IC: Christopher Schillinger 24 September 2074, 15.45 Standard time. Eastern Montana. You could see the wind as it approached along the plains of Montana. It ruffled the grass from miles away, rolling towards the observer, over his herd of cattle, and finally over the man himself. His mount shifted as the wind caressed it. He turned the horse away from it slightly, riding along the flank of his cattle. Christopher Schillinger rode the range, moving his cattle back for the night. Schillinger didn?t mind the wind. It was only September, and the climate was still mild. The cold, the Montana cold; wouldn?t be coming for another 6 weeks at least. As he was riding his ten thousand acres, his phone beeped. He taped the stud on the earpiece and listened. It was his son, Gerhard, or Gary as he preferred to be called. He had just finished on his end of the spread. The cattle were herded in for the night and he was coming in. Chris acknowledged him and rang off. While his horse trod along, Schillinger keyed up his e-mail on his palmcomp. Eight confirmations since he checked this morning. Meaning there were eight more families to add to this list of prospective pioneers into the big black. Schillinger had organized the drive for the various white groups of the world to Exodus (though he never used that Jewish term in his letters) to a colony world where they could start anew and build a society to their liking. The response was massive, and he was approaching a quarter million applicants. Some, of course, would have to be rejected. Anyone with a serious criminal background would be rejected, as would those with no practical skills that would be needed for starting a self-sufficient colony. That would be a difficult thing to do, since Schillinger did not wish to leave his brothers and sisters here on this infected slimeball, but the colony had to succeed before individuals with less essential skills were permitted to make homes on the colony. Schillinger was petitioning the UN for his start-up colony. He knew it would probably be accepted. White Power groups were almost universally reviled, and Earth would be glad to see them go. Schillinger rode his horse into the barn, and slid off. He detached the saddle, watered the horse, and tied it off to his trough, where the horse immediately set into the straw. Schillinger closed up the barn and headed for his home. His wife, Liesl, was cooking dinner when he strode through the door. Shedding his hat, he sat down and went through the mail. Bills, offers to re-finance his property, Direct Marketing for grain and feed outlets. Nothing interesting. ?We?re having roast beef for dinner.? Liesl said from the kitchen, ?Potatoes?? Schillinger asked. ?Of course.? ?That?s my girl.? He rose to go into the kitchen to give her some help. As he did so, a large official-looking envelope fell to the floor. He bent and picked it up. As he turned it over, he saw the bright blue logo of the official stamp of the United Nations. With a spreading grin, Schillinger opened the overstuffed, oversized envelope.