openly, honestly, and thoroughly, the goals of the practices you advocate. Openly, honestly, and thoroughly. Critically — critically! — examining the theories behind them, and the possible results. Including unintended side effects. And honestly evaluating importances, your own and others'." He paused. "More easily said than done." Another pause. "I'm not talking about an exchange of slogans. Slogans have been done to death, figuratively and literally. I'm talking about broad input. I'm talking about discussions as honest, thorough, inclusive, and creative — and creative! — as you can muster, an often difficult and painful — but also stimulating, exciting — process. Public discussions, listening — actually listening! — to objections." (He hissed the word 'listening.') "Asking B what practices it might agree to, each side considering what modifications it might be willing to accept. At what costs. With what blessings. "Doing it all openly, publicly: committee meetings, subcommittee meetings, executive meetings, panels...all, all open to the media and the people, with the goal of thoroughly informing the public and each other — and thereby, little by little, gaining trust. Urge both sides to face the issues involved, while so far as possible avoiding antagonism, recrimination...and condescension." He leaned his elbows on the podium, and spoke with an air of confidentiality. "And I pray thee, do not consider you must get the best of it. Which means...which means! — do not heed the still small voice that whispers 'you are right, they are wrong.'


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Or 'this is too important to bargain over. Or God himself insists." Especially avoid 'God himself insists.' That is arrogance in the extreme — and the mother lode of lies." He straightened, his voice louder again, and sharper. "In fact, the Tao — God, Allah — insists on nothing, except...your responsibility for your actions. God is totally willing, totally willing, for you to destroy our civilization, or even the human species if you insist. Of course, it will then become your responsibility to deal with it in the universe — however many eons, however many future lifetimes it requires. On however many different, difficult, unfamiliar worlds...or the toxic wasteland of the one we have now. "For you will be born again, into whatever world you create, like...it...or...not. To breathe foul air, or air that is relatively clean, in a world ugly with envy and grief, fear and hatred, or one in which people discuss their problems with one another in relative peace and sanity." His voice had grown louder. Now he paused before continuing less forcefully. "A world in which joy plays an important part in life...or one in which joy is scarcely known. "There is no utopia, no Garden of Eden. There...never...was. Folklore that says otherwise is mistaken. "Humankind was provided a resource, Planet Earth, with all we needed to survive, but never a Paradise. And with minds and souls and hands, we've made ourselves a place on it. We are free to squander it. We are free to poison it. We are free to see how heavily we can overpopulate it again. Or we can act with love, compassion, and — dare I say it? — the double-u word. Wisdom." He looked around the great hall and up at the galleries, then captured the cameras with his eyes, spreading his hands before him. And continued. "It is up to us, individually and jointly — you in the Assembly, you in the galleries, you watching on television or listening to radio...and those who are paying no attention at all. It is up to us. The Tao, God, Allah, the One — has given our fate into our own hands. Where fundamentally it has been all along, for ill and for good."

◊ Again Lor Lu paused, interminably it seemed, till his on-site audience began to


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fidget. A long and silent 12 seconds, not letting them go, holding their attention. "You have an opportunity now to act responsibly, wisely, with kindness. Do so." Then he turned from the podium and walked briskly away. To silence. Not hostile, not frozen, just — silence, his small straight form disappearing into the wings. It was the secretary general who stepped to the podium and freed them. "The assembly is adjourned until thirteen hundred hours," he said. "Please be in your seats by then. Our work is cut out for us." The representatives left quietly. The gallery barely murmured as the visitors got to their feet. The broadcast journalists, whose job was to comment, kept their voices low as they spoke into their microphones. Keynote indeed!

_______________

The process would begin in earnest that afternoon, with Lor Lu chairing the first session of the Preliminary Task Force on Intergovernmental and Intercultural Operations: a question and answer session with Lee Shoreff of the Millennium Foundation. She presented the concept that in general:

• Where possible, solutions to internal problems should be national; that as a general rule, the state remains the highest level where legislated solutions can work well.

• That within a state or between interacting states, all affected factions must be considered in setting economic, and all other public policies.

• That zero sum solutions are not true solutions, but devices for dominating or coping,

and that wherever possible, contending factions should benefit comparably from negotiations.

• That the UN's main role is to enable and support real national or cultural solutions

by researching disagreements, publicizing the research, and making mediation available.

• To reenable the Webworld and recreate the Data Ocean, as free as practical from

corporate and government domination and influence. And that although there are no perfect solutions, there can be good workable ones.


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____________________ Florence Elaine Metzger-Hunter, with her husband, had attended the opening session as part of the gallery, then attended the Task Force's preliminary hearing. Afterward, rather than eating out, they returned to their apartment and ordered supper delivered from the Van Ruisdael House's magical kitchen. "What did you think of the day's proceedings?" the general asked. "Hmh. I have to admit, I really liked the little Hmong's keynote address. And the Millennium woman made a lot of sense. But making sense is a lot easier than accomplishing the...I hesitate to call it the impossible, but that's the best word for it." "For it? Define it." She cocked an eye at him. "At converting the UN into an operation that produces what's needed: understanding, peace, cooperation. And agreed-upon justice. I'm not knocking it, though it sounds like it. It's done worthwhile work. Important work. If we didn't have a UN, we'd have to create one. But I've seen no sign of anything like major accompishments." He thought of saying "how about numerous lesser accomplishments," but instead replied "so. Impossible then?" "Near enough." "Suppose you could pick your committee chairman. What then?" She frowned. "You're not planning on volunteering, are you?" "God forbid. But someone needs to, and I devoutly hope they're up to it." "Anyone in mind? The Hmong? The Shoreff woman maybe?" "Lor Lu's indispensible where he is. And Lee Shoreff? She's used to saying 'do it this way,' and everyone does." "So. Who then?" It was David’s turn to lag. "Actually, I was thinking of you. With your experience...." "Are you crazy?!" "You're unemployed, and I've heard you say you sometimes miss the challenges." "When did I say that?"


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"While we were eating lunch the other day. And you told me you expected to, while we were still in the White House. When Charlie Ross was interviewing the veep." He shook his head and changed the subject. "Poor Morten! He's a poster boy for political correctness. He's fixated on it." Recognizing the ploy, she cocked an eyebrow and changed the subject back. "I presume you weren't serious about me as committee chair." "Actually I asked Lor Lu what he'd think of you in the chair." "When? When did you say that? You didn't even know there was going to..." She let the sentence die unfinished. "He showed you a draft, didn't he." "Not exactly. Lee Shoreff's concept paper." "Gentle Jesus! How could you?" "You wouldn't have to say yes, assuming he asks you. But Lor Lu was really impressed with how you and Riley Woodrow dealt with the problem you two created. Called it a remarkable act — a joint act — of honesty and political courage. And grace in a really awkward situation. And he didn't even know then that I was personally interested in you." "Huh! Not exactly my finest hour. I'd made a fool of myself." "The public liked it too: your public and Riley's." "The public was smarter than either one of us." "No, the public had been taking sides. Then you and Riley left the low road for the high road, and the public was perceptive enough to appreciate it. And Riley had the good influences of his wife Addie. And Carl McGrath. But you just had yourself." "Not so. I had Andrea." David nodded. "And Andrea." "You don't actually think he's going to ask me, do you?" "I honestly don't know. You are well qualified." He paused, she waited, then he changed the subject again. Sort of. "What would you think of company for supper tomorrow?" "Such as?" "Lee Shoreff, her husband, and their two daughters. I'd like to know them better." "She's the author of this whole UN working force. You're trying to set me up,


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aren't you." David raised his hands. "No I'm not. Truly I'm not... Although it could have that effect, so I'd better plead guilty. But I really am interested in knowing their daughters; Ngunda said they could charm the eyes out of a statue." "Do you want to invite them, or do you want me to?" "I can, but you'll be there. There'll be a 3 o'clock reception for them, and we're invited. You can invite them then." You're setting me up. You already have.


