Reign of the telepuppets

By DANIEL F. GALOUYE
In all Creation, Bigboss knew there was nothing superior to him. Yet a nagging in his memory drums hinted that somewhere were creatures who challenged his rule.
The way this thing shapes up, Director Gabe Randall of the Bureau of Interstellar Exploration was saying in his usual manner of understatement, it will be our most important trouble-shooting mission to date.
He stood cranelike, one leg hooked over a corner of the desk, as he whacked his thigh with an illuminated indicator rod. With purposeful eyes, he sized up the other three men in the briefing room. Lean and alert, he held himself straight against the encroachment of age that was evident in a fully white shock of hair and a brow furrowed with decades of executive responsibility.
I suppose, he digressed, smiling, that we'll have to get along without our Maid of the Megacycles.
Dave Stewart, Randall's assistant, glanced at the empty chair. Carol said she'd be along shortly. Actually, she hadn't. But, if the situation were reversed, she'd cover for him.
Woman's prerogative, the director observed, shrugging phlegmatically. Gentlemen, I submit that the greatest deterrent to progress in BIE is the fact that direct radio empathy can be developed only in women—and young ones at that.
But Stewart recognized the imperceptible jocularity in the other's stare. It contrasted the sobriety with which he had said only a moment earlier that the nature of the mission required top personnel.
At half the director's age, Stewart had earned his recognition as logical successor to the seat of executive authority. And, in Carol Cummings, Randall had selected the most capable radio empathy specialist BIE had produced in years. The prettiest, too, he added as an afterthought.
But there you could draw the line. Below was the Photon II's crew. At 44, Nat McAllister, pilot, was well past the age when he might look forward to a supervisory position, thanks to a rash of bad-judgment accidents and a general absence of ambition. And Ship Systems Officer Mortimer, ten years younger, seemed anchored to his niche by an equal measure of minimum ability—if not by the sheer weight of his two hundred and fifty pounds.