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telling the class of an evacuation exercise the government had performed nine years ago (“Maybe some of you remember? No? Children. Pah!”) and how, although there had been some small logistical glitches, such as the dispersal site in Ohio that nobody had thought to tell the Ohioans about, for the most part things went as planned. Thousands of essential federal employees reached their designated resettlement areas, far from likely Soviet targets. The exercise lasted three days.
    “After the drill was over,” said Niemeyer, twisting his good hand in an air like a conjurer, “they held the usual meetings, slapping each other on the back, handing around congratulatory letters and medals, and no doubt trying to figure out how to handle certain unexpected pregnancies among employees of the fairer sex”—from the students, more gasps than laughter, although Littlejohn brayed like a donkey—“but then, when everyone was through shaking hands and slapping backs, one fellow spoke up. An unpredicted and unfortunate burst of pure honesty. Do you know what he said? He said, ‘Of course, if this had been the real thing, I’d have skipped the evacuation. I’d have gone to find my wife and kids instead. I’d rather die with my family than live doing my duty.’ And at that point the whole thing fell apart. Everybody was suddenly demanding to know what provisions were being made to evacuate their families to places of safety, andso on. The final Civil Defense report on the exercise is classified, but I’m sure you can imagine what it said. Let’s play guess-the-conclusion, shall we?”
    He selected, as first victim, a boy she didn’t know, a clever junior named Chance.
    “The report,” said Chance, without hesitation, “would have said that evacuation was impossible because of the problem of families. Further—”
    “Not even wrong.” Niemeyer picked someone else, whose answer was not even wronger.
    Then he spun toward the middle aisle. “Miss Jensen. Explain to them.”
    Margo opened her mouth at once, but for two full seconds not a sound emerged. A part of her head was still down under the stands at the stadium. Then she heard the titters and remembered whose granddaughter she was. “If we’re assuming that the report told the truth”—and here she found herself inserting a Niemeyer-like aside—“not often the case with official government documents”—this won her a few appreciative chuckles—“then there’s only one possible conclusion. Nobody knows how people will respond under the pressure of the real thing.” Her voice gathered strength. “We can speculate in the classroom, and the Civil Defense planners can speculate around a table. They can take surveys, study data, calculate numbers with their slide rules and their computers. But in the end they’re talking about people. Trying to predict what people will do. Family versus duty. Obligation versus fear. All the dynamics that make everyday life so rich and complex and unpredictable. We can’t predict how people will behave with a nuclear warhead on the way until there’s a nuclear warhead on the way. We have no data. We can’t run a realistic test. So the only right answer is that there is no right answer.”
    Niemeyer gave her a long look while the class waited. “Not entirely wrong,” he grunted: high praise. “The human factor is indeed the most dangerous part of any equation. Capricious, mercurial, given to spasms of emotionalism. Fear and anger are the big ones to worry about, but there are others, too. Ordinary covetousness and lust, of course. And also the regrettable tendency to overestimate one’s own capabilities—what Joe Stalin called ‘dizziness due to success’—and the odd unexpected moment of bravery or integrity or whatever thisweek’s admirable character trait might be. Enough. Hour’s up. Go forth and err.” But the great man’s appraising eye was on Margo, and she understood at once that she was not included in