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Chapter 41 AD 2017

Man from the East

As ensouled primates, humans are not equipped to "understand" the

physical universe, let alone the fullness of the Tao. But speaking

metaphorically, we can say the Tao is "all that is," including what is

inadequately termed its "intelligent creative principle." That much is

relatively easy for a human mind to deal with — if that mind is able to

operate outside primitive religious concepts.

One of the world's major religions, incidentally, is science, whose

greatest virtue is skepticism, while its major institutional hostility is toward

other religions. Yet in a very real sense, science is the great ecumenical

religion, whose virtues in explaining the material universe have overridden

objections by pre-technological theologians. Though many scientists scorn

all religions other than science, many others have a non-scientific sense of

a "higher" power, the aforementioned "intelligent creative principle," AKA

love. And of those scientists, many openly espouse both science and some

other religion.

From Ngunda Aran: The Oxford Lectures I, July 2014

Ivan Serov was not strongly charismatic, didn't make a compelling impression on people, but flying across the arctic, in this time of worldwide poverty, he'd felt important. Because he was the inventor of the Geogravitic Power Converter, potentially the most important technical advance since the transistor. To his mind more important.


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The catch was — two catches actually — (1) the world didn't know about it yet, couldn't be allowed to; and (2) it wasn't ready; it looked promising now, but... Thus the money for this trip had been a stretch for him, and given the compelling need for secrecy, he'd made no arrangements, no connections in advance. He was operating entirely off the cuff. Thank God for brothers-in-law. He had disembarked into a vast, sparsely-occupied airport terminal — it still lacked Customs and Security forces — in a strange city in a strange new world. Uncertain, he went to a public phone and examined the operating instructions. He was well practiced at reading American technical literature, but these? Their brevity made them incomprehensible — code and abbreviations masquerading as words, as entire concepts. Nor was there a paper phone directory, and looking around, he saw no HELP desk. Anxiety gripped him, and for a moment his mind froze. He felt trapped, helpless. What was he doing here? A young man strode in his direction, towing a well-worn suitcase on casters; he wore jeans, sandals, a sweat shirt, and a six-day beard. Ivan stepped in his way, waving, saying "Excuse me sir! Excuse me!" The young man stopped, raising an eyebrow as if puzzled by Ivan's accent. Actually, as a New Yorker, he was used to accents, all kinds of accents. "Yeah?" "It is necessary I make telephone call, but I do not know to operate American telephones. Or to pay. Or the number. Can you please to adwise me?" "Yuneeda credit cahd," the man answered, "or a bangcahd." Abruptly he brought forth the necessary plastic, showed it to the phone, then placed a thumb in a depression. Instructions appeared on a screen. He touched one of them, and the instructions were replaced by a directory. "Yugahda notebooknpen?" Ivan stared, uncertain, then "Yes, thank you." "Okay. Fahllu th'nstructions 'n scroll wit' dis. Yunustan scroll?" Ivan nodded tentatively, hopefully, rolling a finger in a suggestion of scrolling.. "Good luck." The young man turned to leave. "Sir!" "Yeah?"


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"How do I pay?" "Donwuryabowdit. Iahreadypaid. Yugot unlimited use of the directory, n'one local call. If that donhannel it, go that way till ya come to a help cownu." Ivan watched the young man's departure, then, still worried, turned to the screen, peered at the instructions, pressed residential, and wrote in "David Hunter." Not surprisingly there were numerous David Hunters, most, he supposed, no longer living. Only one call; almost surely one would not be enough. Maybe he should first get a hotel room, and call from there; no doubt he could charge calls to his room. But what hotel? If he made a reservation by phone, it might be miles from where he needed to be. Another thought struck him. He pressed the back arrow, then "businesses," then wrote in "Hunter," and scrolled, scanning rapidly. There was a "Hunter Management Consultants." His chest relaxed a bit, the anxiety easing. Pressing "call," he got a brief buzz, then the sound of dialing. A woman answered. "Hunter Management Consultants. This is Mona." "I would like to speak with General David Hunter, who is on board of adwisers of Millennium Foundation." He held his breath. Ivan! he thought, what is the matter with you? Use the definite articles! It occurred to him his English had not been that poor since elementary school. At the other end, Mona remembered the general telling her, not long before, that he was on vectors with someone he didn't know, a foreigner he'd thought, whom he was very interested in meeting. She knew about vectors. "I expect General Hunter to return shortly. Would you care to leave a message on his voice mail?" "Can you take message?" "Try me." Try me? "Please to tell General Hunter that Professor Ivan Serov is here, from Novosibirsk State Uniwersity, in Russia. I would like to discuss with him an important inwestment." There, he told himself, you used an article. "Where can he get in touch with you, professor?" He slapped his forehead with a palm. "I — I do not yet have hotel room. I am calling from John F. Kennedy airport."


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"Let me suggest the Holloway Hotel." She spelled it for him. "It's only five blocks from our offices. If you have a notebook, I'll give you their address and phone number." With a twinge of uncertainty, he reached to a breast pocket. "Yes, I have one." He fumbled it out, along with his pen, removed the cap with his teeth, then found he couldn't speak with the cap in his mouth, so he let it fall on the writing shelf, from which it bounced to the floor. "Thank you," he said, "I am ready." She gave him the phone number and address of the hotel, then of Hunter Management. "I recommend you take a jitney to the hotel. Your name is Serov, you said? S-E-R-O-V?" "That is correct. Ivan Serov." "Thank you, Professor Serov. I recommend you go to the nearest Help counter and have them direct you to the surface transport area." She repeated it. "From there take a jitney. Most jitneys are vans, somewhat larger than taxis, and most have signs." Jitneys? Vans? The operational term there was Help counter. He was almost panting when he left the phone, thinking what an ordeal! Then realized how well things had actually gone! Someone had shown him how to use the phone, had even paid for his call. And the wealthy General Hunter's secretary had seemingly arranged to have him called in return; had given him instructions on getting to his hotel! Incredible! He'd even remembered to pick up his pen and put the cap back on. And you thought you had died and gone to hell! His anxiety had disappeared. He would win, he told himself; if not here and now, then somewhere else later. But here and now was best.

