"But so much for numerical values. You most want to hear what we do. And that can best be summed up in one word: everything. Everything, and yet that, too, has its limitations. Impossibilities are beyond even us. Improbabilities are given a fair chance. We are constantly seeking out courses of action that will benefit not the individual but the race. And in some instances, not even a race, when there are many races involved in a particular manner. The methods we follow, the actions we take in a particular instance, may sometimes seem cruel and unreasoning...."
V
The families were on the move, away from their comfortable homes under the everlasting warmth of the sun. Luke Royceton shifted his weight in the copter and trained the glasses on a column of dust rising three miles to the west and ten thousand feet below.
"It's okay, Harry," he said to the pilot. "They've swung back north again."
"Right, Luke," the pilot replied. "Scout report just in says there's a real big outfit about eighty miles settling down around a lake. Shall we hit them?"
"We the closest?"
"Singer's forty miles the other side of them, but he's tied up chasing some mavericks."
"Let's go then."
Luke holstered his glasses and slid down into the cargo hold. The rest of the team were taking advantage of the lull in activity to catch up on their relaxation. They had been constantly on the go since the migrations had begun in earnest two months earlier. Luke kibitzed a card game for a few minutes, then announced: "Action coming up in about twenty minutes. Grab something to eat and run a check on your costumes."