"You can't all go," I said.
"Why not?"
"Because I can't leave the Institute grounds. Anyway, where are you going to collect the other emigrants from, once you're out on a habitable planet at the back end of the Galaxy?"
"He's right."
We talked it out as I drove the trailer back to the Institute. Two of them would go immediately, each to a different planet on the list. They would return to report and be sent out again on the next stellar-reporter collecting data from that planet. Meanwhile, the third would be expelled. He would spend his compulsory Holiday selecting people for despatch. I would meet them at the boundary, convert them and carry the crystals in, for Dimples to insert into the stellar-reporters.
They disappeared into the metallurgical labs as soon as I pulled up in the main courtyard. The Director missed them by micromillimeters.
David Adam Smith was a small man. With his cloak and large hearing aid and long thin face, he always made me think of a grounded bird. He came hopping over the tiles with short quick steps, peering at the specimens and at me.
"Go out again tomorrow," he snapped. "I want some copper chloride specimens."
"Would you like me to drive the bubble-dancer to transportation?" I asked.
"Who? Oh, that girl. No, Morris, I sent her away. You'll have to confine yourself to the curriculum, I fear, hig, hig, hig."