◊ Ivan Serov had known from the start, the loan from his brother-in-law would take him only so far. At some point he'd need major financing, and the people with that kind of money would want control. They'd pay him off, make him more or less wealthy, then run with it themselves. And not in the direction he wanted; a direction very important to him. Also, it seemed to him the key to things happening his way was in America. American financiers, like Russian, would have their own values, their own purposes,


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their own ideas of how the project should be carried out. But in America he saw a possibility — a possibility — of finding financiers whose vision resembled his own. He was thinking of Millennium's board of advisers, if it existed in the post-Rock world. Probably it did — enough of it to retain an identity. And it seemed to him they would recognize — might recognize – the potential of what he had, and what it could do, for they were not, he believed, ordinary men. Decades earlier, as a youth in secondary school — a humanist, at most a speculative deist — Ivan Serov had been intrigued by Fred Hoyle's argument that the universe had grown from an intelligent creative principle. A creative principle that, long before, had given rise to a distorted concept of a creator-God. Twenty years after Serov had encountered Hoyle, Ngunda Aran became noticed east of the Atlantic, and Serov encountered The Strange Universe of Ngunda Aran — a collection of the guru's early lectures. Curious, Serov had begun to read it, and almost at once found himself annoyed. Hoyle had presented an elegant and thoughtful concept with no mumbo-jumbo. Aran, on the other hand, presented a detailed metaphysical system without real evidence or supportive arguments. Its basic premises were spiritual — arguably occult — and unacceptable, certainly to an intelligent, educated person. Nonetheless he'd continued to read, impelled, he told himself, by curiosity — till halfway through the book, he realized his responses to life were changing, taking on the color of the guru's worldview! This alarmed but also intrigued him. He began to investigate the guru beyond the covers of the book, browsing Millennium's website, and other websites where Millennium was discussed, argued over, lauded and ridiculed...and had learned more about it than simply its activities, philosophy, etc. By profession, Ngunda Aran had been a mathematician and computer scientist — and therefore of necessity a logician. He'd also been a major player in the development of artificial intelligence, with a number of patents. As a physicist, Serov was experienced with premises that couldn't be tested experimentally. You measured what you could, and within the bounds of your theory, checked your data for internal consistency. That done, you created strategic questions,


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tested how well your premises answered them, and framed new hypotheses. But the basic concept was untestable. In this case, the nearest approach was to compare his observations of life and the universe against Aran's teachings. A very limited sort of testing, but it was something, and he'd finished the book — once, twice, and more. After that he was never quite the same.

◊ It was during his Webworld snooping that Serov learned who financed the Millennium Foundation. Several investigative reporters had published what they'd learned about those financiers — histories, rumors and all: a group of businessmen who, while not among America's richest, were astute and very wealthy. And in the words of one writer, took a long view of things — far beyond the next quarterly profit statement, though obviously those quarterly statements were part of the picture. It hadn't occurred to Serov that someday he might find that information useful. Then had come the Rock and the Great Winter, softening his world view and dogma, and elevating his opinion of Ngunda Aran and his supporters. Now he sat in a hotel room on Manhattan Island, waiting for a call from Major General David Hunter (USAF retired), whom he would ask for money and support. Waited remembering the young man at the airport, and Hunter's receptionist. He might actually succeed. He would succeed.

◊ At 1312 hours, his phone rang, jerking him awake. He reached, fumbled it from its cradle. "This is Professor Serov." "Professor Serov, this is David Hunter. How may I help you?" How may I help you? Serov sat wordless for a moment. What can I tell him that will not sound like just another swindler trying to sell a perpetual motion machine? "I am professor of physics at Novosibirsk State Uniwersity at Akademgorodok, with full credentials. I have new energy technology, cheap and non-polluting, that requires further dewelopment. Unfortunately it will sound like — spam?" Hunter laughed. "I believe the word is scam, Professor Serov. And it does. Tell me more."


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They talked for perhaps fifteen minutes. Hunter, speaking slowly and deliberately, ended the discussion. "Professor Serov, I have to take care of other business just now, and after your long flight, I suspect you can use a nap. I'll have someone pick you up at about 1700 hours. What is your room number?" Serov told him, and they hung up. The Russian wondered if he could fall asleep again, but jet lag asserted itself: he was unconscious almost as he lay down.

◊ Hunter's office was part of a modest suite, well but not extravagantly furnished. The general plied Serov with questions and strong coffee till 1740, then called someone on the phone, and another someone, and then his wife. The upshot was, Serov went home with Hunter. Walked home with him — it was seven blocks — to a spacious apartment in an older but elegant building that, if not extravagant, surely came close. The caramel-colored doorman was white-haired, and seemed competent to deal with people and situations. His crisply-pressed uniform looked expensive and well-cared for. The before-dinner drinks were private — Hunter, his wife, and their guest — taken in sips, not Russian style. Serov decided to drink what Hunter drank, which was a scotch and water on ice, suitable for sipping. Mrs. Hunter was several inches taller than her husband, and heavier. She drank brandy, from its color well diluted. Dinner was similarly private, and the food French, Serov guessed. Conversationally the Hunters tag-teamed him, but avoided his project. They learned much more about him than he about them. He was content with that. To sell his project, he realized, he had to sell himself, and it seemed to him he had little to lose by being open. Dinner was scarcely over when their butler (actually a long-time actor, employed by the Van Ruisdael, and available for a fee) announced guests — arriving together; certainly no coincidence. Hunter employees, it seemed to Ivan. It was after they'd arrived and been introduced that Hunter turned the conversation to Serov's project. To Serov's ears, Doctor Eric Takahara spoke English as if born to it. (As a matter of fact, Takahara, who looked conspicuously Asian, was fourth-generation American, including a Puerto Rican grandmother.) The other, a Ms Jenny Buckels, was young and


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attractive. But unobtrusive, taking no part in the conversation except to listen. And watch. Primarily it was him she watched, or so it seemed to Serov. The general introduced Takahara as a theoretical physicist (who also asked very perceptive engineering questions). Ms Buckels' area of competence was not mentioned. She didn't seem to be security, though he supposed that was possible. Most remarkable to Serov, Mrs. Hunter also attended, saying no more than Buckels did. Takahara had greeted her as "Madam President." President of what? Serov wondered. After some forty minutes, Hunter and his wife left Serov with Takahara and Buckels. All three, including Buckels, sat at laptops, while Takahara asked questions. Serov answered from his chair, drawing diagrams and writing equations on a wallscreen. By that time he'd effectively forgotten Buckels was there. Serov would afterward liken the experience to his doctoral prelims, and defending his dissertation. Given his natural self-confidence and mastery of his field, the experience was invigorating, not harrowing, and there was no sense at all of anyone trying to trip him up. Takahara was simply testing Serov's concept, work, and results. Testing it perceptively. An hour of this brought the Hunters back in. The general excused himself again, saying he needed to discuss the project with Takahara and Buckels now, and suddenly it felt strange to Serov. He wondered what Buckels could contribute to the discussion. Presumably the general knew what he was doing, but what, exactly, was it? At any rate the die had been cast, and it seemed to Serov the general's decision would not be long delayed. Meanwhile Serov sat alone in the sitting room with Mrs. Hunter. Killing time, Serov thought. She asked intelligent questions about Novosibirsk, the country around it, and Siberian climates and landscapes. Somehow drawing his attention away from what the general and the others might be saying. He even learned things about her. She'd grown up in a world very different from Siberia: Hawaii. And for four years had been president of the United States! He blushed when she told him! His only excuse was that since the nuclear exchange in the Middle East, ending "the Time of Troubles," he'd paid very little attention to American


