Early in his career, someone had given him the nickname “Mad.” While it didn’t suit the dignity and gravity of the Supreme Secretariat of the United Federation of Planets, Anthony Elamas was well aware that it suited his personality and style quite well indeed. It was his considered opinion that, in order to do justice to the political machinations necessary to his posting, one had to be mad. Who else would actually enjoy the job of holding together a hundred different planets and who-knew-how-many cultures in something resembling peaceful harmony?

Anthony Elamas was Human but not Terran – which was a point non-Humans found in his favor and didn’t matter one whit to Humans. He also was to all appearances an amiable man, frank, open and above all, honest. Among the challenges of his job was that, as a politician dealing with telepathic, empathic, sensitive, and other marvelously endowed species, he had to be honest and open and mean what he said even when he was up to something entirely different. Accordingly, he had a reputation of being the most deviously honest man in the Federation – hence, ‘mad.’ And he did enjoy his work.

Even when it means sitting out in the rain waiting for a Goddess, he mused. He was in the garden of S’ren Zehare, the home of Antares’ planetary ruler, who was late. Antaris rarely allowed off-worlders planetside, and, of course, this wasn’t a social call, nor had he actually been invited. He’d had to be very adamant on speaking with the Zehara herself. Usually he dealt with Ambassador evan Rhialan, or one of the keheils, but this time, the matter at hand was too important. Her answer to his insistent request had been, “Oh, all right.”

So he waited in the rain. It’s not too bad, he supposed. At least it’s warm. He kept reminding himself that Antaris liked rain and undoubtedly thought everyone else did too. It would’ve been nice if they’d decided they liked architecture more sophisticated than tree houses, he thought, then stood as the Zehara entered the garden.

She was a very impressive female. Not dignified, Antaris seldom were, but serene and imposing nonetheless. Her beauty was as striking as her height. Barefoot, she stood just over six foot five, with lush, honey-gold hair that fell to her ankles and a figure that could stop warp drive. She had donned a skimpy, pale gold halter and sarong skirt for the occasion – Antaris usually didn’t wear clothing when at home. Stop drooling, he ordered himself. She’s a goddess. And she’s twenty-five hundred if she’s a day.

Enormous, deep royal purple eyes gazed calmly at him from her thin, triangular face. And celibate, sounded softly, lyrically in his mind.

And rude, he answered her silently.

You’re among telepaths on a telepath’s home world, she told him. What did you expect?

Good point, he conceded She smiled, and he nearly fainted, which caused a ripple of mirth to echo through his being. She sat down on the wet grass.

Very well, Anthony, she thought to him. You may begin the lecture.

“Alcon,” he said succinctly.

Her answering tone was derisive. Oh. Them.

“I know you’ve heard of the Prime Directive,” he returned.

And we knew the Alconians before you thought space was anything other than a place for gods to hang little lights.

“That’s hardly the point.”

You don’t yell at the Organians.

“They’re not Federation members.”

There is that. She sighed. Anthony, give the Alconians half a chance and they’ll conquer the galaxy for kicks – then forget about managing it. What we do saves everyone from that fate.

“No one’s asked you to, ma’am,” Anthony put in quietly. “And while we may not have had a say ten thousand years ago, we do now.”

Times may have changed, but the Alconians haven’t. That’s fact.

“So is the Prime Directive.”

They have Slaver technology, Anthony!

“I know. And that’s what’s going to prevent you from being booted out of the Federation.” He paused. “Unless we find other violations.”

Define ‘violation,’ the Zehara returned, then quickly went on. No, don’t. Did you now that we once moved as much of the population as we could off of a planet whose sun was about to go nova? Was that a violation? Perhaps only of the rights of those who lived? What of those who didn’t? My keheils spend an awful lot of time saving the lives of aliens who would otherwise die. Does that violate them? What of the hapless empaths and telepaths we train who would otherwise destroy themselves? Who is it that’s violating the right of the Klingons and Romulans and Kzin to conquer the galaxy? She sighed again. Never mind, I know the arguments. She took a deep breath. We aren’t right, but I refuse to say we were wrong. We won’t do it again. Now slap my wrist and go away.

Anthony stood, a wry grin on his face. “Always a pleasure, dealing with you, ma’am,” he said. “You haven’t succeeded in making me feel the least bit worm-like, you know.” She appeared momentarily offended, and he caught himself scanning the sky for a lightning bolt.

Is that what I was doing? she asked. He nodded. She shrugged. It was worth a try. She got to her feet. Sanctions, Mr. Secretary? she said.

“If Ambassador evan Rhialan makes a suitably humble apology in Council, I think I can smooth things over. Vulcan will be a problem, but I can quietly remind the Ambassador that a keheil recently saved his son’s life and sanity. That might temper his outrage a little.”

I doubt it. Vulcans will take ethics over graciousness anytime.

“Yes,” Anthony agreed, “but some public moralizing is going to be necessary, and the Vulcans are at least sincere. All in all, if you promise to behave according to the rules you’ve agreed to, I’ll make sure it blows over.”

I’ve already promised that, Anthony. Alcon is free to go its destructive way – and when it comes to that, don’t come crying to me.

“The thanks of a grateful Federation…” Anthony began.

Enough! the Zehara laughed. Go home.

A split second later, Anthony Elamas found himself on his official transport, only minutes away from the docking ring at UFP Headquarters. Show off, he thought affectionately. Honestly.

The End