A man looked up and saw them. He shouted and waved his arms in welcome. Turpan laughed, thinking, perhaps, that the welcome would have been less warm had his identity been known here.
The man climbed part way up the slope to meet them. He was youthful in appearance, with dark hair and quick, penetrating eyes. "I'm the Planner of Flight One," he said. "Are you from Three?"
"We are not," Turpan said.
"Flight Two, then."
Turpan, smiling like a basilisk, affected to move his head from side to side.
And the Planner looked alarmed. "Then you must be the police," he said, "for we are only three groups. But you are too late to stop our secession, sir. The Molein barrier exists—let the Technocracy legislate against us until it is blue in the face. And there are three hundred and twelve of us here—against the two of you."
"Sporting odds," Turpan said. "However, we are merely humble heretics, like yourselves, seeking asylum. Yes indeed. Quite by accident my friend and I wandered into your little ovum universe as it was forming, and here we are, trapped as it would seem."
The crass, brazen liar.
The Planner was silent for a moment. "It is unlikely that you would happen upon us by chance at such a time," he said at last. "However, you shall have asylum. We could destroy you, but our charter expressly forbids it. We hold human life—even of the basest sort—to be sacred."
"Oh, sacred, quite!" Turpan said.