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politics and government. What she didn't mention was her position as chairman of the UN's reform commission. An hour later, Hunter came in without either Takahara or Buckels. He was, he said, very interested in Serov's proposal, and they would discuss it with some other men as soon as he could arrange a meeting. "In today's world," he went on, "your geogravitic power converter, assuming it proves practical, will be every bit as great a blessing as you believe. To humankind and the planet itself. But it will also arouse fear and distrust; we'll need to minimize that. And some of the foreseeable effects will be negative, especially to nations whose economies are heavily dependent on petroleum revenues. Including Russia. We'll have to come up with strategies to avoid or ameliorate that, too. "But those problems can be dealt with by investment strategies, good will, good intentions, and know-how. And eventually international politics. And as you certainly know, when GPCs begin to come off your assembly lines, you will have a great deal of money of your own to invest. For example in middle-eastern oil states, if you're so inclined. Petroleum will continue to be important, though probably not for fuel, and not in the extravagant quantities we became used to during the past hundred years." The people Hunter intended to talk with would also want to talk with Serov. Hunter had already phoned a hotel just a block from his office, and arranged for Serov to have a room there. A man would be along shortly to drive him to the hotel he'd been at, where he was to pack his bags and move to his new lodgings. Hunter would cover the costs. Serov was overwhelmed, though not greatly surprised by all this. And by the large degree of control Hunter was exercising. At any rate, for better or worse he'd committed himself. He nodded. "It is obvious what role Dr. Takahara had in your decision," he said, "but what is Ms Buckel's role?" "Ah. I deliberately didn't mention that. I didn't want to spook you; worry you needlessly. I am very sensitive to people — to what they feel, and by extension what they think, but Jenny is much more sensitive than I. She is an empath, and one of


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Millennium's best facilitators. By watching someone, she knows with considerable confidence their moment to moment inner responses to what is happening around them." Hunter watched Serov introvert before his eyes, and grasped his shoulder. "Ivan...may I call you Ivan?" He watched the Russian's aura. And grinned. "You'll get used to the idea, especially as you get used to Millennium people. Still, why don't you and Florence and I have another drink while we wait for your ride?"

◊ Eight days later, Ivan Serov signed an agreement with a six-man consortium headed by Hunter. Among other matters, it provided resources to continue work on his invention — and gave him well-defined, well-disguised, and undoubtedly well-monitored credit access through a large commercial bank in Luzerne. He was to report to a Norwegian Webworld address at randomized intervals, and at other times as needed. Via a scrambler with a code he was assured was very unlikely to be broken, and that should not draw attention to itself or its user.


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Chapter 42 AD 2017-2018

Events

For years it has been known that great geophysical cataclysms result

in wholesale biological extinctions, directly and as aftereffects.

Consider a large area in which a species has been reduced to a few

specimens; an area isolated from similar areas. For example, forest

surrounded by tundra or grassland or water, or by cultivated and urban

lands.

There may be humans or other predators seeking to kill and eat the

survivors. In a landscape rich in caribou, predation by wolves is

genetically healthful for them, ordinarily. But in a region with only a

dozen caribou, a single hungry pack of wolves might exterminate them in

a season.

Many regions now lack key species of their pre-Rock ecology.

Immigration or substitutes may mitigate the loss. And eventually new

life forms will evolve — that's been going on for hundreds of millions of

years. But "eventually" can mean a very long time.

From Collected Observations of Lor Lu

Still recuperating from internal injuries, Lieutenant Leonard Yee and Dr. Mei-Ling Ho sat watching the U.S.S. Vinson's awesome wake, a swath of white across cerulean blue, losing itself in the middle distance. Tanshui, the pre-Rock port of T'aipei, was out of sight astern, but Taiwan's northernmost peak, Ch'ising Shan, still stood above the horizon.


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By the time the carrier and her skipper had completed diplomatic and public formalities in Japan, and departed Osaka Bay for Taiwan, Dr. Ho had sufficiently recovered from her brain injury to deal with conversation, and the chief medical officer, Dr. Keefe, considered Yee a natural for her to relate to. Yee spoke fluent Mandarin, and had been pried out of the same wrecked ambulance she had. Also, because he was American, she might well find him intellectually stimulating. What Keefe hadn't foreseen was the quick attraction they felt for one another. Yee's family had moved from Baoding to Taiwan when he was nine, a very major change, and more major, five years later they'd moved to America. But the young lieutenant still understood and appreciated Chinese viewpoints. Now the two sat talking little, absorbing the seascape. Finally Yee spoke. "The day after tomorrow, you will step into an aircraft down there," he said, gesturing toward the flight deck, "and a short while later, land at Beijing. I'm afraid I will not see you again after that. I wish I could change your mind. Captain Dietrich..." With a shrug he cut himself short. Dietrich, it seemed to him, had authority to radio a request to the American embassy in Beijing, requesting an entry visa to the United States for Dr. Ho. Yee had pointed this out to her before, and she'd refused to consider it. And for a reason or reasons he hadn't sorted out for himself, he'd backed off. Now he found himself backing off again. It seemed...best. Respectful. She reached a hand toward him, laying it on the coffee table between them, and he covered it with his own. "I am sorry," she said. Her English was rather good — she read technical English easily — but she spoke Mandarin now, wanting to be sure she made herself clear. "After we spoke of it before, I feared I had been too brief, perhaps curt, though you did not seem offended. Also, I wondered if I had given it sufficient thought. "But on considering further, I came to the same conclusion, and decided if the question came up between us again, I would explain myself, even though it might seem...irrational to you." Irrational? His eyebrows rose. "When I was a student," she continued, "a friend loaned me an American book, a very strange book, spiritual, and at first I was uncomfortable with it. My family, like


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many in China, was atheist, and the government disapproved of teachings like those the book presented. But after a while, I began to find it compelling. And non-political; that helped." She paused, feeling her way, not wanting to say too much. "My friend had been given the book by a mentor who claimed occult talents, including the ability to read a person's innermost personality. And she had asked that person to read mine, though the woman had never heard of me. What she said seemed eerily perceptive. Among other things, she said I am a mature soul with a goal of — call it dedication. To China." Again she paused. "That explained a great deal to me, about my feelings toward my country. Since childhood, there was much about China I did not approve of, but nonetheless I have always felt a deep love for it, an unbreakable loyalty. I will be Chinese all my life, just as you, I sense, will always be American, were born to be American, even though you were born in China." He nodded, not so much in agreement as in acknowledgment and respect, and both turned their eyes southward again, across the blue sea toward rugged Ch'ising Shan, shrinking in the distance. It occurred to him that perhaps he could be Taiwanese again, and she... But he knew the answer: Taiwan wasn't China. Not really. "Mature soul?" Suddenly the thought registered, taking him by surprise. "That's part of Ngunda's teaching! It didn't occur to me you'd have read his lectures in China." "I already knew about soul ages, before I'd even heard of Ngunda; Ngunda put the Michael teachings in a different context, emphasizing applications. And pragmatism is the attitude with which I entered this life. That is something else the spiritualist knew about me, and which I at once recognized as true." The nurse on watch looked in on them. "Dr. Ho," she said, "I'm afraid I have to chase Lieutenant Yee away. It's time for your nap. You'll fly to Beijing day after tomorrow, and we want you in tip-top shape." Mei-Ling smiled at the nurse, then at the lieutenant, and commented in English: "You heard the nurse. Doctors know that when a nurse speaks, the patient must heed." He grinned ruefully. "Tyrants," he said, then laughed. "Tyrants, all of them." He and Mei-Ling got to their feet, she a bit unsteadily, holding onto her chair. He took her hand, raised and kissed it before leaving. It was not a Chinese thing to do, certainly not


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since the revolution, nor American. He simply did it. The nurse lifted an eyebrow as the door closed behind him. "Lieutenant Yee is a nice young man," she said, watching her patient. Doctor Ho smiled slightly. "Yes he is, and he speaks excellent Mandarin. But he is very American."

