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By Root 1674 0

that was a lot of important people), on the chance that any of them might have some wisdom to share that hadn’t occurred to himself. (They didn’t.) Meanwhile, Natasha was obsessively trying to teach young Robert how to read Portuguese. And then one morning, while they were all at breakfast, there was a sudden eruption of raised voices from outside. When Ranjit opened the door to look, what he saw was four of their uniformed guards with their guns drawn and pointed at half a dozen strangers. Well, not all strangers. Most of them were young, scowling, their hands in the air, but in their center was someone whom, though somewhat older than the last time he’d seen him, Ranjit recognized at once. “Colonel Bledsoe,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

The situation took a little negotiating. The way it worked out, Lt. Col. Bledsoe (retired) was allowed to come into the house, although only with the captain of the guard standing by with his gun in his hand. Bledsoe’s escort remained outside, sitting on the ground with their hands on their heads, with the rest of the Sri Lankan detail making sure they stayed that way.

One might have supposed that Bledsoe would feel he was at some sort of a disadvantage. He didn’t. “Thanks for letting me come in and talk to you,” he said. “I didn’t want to have to turn my boys loose on your guards.”

Ranjit wasn’t sure whether he should be amused or angry but decided not to try to figure that out. He went right to the point. “Talk about what?” he asked.

Bledsoe nodded. “Right, let’s not waste time. I’m here representing the president of the United States, and he has determined that the human race can’t afford to let these alien assassins land on Earth.”

It was Ranjit’s intention to ask how the president of the United States proposed to prevent it, but his wife got in first. “What makes your president think he can speak for the whole human race? Don’t—for instance—Russia and China have something to say about it?”

To Ranjit’s surprise, Bledsoe seemed to expect the question. “You’re living in the past, Mrs. Subramanian. You act like there still was a big three. There isn’t. Russia and China are nothing but paper tigers anymore! They don’t need to be considered.”

He went on to explain, his tone scornful, that they were both preoccupied with internal problems they tried to keep secret. “The People’s Republic of China,” he lectured, “has just about lost control of Jilin province to the Falun Gong movement, and they can’t afford that. Oh, sure, you never heard of Jilin province, did you? But it’s where the Chinese government gets a lot of its grain, not to mention a lot of its automobiles and railway cars. You heard me. Agriculture and manufacturing! And Falun Gong’s spreading across the border to Inner Mongolia.”

He shook his head in a manner that might have been sympathetic, if the little grin at the corners of his mouth hadn’t been so obviously gloating. “And what about the Russians?” he asked. “They’re even worse off. Chechnya is a running sore. There are Muslims there, and every Islamic jihadist anywhere in the world who still wants to kill heretics is going to flock to Chechnya to pick up a gun—and there goes some of Russia’s most important oil pipelines. And if Chechnya finally does get loose, there are a bunch of other provinces that would like nothing better than to go the same way.”

Myra commented, “You look happy about it.”

Bledsoe pursed his lips. “Happy? No. What do I care what kind of trouble the Chinks and the Russkis have? But it sure simplifies things when action has to be taken and the president doesn’t have to worry about getting them on board. And that’s where you and your family come in, Subramanian. The president has a plan. And you’re all part of it.”

The mood Ranjit and his family had toward their uninvited guest had never been warmer than tepid. Now it congealed to brittle antarctic ice.

“What do you want?” Ranjit asked, in a tone that suggested that whatever it was, there was small chance he would get it.

“It’s simple,” Bledsoe said. “I want your daughter, Natasha,