He was sweating when the Gadeu entered his condo. It was not unknown for them to visit parts of Earth that had nothing to do with monitoring or organizing the emigration, but it was unusual. Most likely the visit was all business, and his caller had a question or two to ask about the time Dev had spent on the stolen ship. In particular, he received occasional inquiries relating to the activities of the A'jeii or the Olone. In contrast, the actions of the Kaijank did not seem to inspire as much interest. Such inquiries had always reached him via internet connections. Until now.

The man who entered was clad in a singular one-piece suit of dull gray. He wore no head covering. On his feet were what looked to be indestructible black house slippers. The green insignia on his shoulders and chest marked him as hailing from Reuben IV. Several bits of tech were attached to his waist, though in the absence of a belt Dev could not tell what held them in place. His face was round, almost cherubic, and his lips slightly paler than the rest of his skin. His eyes were very dark brown. Had he been dressed in the everyday clothing of a comparable Washingtonian, the slightly balding middle-aged man would have attracted no attention strolling through the National Mall. Onlookers would have taken him for a visitor from somewhere in the Middle East. Or perhaps Detroit.

He extended a hand, having acquired the terrestrial greeting. A slightly numb Dev shook it absently.

“So, you are the one called Devali?” Though heavily accented, as if newly minted, his English was perfectly comprehensible.

Not knowing what else to do, Dev nodded.

The visitor smiled. “I am Cephas. It has taken some time for note of your desire to pass through the necessary channels. I have something for you.”

Reaching down, he brushed his right hand over a rectangular pouch fastened to his waist. The top parted and a single small slip of plastic or some similar material emerged, hovered, and flew toward Dev. When he instinctively swatted at it, it dodged, only to relax into his palm when he opened his fingers. Glistening within the otherwise transparent material were incomprehensible symbols. He looked up.

“I cannot read Hebrew.”

“If you press it to your forehead,” Cephas told him, “the contents will become known to you. But I will explain. You have been granted an exemption. It is a great honor.” He almost bowed.

Dev stood bewildered. “What kind of exemption? What kind of honor? I have already explained that I did nothing except what was necessary to survive. And to help my colleagues do the same.”