◊ Leonard Yee was still quartered and took his meals in sickbay. Which helped keep him pretty much out of sight — and out of possible work assignments. But his books were in the cabin he'd shared with Arnold Nelsen on the way out, so he spent part of his time there. Which was fine by Arnold; it gave him someone to yack with when they felt like it. Yee had been assigned to the Tibetan snow course mission by ONI, the Office of Naval Intelligence. With the mission finished, the ship's captain and his chief intelligence officer seemed to forget about Yee. Under other circumstances he might have volunteered his time, for career reasons, but his career plans no longer included the Navy. When he returned to the ONI, he intended to apply for a position in the State Department. But just now his thoughts were on Dr. Ho. Arnold too had come to know Dr. Ho, primarily because of curiosity about the lady who so interested his friend. He looked up as the young man entered. "Enjoy the scenery?" "Yeah. Blue water, white wake, dark mountain...gorgeous." "How's Mei-Ling feeling?" "Serious. She'll be back on the mainland day after tomorrow." That kind of serious. Arnold nodded. "A nice lady, and I have no doubt she's a good physician." He had, he thought, said enough to inspire further comments from Lennie. When the lieutenant didn't take the bait, he added, "Is she looking forward to being home?" "Looking forward? Yeah, I guess she is, in a manner of speaking." He told Arnold, then, what she'd said about her dedication to China. And shrugged. "I'm unlucky in love, I guess." He contemplated that, and Arnold didn't impose. "Though I've never been in love before, and I suppose this could be infatuation." He shrugged.


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"I'll see her again this afternoon. Maybe she'll give me her address. Or maybe not; that might be better in the long run. I won't try to argue her into anything, but I'd like to stay in touch — maybe at Christmas — in case she ever decides to try a change of scene. Maybe even of nationality. People do change, you know." Arnold did know. But it seemed to him if someone's dedication was true and deep, that kind of change was unlikely. After a few seconds, Leonard spoke again. "Damn! I wish we had another week though."

____________________

When the Rock struck in 2015, the tiny settlement known as Brokensled Camp was a subarctic metropolis of 37 humans, all adults, mostly military, involved in electronic monitoring of secret military research. They had with them dogs of various descriptions, the number varying with the dropping of litters. And with mortality, notably predation by wolves. The morning after the Rock splashed down, Broken Sled's human population was evacuated by an RCAF Twin Otter on pontoons. Left behind were a lieutenant and three non-commissioned soldiers who'd volunteered to maintain the weather station, which was expected to provide very interesting data. Meanwhile, aircraft fuel promised to be in extremely short supply, and they were to make due with the provisions on hand — two or three weeks worth for the original 37 inhabitants. Most of the snow fell in August and September, in quantities far greater than usual for an entire year. Most of the dogs were soon butchered, which saved them from starving, and provided the men with a change of diet. The others simply disappeared. When finally spring arrived, all the local caribou, moose, and wolves had died beneath the great snowpack, a situation widespread throughout most of Canada, Alaska, and the mountains of the western United States. In fact the North American taiga and tundra had very few wild mammals left, larger than hares. Or raptors, or overwintering birds of any sort. Most had frozen to death, though some, ravens included, had migrated south. During the following three summers, some tundra and taiga wildlife, notably


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rodents and snowshoe hares, showed significant recovery. In the summer of 2018, the icepack disappeared entirely from the Arctic Ocean, resulting in unusually abundant late-summer arctic rains. By late September, methane or not, the rains had changed to snows as far south as Yellowknife. Not snows like those that fell three years earlier — nothing like that — but more than in any other previous autumn of record. By then the three military volunteers at Brokensled had long since been replaced by a civilian research team, documenting changes in the local biota.

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Lor Lu gestured Ben Shoreff to the chair across the desk from his own. "I'm making some executive changes," he said. "I've begun to suffer a nervous disorder, due to overuse of the higher centers. You have noticed preliminary symptoms. Human bodies aren't wired to use those centers so continually. That's why I now spend more time in healing meditation, and just loafing." He grinned, and raised his fists overhead in mock exultation. "No more sixteen-hour days — or twelve-hour days! — except in extraordinary circumstances." Ben recalled a family conversation a year or two earlier, and realized what was about to happen to him. "This means," Lor Lu went on, "that I need you to take a larger role in Millennium's operating decisions. Beginning Monday, you will be Millennium's acting CEO. You're already halfway there as my executive secretary. I in turn will concentrate on being establishment officer — call it 'esto' — planning, adjusting, and as appropriate, expanding the existence and functions of Millennium. "Ops and esto, you and I. We'll have to tie Lee in on this, to make whatever adjustments she deems needful to the working system." Ben nodded. "I remember Lee mentioning the 'esto' when she was developing the operations chart, three years ago. I told her I'd never heard the word before. She said the concept and term had been around awhile but weren't widely used. That in Millennium, the esto was Ngunda's job, carried out in consultation with the advisory board. That he'd obviously recognized the need, but hadn't really nailed down the


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concept." "Right. We were in a different stage of establishment then: making ourselves real, valid, and well and widely known. Which Ngunda, with his...jaunty charisma was marvelously suited to. Now we are very well and widely known, and few question our validity. "For us now, establishment has two parts: one is to favorably influence world centers of leadership and power. The other is to expand our contacts, facilities and services, especially in lands and cultures where we have little or nothing going on. Obviously the two are related." Ben felt Lor Lu's calm gaze, light, but missing little. In Lor Lu's presence, most human's were aware of it, subliminally at least. "The Assumption of Ngunda's body by the Infinite Soul," Lor Lu went on, "established a deep, spiritual, universal contact, far beyond anything I can provide. In fact, all such contact, prior to the Assumption, was simply groundwork, vital but limited. Ngunda was He Who Prepared the Way, for the Infinite Soul incarnate as Dove. I am simply a bodhisattva, but being without false personality, with a pipeline from "truth," in a manner of speaking, and having overleaves that include dominance and power, I am able to energize the deep contact Dove created, in those living humans who remain from his time. And of course, the Rock, and Ngunda's prediction of it, served as 'the Tao's endorsement,' so to speak, the Signature Of God. "Meanwhile there are places with little real sense of Ngunda's Teaching. Places like the Mongolian Republic, Bangladesh, Uzbekistan... "Anything we accomplish on the physical plane will be limited. Everything even Dove accomplished was limited. We remain ensouled primates. And our job is not to make Homo sapiens perfect. There's no such card in our deck. It is simply to make us, on the average, more sane, more rational, more compassionate — better suited to survive as a life form, and continue evolving spiritually and socially." He steepled his fingers, gazing across their tips at Ben. "Meanwhile, in Millennium, the Advisory Board remains a vital element. It provides most of our income, many operational contacts, and exceptional practical know-how in important areas of activity. Even among us, while their financial support is thoroughly


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appreciated, the vital importance of their know-how and contacts tend to be overlooked. And this brings up another task which will now devolve upon you: board liaison. I will still deal with them occasionally, but not routinely." "What will the general think of that?" "He says if I like it, they'll like it. They are extraordinary men, not afraid to trust — if trust is appropriate." Ben nodded, confident, assured, though aware that his powers were much less than Lor Lu's. "I will attend the next few meetings," Lor Lu went on, "two, three, possibly more — to answer questions regarding what I have in mind in certain matters." He grinned. "They'll accept you readily. Ngunda vetted the first board — charming them and breaking them in — and I have vetted its newer members. All have received, or are in the process of receiving, the full advanced procedures. "Meanwhile you are free to consult with me as you deem necessary. Which knowing you, will not be often."

