Director Dill nodded pleasantly to Mrs. Parker and to the class. "What are you children studying?" he asked in a friendly voice, the rich voice of a competent leader of the T-class.

The children shuffled shyly. "We're learning about the Lisbon Laws," a boy said.

"That's nice," Director Dill affirmed heartily, his alert eyes twinkling. He nodded to his staff and they moved back toward the door. "You children be good students and do what your teacher tells you."

"It was so nice of you," Mrs. Parker managed to say. "To drop by, so they could see you for a moment. Such an honor." She followed the group to the door, her heart flut­tering. "They'll always remember this moment; they'll treasure it."

"Mr. Dill," a girl's voice came. "Can I ask you some­thing?"

The room became abruptly silent. Mrs. Parker was chilled. The voice. The. girl again. Who was it? Which one? She strained to see, her heart thumping in terror. Good lord, was that little devil going to say something in front of Director Dill?

"Certainly," Dill said, halting briefly at the door. "What do you want to ask?" He glanced at his wrist watch, smil­ing rather fixedly.

"Director Dill is in a hurry," Mrs. Parker managed to say. "He has so much to do, so many tasks. I think we had better let him go, don't you?"

But the firm little child's voice continued, as inflexible as steel. "Director Dill, don't you feel ashamed of yourself when you let a machine tell you what to do?

Director Dill's fixed smile remained. Slowly, he turned away from the door, back toward the class. His bright, ma­ture eyes roved about the room, seeking to pinpoint the questioner. "Who asked that?" he inquired pleasantly.

Silence.

Director Dill moved about the room, walking slowly, his hands in his pockets. He rubbed his chin, plucking at it absently. No one moved or spoke; Mrs. Parker and the Unity staff stood frozen in horror.

It's the end of my job, Mrs. Parker thought. Maybe they'll make me sign a request for therapy-maybe I'll have to undergo voluntary rehabilitation. No, she thought frantically. Please.

However, Director Dill was unshaken. He stopped in front of the blackboard. Experimentally, he raised his hand and moved it in a figure. White lines traced themselves on the dark surface. He made a few thoughtful motions and the date 1992 traced itself.

"The end of the war," he said.

He traced 1993 for the hushed class.

"The Lisbon Laws, which you're learning about. The year the combined nations of the world decided to throw in their lot together. To subordinate themselves in a realistic manner-not in the idealistic fashion of the UN days-to a common supranational authority, for the good of all man­kind."

Director Dill moved away from the blackboard, gazing thoughtfully down at the floor. "The war had just ended; most of the planet was in ruins. Something drastic had to be done, because another war would destroy mankind. Something, some ultimate principle of organization, was needed. International control. Law, which no men or na­tions could break. Guardians were needed.

"But who would watch the Guardians? How could we be sure this supranational body would be free of the hate and bias, the animal passions that had set man against man throughout the centuries? Wouldn't this body, like all other man-made bodies, fall heir to the same vices, the same failings of interest over reason, emotion over logic?

"There was one answer. For years we had been using computers, giant constructs put together by the labor and talent of hundreds of trained experts, built to exact stand­ards. Machines were free of the poisoning bias of self-interest and feeling that gnawed at man; they were capable of performing the objective calculations that for man would remain only an ideal, never a reality. If nations would be willing to give up their sovereignty, to subordi­nate their power to the objective, impartial directives of the-"

Agan the thin child's voice cut through Dill's confident tone. The speech ceased, tumbled into ruin by the flat, di­rect interruption from the back of the classroom. "Mr. Dill, do you really believe that a machine is better than a man? That man can't manage his own world?"

For the first time, Director Dill's cheeks glowed red. He hesitated, half-smiling, gesturing with his right hand as he sought for words. "Well..." he murmured.

"I just don't know what to say," Mrs. Parker gasped, finding her voice. "I'm so sorry. Please believe me, I had no idea-"

Director Dill nodded understandingly to her. "Of course," he said in a low voice. "It's not your fault. These are not tabulae rasae which you can mold like plastic."

"Pardon?" she said, not understanding the foreign words. She had a dun idea that it was-what was it? Latin?

Dill said, "You will always have a certain number who will not respond." Now he had raised his voice for the class to hear. "I'm going to play a game with you," he said, and at once the small faces showed anticipation. "Now, I don't want you to say a word; I want you to clap your hands over your mouths and be the way our police crews are when they're waiting to catch one of the enemy." The small hands flew up to cover mouths; eyes shone with ex­citement. "Our police are so quiet," Dill continued. "And they look around; they search and search to see where the enemy is. Of course, they don't let the enemy know they're about to pounce."

The class giggled with joy.

"Now," Dill said, folding his arms. "We look around." The children dutifully peered around. "Where's the en­emy? We count-one, two, three." Suddenly Dill threw up his arms and in a loud voice said, "And we point to the enemy. We point her out!"

Twenty hands pointed. In her chair in the back the small red-haired girl sat quietly, giving no reaction.

"What's your name?" Dill said, walking leisurely down the aisle until he stood near her desk.

The girl gazed silently up at Director Dill.

"Aren't you going to answer my question?" Dill said, smiling.

Calmly, the girl folded her small hands together on her desk. "Marion Fields," she said clearly. "And you haven't answered my questions."

Together, Director Dill and Mrs. Parker walked down the corridor of the school building.

"I've had trouble with her from the start," Mrs. Parker said. "In fact, I protested their placing her in my class." Quickly, she said, "You'll find my written protest on file; I followed the regular method. I knew that something like this was going to happen I just knew it!"

"I guarantee you," Director Dill said, "that you have nothing to fear. Your job is safe. You have my word." Glancing at the teacher he added reflectively, "Unless, of course, there's more to this than meets the eye." He paused at the door to the principal's office. "You have never met or seen her father, have you?"

"No," Mrs. Parker answered. "She's a ward of the government; her father was arrested and committed to the Atlanta-"

"I know," Dill interrupted. "She's nine, is she? Does she try to discuss current events with other children? I pre­sume that you have some manner of monitoring equipment going at all times-in the cafeteria and on the playground especially."

"We have complete tapes of all conversations among the pupils," Mrs. Parker said proudly. "There's never a moment when they're not overheard. Of course, we're so rushed and overworked, and out budget is so low... frankly, we've had trouble finding time to replay the tapes. There's a backlog, and all of us teachers try to spend at least an hour a day in careful replaying-"

"I understand," Dill murmured. "I know how over­worked you all are, with all your responsibilities. It would be normal for any child her age to talk about her father. I was just curious. Obviously-" He broke off. "I believe," he said somberly, "that I'll have you sign a release per­mitting me to assume custody of her. Effective at once. Do you have someone you can send to her dorm to pick up her things? Her clothes and personal articles?" He glanced at his watch. "I don't have too much time."