Turning Point

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Director Han Merrick paced the floor nervously. His thin, almost ascetic face was pale and drawn.

“We can’t allow it, Virginia,” he said, “Prying of this sort can only precipitate a pogrom or worse. Erikson is a bigot of the worst kind. The danger—” He broke off helplessly.

His wife shook her head slowly. “It cannot be prevented, Han. Someone was bound to start asking questions sooner or later. History should have taught us that. And five hundred years of secrecy was more than anyone had a right to expect. Nothing lasts forever.”

The trouble is, Merrick told himself, simply that I am the wrong man for this job. I should never have taken it. There’s a wrongness in what we are doing here that colors my every reaction and makes me incapable of acting on my own. Always the doubts and secret questioning. If the social structure of our world weren’t moribund, I wouldn’t be here at all….

“History, Virginia,” he said, “can’t explain what there is no precedent for. The Creche is unique in human experience.”

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