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Arnold Nelsen was glad to be home. The rental house now provided by the government near "New McChord," had a back yard shielded on two sides by lilac hedges still recovering from being killed back in the winter of 2015-16. It also had a patio with a striped awning that could be raised or lowered by cranking. The autumn rains hadn't begun, but the days had shortened markedly. The sun had slipped behind the back-fence neighbor's recovering yard trees, and evening was settling. Arnold sat in his lounge chair, a forgotten wine cooler at his elbow, a book in his hands. He heard the patio door slide open behind him, but didn't turn to look. "Hi, dad!" It was Carlos, who'd recently turned fourteen. He'd changed a lot that summer, but Arnold found the new Carlos as attractive as the old. A good kid. One change did trouble him a bit: the boy's interest in Ngunda Aran had grown. "Dove" was a prominent part of the culture now, something Arnold had adjusted to, though he hoped to see it fade. Meanwhile he found Millennium's beliefs mostly preferable — less ignorant and perverse — to the old protestant fundamentalism that


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had worried him earlier, and been much diminished. The gangling adolescent flopped down on another lounge chair. "They working you hard?" Carlos asked. Sounds like an opening to dad time. Arnold marked his place and laid down his book. "Not really," he said. Actually he'd had little to do lately. As an Air Force civilian employee, his job description was very non-military — very non-government in fact — summed up in the bureaucratic expression "tasks as required," commonly an extension of more explicit tasks, to cover unforeseens. But in his case it was the whole thing. They expected him to come up with jobs for himself, and lately he hadn't found any of consequence. He'd been spending a lot of time snooping the recovering Webworld, including news journals, waiting for something useful to catch his eye. With his track record, Colonel Mironets seemed willing to give him as much time as it took. Actually he'd thought of looking for a teaching or research job in hydrology again, at a university. Meanwhile he asked the default question: "How was school today?" "Okay. I've got to write an essay this week, and I thought I'd interview you about your old mission to China. It's both politically and environmentally educational." Politically and environmentally educational! Concepts, Arnold told himself, not familiar to teenagers of his own generation. He wasn't sure about this one. "And I was wondering if I could, uh, get it on cube." "When did you have in mind?" "After supper maybe? And Art would like to sit in on the interview. I told him, this afternoon, what I was thinking about, and he said it sounded interesting." Arthur Cummings was new in the neighborhood, and a year older than Carlos. Presumably his father was Air Force. The Cummingses had moved in across the fence, and the two boys had become pals. Arthur was bigger, more athletic and charismatic (even adults could sense that charisma) — and like Carlos, casually polite. That was about the extent of Arnold's observations. "What sort of things is Arthur interested in?" "Well, he's especially interested in Ngunda, and Millennium stuff. He knows it


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frontwards and backwards — as much as Sergeant Dexter, I think. He's even had some Milllennium procedures." Carlos paused. "Boy, I'd sure like to get some!" he added meaningfully. "Umh." Arnold wondered what that would cost, but to ask might be taken to mean he'd consider it if the price was right. So instead he asked "where did that happen?" "Colorado Springs, I suppose. That's where they lived then." Air Force all right. "What's his dad do?" "He's an Air Force major. A surgeon, actually. His mom's a part-time nurse at the hospital." The new McChord AFB didn't have it's own hospital. It had taken over part of the hospital in Chehalis, which had plenty of room since the Great Flu had shrunk the population. "Tell me when you want to do the interview," Arnold said, "and if Arthur wants to sit in on it, that's fine by me." "Great!" Carlos unfolded from his chair and trotted off to Arthur's house, the gate in the fence whacking shut behind him. Arnold picked up his book again.

◊ The interview went well, and afterward the boys galloped to the park to shoot baskets by moonlight. And talk; pals that age were strong on sharing views and confidences with each other. Two days later, Carlos handed Arnold his write up. Arnold was awed. His son's perceptivity and analytical talents were, it seemed to him, far ahead of his own at age fourteen — at eighteen in some respects! — and the boy wrote well.

◊ The following Saturday, Arnold answered the doorbell to find Arthur on the porch. "Hi, Mr. Nelsen. Is Carlos here?" "No, he's shopping with his sisters. Unusual for him. Probably has something to do with our upcoming wedding anniversary. Come on in." Arthur stepped inside. Arnold gestured him into the kitchen — Myrna was vacuuming the living room — and seated him at the kitchen table. "I've never actually


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gotten to know you," Arnold said. "Not really." He opened the fridge, and grinned. "What you like to drink, for example." "Well sir, I pretty much know what you keep in there, and I confess I really like that Canadian cider." "Aha." Arnold put ice in two tall glasses, added non-alcoholic carbonated cider, and handed one to Arthur. Then raised his own. "You realize this is a sign of recovery." "No, I didn't know that." "It's from British Columbia, which means there are good roads open to truck traffic from up there. And that they have orchards recovered enough to produce apples. Expensive though." Arnold raised his glass. "Here's to further recovery." Arthur duplicated the gesture; they touched rims and drank. "What do you plan to do, when you finish high school?" "I'm not sure yet, and I'll graduate next spring." "Carlos told me you were fifteen." "I'll be sixteen by then. When I was born, my mom left the Air Force to take care of me, and when I was barely four, I taught myself to read. Just sort of did it, actually. I'd try to read just about anything, so she decided to home school me. I started going to public school two years ago. Mom had gone back to work on weekends, and after so many nurses died during the flu epidemic, she went back to work ten to four." "Ah. I suppose you'll be leaving for college next year." "Maybe. I have an older cousin in Denver who's a Millennium facilitator. Last year she did her internship, and invited me to be her..." He grinned wryly. "Her practice dummy, she called me, for Life Healing. So I went up there and stayed a week with Aunt Laura, and every day Marilyn worked on me. I decided right then that I wanted to be a facilitator, too. "But now I kind of like the idea of ecosystem modeling. A little like what you did in China last summer, and the Columbia River watershed before that, but not focused on a single output, like streamflow. Fuzzy neural network models of complete landscapes, that compute all the outputs and inputs, over the full spectrum of landscape states...."


