“I don’t see the patriotism in supplying thermonuclear power to a swarm of scroungers in bedsheets,” the President said, “so let’s just forget…”

Then a curious thing happened. The President’s eyes took on a fierce glow, as if he were suddenly stricken by awe. He whispered, “By God, that’s brilliant.”

Grady said, “Yes,” modestly but vaguely, because he didn’t know what the President was talking about.

“That’s pretty damned smart,” the President said. “Smart and patriotic—lemme see if I read you completely.” He paused, gathering his thoughts, and then, “People are still saying we went into Iraq for WMDs, which was a wild goose because we didn’t even find a hill of beans. But if we ship those Assamies some kind of a nuke power plant, and things get stickier, we can always say that they’re in the WMD business—proof at last to win American hearts and minds…”

“…and the reelection,” Grady added.

I flopped off the chair again, like an exhausted old dog. Still on the floor I heard myself saying, “I don’t think that’s what Mr. Grady had in mind.”

“That’s precisely what I had in mind,” Grady said, staring me down with a basilisk’s fiery eye.

“Still,” the President said, “if the word gets out, I’d be thrown to the wolves by every hyena on the Hill, by every nitpicking blabbermouth in the press. So we have to give them a head-and-shoulder fake before we run with the ball. We’ve got to make it crystal clear, if any of those bastards start goosing me with a cattle prod, that our thrust is humanitarian as it is in the rest of Iraq—reaching out to help our brown brothers. So the question is, how are we going to get you to Asexual?”

“Mr. President,” Grady said, “why not create a back channel? I could go to Assama with a few atomic specialists, to study the area’s potential for economic growth, then…”

“Back channels are out,” the President cut him short. “Like I said, all you need is some shlub to blow the whistle and my nuts are in the wringer. What we need, just in case, is some manifestation of goodwill.” For a moment he whistled aimlessly, discordantly, deep in thought. Then, “These Assos big, tall guys?”

“Not particularly. Why, sir?”

“I just had a wild hair. Like maybe we could say you were coaching a basketball team or something.”

A moment of silence; he and Grady seemed equally at a loss to come up with a solution.

“Well,” said the President, taking a football from his cornucopia, “I’ve got to get back to work.”

I snapped to my feet, glad to be dismissed. Grady hesitated, drifting slowly, reluctantly to the door. There he halted, turned, and said, “What about…”

The President eyed him impatiently.

“What about,” Grady went on, “a scientific expedition?”

“Such as?”