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The boy shook it off. "And sometimes I've thought of doing the sort of thing your friend wanted to do: the Chinese American who planned to leave the Navy and work for the State Department. Carlos told me about him. I'd like to be a Millennium analyst for them, if there is such a thing. In the state department, I mean. If there isn't, there ought to be, and I'm already pretty good with Russian." Arnold realized he was staring. "Arthur," he said, "you may not know what you want to be, but whatever you decide, you're going to be a very good one." "Thank you, sir! I appreciate your good opinion." He swigged down his cider, then got from his chair. "Right now, I'm going to take a walk and think about things." Arnold accompanied him to the door, where they shook hands. Then Arthur left, and Arnold returned to the kitchen to find Myrna putting away dishes. She grinned at him. "I heard most of that," she said. "Beginning with the cider." He realized then she'd turned the vacuum off about the time Arthur had sat down with him. "Yeah?" "Yes. Mothers and wives get taken for granted sometimes, so they get to overhear things. Like a conversation between Carl and Arthur, after Arthur read Carl's writeup of the interview." "That was good work, wasn't it. Carl's a very intelligent young man, with real talent for writing." "That's not what I was thinking about." "Oh? What were you thinking about?" "Arthur was telling Carlos how much he respected you. 'Your dad groks things or figures them out,' he said, 'then does something effective about them. Makes things happen, whatever it takes. That's luminous!'" Luminous? Teen talk was as strange to their elders now as it had ever been, Arnold thought, and decided to look at the extended definitions of luminous when he had a chance. But this wasn't it, because Myrna stepped over to him and put her arms around his neck. "And he's right. You're a helluva dad, a helluva husband, and a helluva human being." She kissed him. "I just thought someone should tell you." "Well! I consider myself told."


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She laughed. "And while I'm at it, when you invited Arthur into the kitchen, you had reservations about him. About his interest in Millennium." "Really? I don't recall saying anything like that." "You didn't need to. I've studied you for more than nineteen years. I have a Ph.D. in Arnold Nelsen." "Is that right? Hmph!" "That's right. When my world was crushed by the tsunami, my home demolished and all the pieces washed away, you were strong and kind. It was your home too, but it was me you thought about. For me that was an advanced course in loving, and you didn't even know it. It was more than therapeutic; it was enlightening. Luminous!” She laughed. "And now I'm going to stop abusing you and finish putting away the dishes." He stood watching her take items from the dishwasher, swiping at any residual moisture with a linen towel before putting them away in cupboard or drawer or knife block. Her movements were graceful, and it occurred to him she was as lovely at forty as when he'd first seen her, twenty years earlier. Lovelier. The dishes were out of sight in a minute, and when she walked into the living room, he followed her. "Tell me more about this Nelsen chap you've made such a study of. Is he large and loud and hairy and cruel?" "He was never particularly hairy. Medium maybe. As for cruel? Not that I've noticed, though there was the time... No, that was someone else, the bald-headed furry one. A Nelson with an o, like a Swede or Englishman." She feigned a shudder. "Tell me about this Nelsen's reservations. About Arthur's interest in Millennium." "You pretty much lost those reservations when you talked to him. To Arthur." "No, they're still there, inside my...inside Nelsen's skull. Arthur's a true believer, and I hope he doesn't get Carlos started down that slippery slope." "My dear, Carlos started down that slope before the Cummingses came here." "Oh?" "When we hosted an occasional meeting of the Ngunda group. Sergeant Dexter especially impressed Carlos, and me I might add. And you, from what I could see." "My interest was intellectual. Curiosity. We're not young and impressionable


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anymore. I never bought into it." There was more she might have said — but she let be. It wasn't worth it. He'd rarely been dictatorial, nor had she ever known him to snipe, to degrade. He was good at setting aside things that troubled him. Not suppressing them, just giving the world time to work them out. So all she added was, "Speak for yourself, dear. As for me — as you should know — I've become another of those dreadful true believers. But I promise not to bug you about it."

◊ Half an hour later, Arnold put on a light jacket and announced he was going to take a walk. "I don't walk enough anymore, and it's a nice evening." "Want company?" "No, just a brisk walk. Clear my lungs and my register, that's all. I'll be back in an hour. At most." Myrna watched the door close behind him. He'd introverted — hadn't met her eyes when he left. Myrna, she told herself, it was mean to push that button. You married a nice and loving man, and don't you dare forget it! The discussion group, and the books she'd read as "homework," had changed her. That and the 4th internal monad, AKA the mid-life crisis, she thought, which in her case hadn't been much of a crisis, because she was an "old server" in essence, who'd grown up in a family, and married a man, that had largely let her be herself. Meanwhile Arnold, who in college had been scrupulous about doing his homework, in the group had scrupulously avoided it, treating the discussions as an exercise in new age philosophy. Dealing with it by denial, and with her by love. He's a lesson in acceptance for you, Myrna, she told herself. Consider yourself blessed.


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Chapter 43 AD 2018

The Shoreffs It was lunch time, and the staff dining room was filling rapidly. Raquel Shoreff entered, and went to the family table, where her mother was just sitting down with a fruit salad. Raquel stowed her book bag under her chair, then kissed her mother's cheek. "Hi, Mom! Where's dad? I didn't see him around the buffets." Ordinarily her parents came to lunch together, and her stepfather was tall, easy to spot. "He'll be down soon; he was on the phone. Where's your sister?" "At the Academy. Being congratulated. We stopped on the way to school, to see if her final session passed. Not that there was any question. She's the smartest kid in school. And now it's official — she's a Six — though the cert hasn't been made up yet. She can pick it up tomorrow." Lee Shoreff nodded. Six was the highest fully developed facilitator level — eight was still provisional — and the Ranch was the only place in the world that trained Sixes. Yet; that was scheduled to change. "Six is really an achievement at her age." "Yeah! She's the second youngest ever." "Really! Who's the youngest? Anyone we know?" "Someone from Toronto a few years ago. 'Scuse me, I'm starved." Raquel hugged her mom again and headed for the buffet. Becca, who was not a grinner, sailed into the dining room grinning, and bee-lined for the family table. Her book bag too went onto the shelf beneath her chair. "Hi, mom! Did Raquel tell you?" "Yes she did, including your being the second youngest ever. I'm proud of you." Becca bent and kissed her mom. "Thanks, mother mine. I'm proud of you, too."


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She was a pretty girl, a fifteen-year-old honey blond not yet much filled out, but projecting poised maturity nonetheless. A trained and now interned Facilitator Six, she knew what was on her mother's mind: Sixes were scarce commodities — took time to develop, and were in demand. Most were assigned elsewhere, often out of the country. "I'm going to get something to eat," Becca added, and followed Raquel to the buffets. When they'd been new at the Ranch, Lee Shoreff had tried to keep at least one foot outside Millennium, and the family had eaten most of their meals at home. But that had been most of four years earlier; since then they'd eaten largely with staff. At first, at the staff dining room, they'd gathered at their table before going together to get their food, but that too had passed. Ben had become Lor Lu's executive secretary, and his schedule somewhat erratic — even more erratic since his recent appointment as CEO. And her own attitude and values had long since adjusted to Millennium. At any rate they still had their evenings — except when one or another was getting some Millennium procedure after supper. Or sometimes when school had one of its infrequent evening activities. When Ben worked late it was mostly at home. As CEO, he'd even assigned himself a larger house, with the additional room fitted as an executive office. The girls hadn't yet returned with their food when Ben arrived. Not carrying a book bag, he threw Lee a wave from the door and went directly to the buffets. The girls had seated themselves and begun to eat by the time he sat down. "Who was the call from?" Lee asked. "Moscow," he said. "From the center. I need to beef up staff there. But there's that same old problem; it takes facilitators to train facilitators, and longer to train facilitators to proficiency in Russian! Most can still only work with Russians who understand spoken English well enough." Becca interrupted. "Um, dad?" "Yes?" "I know a Six who's had three years of Russian at school, with straight As." He laughed. "You do, do you? Are you free to divulge the identity of this facilitator? Or do you need to consult with her first? It is a her, I suppose?" "That's right."


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"Do you suppose this unidentified person would be willing to live in Moscow? In the winter?" "Dad! Are you kidding? After the winter we had here, three years ago?" He grinned. "Kidding? I suppose I was. But if you were volunteering just now, I'd be willing to take it up with your mother." He turned to Lee. Oh lord! Not already! "I'll consider it," Lee said — "after this school year." She turned to Becca. "You'll have your diploma then, and you'll be sixteen — and you'll have finished another year of Russian." She frowned, then added: "Ms Weinroth might fit you into her advanced conversation group." Becca got from her chair, went to her mother and hugged her hard. "I've told you before, and I'll tell you again: you are the best mother in the world!" Lee smiled, eyes growing moist. "I need to be good," she said. "I have the two best daughters in the world." She turned to Ben. "You had the facilitators in Moscow delivering the procedures in English part-time, and learning Russian part-time. How's that working out?" "Slower than I'd like; I've had to lean on Tim lately. Russians competent in English have created so much demand for the procedures, he's let Scheduling skew their hours. Our facilitators there have been spending only two hours a day, sometimes less, learning Russian, which makes it slow. That's why I'm so pleased with Sophie's example here; she turned out four people last spring substantially proficient in Russian. Unfortunately only two have facilitator training, and they're only Twos. But Twos are the most in demand now anyway, especially in startup operations, so I sent them both to Moscow." He smiled ruefully. "What we really need is more qualified teachers of Chinese in this country. And more kids who want to be facilitators." "How are the foreign academies doing at training homegrown facilitators?" "Pretty well, actually. Your program for prioritizing resources has helped a lot." In many countries, almost everyone but the elderly were at least somewhat proficient in English. But in others, academy instructors needed to be proficient in the local language as well as in facilitating. So the centers held back on delivering to the public, working to provide more instructors.


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And of course, the instructors needed to have experienced the procedures before they could run them on others, which slowed things everywhere. It took facilitators to prepare and train facilitators. And time, quite a lot of it. In a couple of years, according to Lee's Fuzzy Inference Engine, they'd reach the point of critical mass, where they'd have enough facilitators that things would really start to take off. Eddie Theofanis had coached her on Fuzzy methods. With a PhD in math, he'd been an assistant professor at U.C. Santa Barbara. Ngunda had given a lecture there, back in '13, and Eddie had introduced himself afterward, asking what he could do to help. "Teach math at our high school," Ngunda had said. As if he'd looked into Eddie's mind and seen his muse; Eddie had a genius and a passion for making math clear to non-math minds. And Eddie had taken him up on it. When Lee had asked him if there was a math for working out analyses in which (1) the variables could only be roughly estimated, (2) the sets were hard to define, and (3) the "independent" variables weren't independent, he'd been so pleased, he hadn't known whether to laugh or cry. "Lee!" he'd said, "you're talking about the real world! Surely you've heard of Fuzzy logic? Fuzzy math? Let's you and me sit down and see what we can figure out." Actually she'd more than heard of them. She'd used very basic Fuzzy concepts — particularly cognitive mapping — in her consulting work, years before. But where she'd made a Fuzzy dog lie down and roll over, Eddie could direct an entire fuzzy dog and pony show through Swan Lake! Just now a new idea was flickering in Lee's mind; she decided that after supper she'd return to her office and poke around at it.

◊ "So what I'd like to do," Lee told her husband that evening, "is explore the practicality of a computer-directed learning program. Computer-enhanced, too. Incorporate what's known of the chemical and electrical physiology of learning, the brain's language program, holistic connectivity, effects of different overleaves...all of it. How to incorporate a person's true rest, true play, true work... It'll take time, but what we learn could be helpful far beyond just language training. Eddie can quantify the


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preliminary cognitive map. The project will take a lot more than math, of course, but if the general can come up with some modest grants, we can farm out the more esoteric research." "Sounds interesting. What have you been working on?" "I'm still between projects, stamping out small fires while looking for something I can sink my teeth into." "Ah ha! I knew it! Kicking and biting all the way! When do you plan to start?" "Earlier this evening. I made a list of things to look into."


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Chapter 44 AD 2018

Novosibirsk Carefully Ivan Serov entered a string of code into his computer. For a moment nothing seemed to happen, then he heard brief familiar bars from Borodin's "On the Steppes of Central Asia," but oddly orchestrated. Was the encryption keyed to the orchestral score? Then he heard the ringing signal at the other end. It wasn't Mona who answered. "This is David Hunter. How are you, Ivan?" "I am well, thank you general. And you?" "I'm fine, and so is Mrs. Hunter. I suppose you have an update on the GPC?" "Yes, general. I have now working model ready to demonstrate, and I would like you to see it." "I'd be happy to. Is it ready to go public with?" "Not yet. I already know things I must change. Call it fine-tuning. But I am ready to start building middle-size industrial prototype, and design production machinery, and plant. And...I feel swamped! Is that correct term? Swamped? I have never tried to prepare program of commercial enterprise before. I need adwice. And plant design engineer; someone you trust." Use the articles, Ivan, he reminded himself. You're forgetting to say the and a. "And I want you to have a working prototype in America — small, a hundred kilos perhaps — in case something goes wrong here." He sounds almost panicky, Hunter thought. He's been trying to do it all himself, while keeping it secret, and he's starting to struggle. Or could Moscow be snooping, or the mafia, wondering what's going on in that old machine shop? "Have any problems come up?" "No no! But — when I was younger, I was sometimes perfectionist. Too slow. Also the world is uncertain place. It is time to bring this to a point where GPC is a reality, with products around the world. If something goes wrong in one place, the


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work can continue in other places." Something is troubling him. "Okay. I'll tell you what: I'll send Eric and a plant design engineer next week. And if possible, the best business planner you ever imagined. And if there's anything else I can do for you, don't hesitate to ask." There was a moment of silence. Then, almost apologetically: "General Hunter — David — if it does not greatly interfere with your own schedule, I would be wery pleased if you came with them. It is time to discuss the overall strategy for release of GPC, and I believe you are the best trusted person to discuss it with." "Hmm. I'll talk about that with Eric and the other two I have in mind. I'll make time for it as soon as they can get away, and let you know as soon as I know. Okay?" "That is wery kind of you, General. I only wish...it could happen tomorrow. I'm sorry. I have good machinist here who is great help to me, but I have worked too long alone on this." "I believe you, Ivan, I believe you have. Well. We'll be there as soon as we can. Meanwhile I suggest you take a day off and sleep, perhaps reread some Ngunda. Or go fishing!"

◊ When Hunter hung up, it occurred to him it might be well to bring more than Eric and Birkfield and Cliffords, and Lee Shoreff if she could make it. He'd see if Lor Lu could schedule a facilitator to do a quick fix on Ivan, or maybe a complete Life Healing.

◊ It seemed to Ivan Serov he'd put down a very heavy weight. Today he'd call Alexei and invite him out for supper. Or...no, they were brothers-in-law, and friends of long standing. They'd have a few drinks, and Alexei would ask questions about the pipeline layer — is progress being made? — and he would be tempted to tell him, and.... Wait, Ivan, wait. The time will come sooner than you think. Then you can tell the whole world, offer Alexei a nice position if he'd like, and pay back his loan with more interest than he ever dreamed of.

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Chapter 39 · destroying bridges, washing out culverts, battering and devouring roadsides. Repairs had been hurried and rough — rocks and rubble. The bridges were temporary but