Friday

XV

I was correct.

I don't want to take Georges away from Janet... but I look forward to happy visits and, if he ever does elect to reverse my sterility, doing it like a cat might be all right to make a baby for Georges-I cannot see why Janet has not done so.

I was awakened the third or fourth time by a lovely odor; Georges was unloading the dumb waiter. "You have twenty-one seconds to get in and out of the bath," he said, "as soup is on. You had a proper breakfast in the middle of the night, so you are going to have a most improper brunch."

I suppose it is improper to have fresh Dungeness crab for breakfast but I'm in favor of it. It was preceded by sliced banana with cream on cornflakes, which strikes me as breakfasty, and was accompanied by toasted rusks and a tossed green salad. I then tapered off with chicory coffee laced with a pony of Korbel champagne brandy. Georges is a loving lecher and a hearty gourmand and a gourmet chef and a gentle healer who can make an artificial person believe that she is human, or, if not, that it doesn't matter.

Query: Why are all three of that family so slender? I am certain that they do not diet and do not take masochistic exercise. A therapist once told me that all the exercise any person needs could be had in bed. Could that be it?

The above is the good news. The bad news-

The International Corridor was closed. It was possible to reach Deseret by changing at Portland, but there was no guarantee that the SLC-Omaha-Gary tube would be open. The only major international route running capsules regularly seemed to be San Diego-Dallas-Vicksburg-Atlanta. San Diego was no problem as the San Jose tube was open from Bellingham to La Jolla. But Vicksburg is not Chicago Imperium; it is simply a river port from which a person with cash and persistence might reach the Imperium.

I tried to call Boss. After forty minutes I felt about synthetic voices the way humans feel about my sort of people. Who thought up this idea of programming "politeness" into computers? To hear a machine voice say "Thank you for waiting" may be soothing the first time, but three times in a row reminds you that it is phony, and forty minutes of such stalls without even once hearing a living voice can try the patience of a guru.

I never did get that terminal to admit that it was not possible to phone into the Imperium. That confounded digital disaster was not programmed to say no; it was programmed to be polite. It would have been a relief if, after a certain number of futile tries, it had been programmed to say, "Buzz off, sister; you've had it."

I then tried to call the Bellingham post office to inquire about mail service into the Imperium-honest-to-goodness words on paper, paid for as a parcel, not a facsimile or mailgram or anything electronic.

I got a cheerful lecture on doing your Christmas mailing early. With Christmas half a year away this seemed less than urgent.

I tried again. I got scolded about zip codes.

I tried a third time and got Macy's customer service department and a voice: "All our friendly helpers are busy at the moment thankyouforwaiting."

I didn't wait.

I didn't want to phone or to send a letter anyhow; I wanted to report to Boss in person. For that I needed cash. That offensively polite terminal admitted that the local office of MasterCard was in the Bellingham main office of TransAmerica Corporation. So I punched the signal and got a sweet voice-recorded, not synthesized-saying: "Thank you for calling MasterCard. In the interests of efficiency and maximum savings to our millions of satisfied customers all of our California Confederacy district offices have been consolidated with the home office at San Jose. For speedy service please use the toll-free signal on the back of your MasterCard card." The sweet voice gave way to the opening bars of "Trees." I shut it off quickly.

My MasterCard card, issued in Saint Louis, did not have on it that San Jose toll-free signal, but only the signal of the Imperial Bank of Saint Louis. So I tried that number, not very hopefully.

I got Punch-a-Prayer.

While I was being taught humility by a computer, Georges was reading the Olympic edition of the Los Angeles Times and waiting for me to quit fiddling. I gave up and asked, "Georges, what's in the morning paper on the emergency?"

"What emergency?"

"Huh? I mean, Excuse me?"

"Friday my love, the only emergency mentioned in this newspaper is a warning by the Sierra Club concerning the threat to the endangered species Rhus diversiloba. A picketing demonstration against Dow Chemical is planned. Otherwise all is quiet on the western front."

I wrinkled my forehead to stimulate my memory. "Georges, I don't know much about California politics-"

"My dear, no one knows much about California politics, including California politicians."

"-but I do seem to recall reports on the news of maybe a dozen major assassinations in the Confederacy. Was that all a hoax?" Thinking back and figuring time zones-how long? Thirty-five hours?

"I find obituaries of several prominent ladies and gentlemen who were mentioned in the news night before last... but they are not listed as assassinated. One is an 'accidental gunshot wound.' Another died after a 'lingering illness.' Another was a victim in an 'unexplained crash' of a private APV and the Confederacy Attorney General has ordered an investigation. But I seem to recall that the Attorney General herself was assassinated."

"Georges, what is going on?"

"Friday, I do not know. But I suggest that it might be hazardous to inquire too closely."

"Uh, I'm not going to inquire; I'm not political and never have been. I'm going to move over into the Imperium as fast as possible. But to do that-since the border is closed no matter what the L.A. Times says-I need cash. I hate to bleed Janet through using her Visa card. Maybe I can use my own but I must go to San Jose to have any luck with it; they are being stuffy. Do you want to go to San Jose with me? Or back to Jan and Ian?"

"Sweet lady, all my worldly goods are at your feet. But show me the way to San Jose. Why do you balk at taking me into the Imperiurn? Is it not possible that your employer has use for my talents? I cannot now return to Manitoba for reasons we both know."

"Georges, it is not that I balk at taking you with me but the border is closed... which may force me to do a Dracula and flow through a crack. Or some unreasonable facsimile. I'm trained for that but I can do it only alone-you're in the profession; you can see that. Moreover, while we don't know what the conditions are inside the Imperium, the news shows that things are rough. Once inside, I may have to be very fast on my feet just to stay alive. And I'm trained for that, too."

"And you are enhanced and I am not. Yes, I can see."

"Georges! Dear, I do not mean to hurt your feelings. Look, once I have reported in, I will call you. Here, or at your home, or wherever you say. If it is safe for you to cross the border, I will know it then." (Georges ask Boss for a job? Impossible! Or was it? Boss might have use for an experienced genetic engineer. When it came right down to it, I had no idea of Boss's needs aside from that one small piece I worked in.) "Are you serious in wanting to see my boss about a job? Uh, what shall I tell him?"

Georges gave his gentle half-smile that he uses to cover his thoughts the way I use my passport-picture face. "How can I know? All I know about your employer is that you are reluctant to talk about him and that he can afford to use one such as yourself as a messenger. But, Friday, I may appreciate even more sharply than you do how much capital investment must have gone into your design, your nurture, and your training... and therefore what a price your employer must have paid for your indentures-"

"I'm not indentured. I'm a Free Person."

"Then it cost him even more. Which leads to conjectures. Never mind, dear; I'll stop guessing. Am I serious? A man can wonder mightily what lies beyond the range. I'll supply you with my curriculum vitae; if it contains anything of interest to your employer, no doubt he'll let me know. Now about money: You need not worry about 'bleeding' Janet; money doesn't mean anything to her. But I am most willing to supply you with whatever cash you need using my own credit-and I have already established that my credit cards are honored here despite any political troubles. I used Credit Québec to pay for our midnight breakfast, I punched into this inn with American Express, then used Maple Leaf to pay for our brunch. So I have three valid cards and all match my ID." He grinned at me. "So bleed me, dear girl."

"But I don't want to bleed you any more than I want to bleed Janet. Look, we can try my card at San Jose; if that does not work, I'll happily borrow from you... and I can punch you the money as soon as I report in." (Or would Georges be willing to pull a swindle with Lieutenant Dickey's credit card for me?-damnably difficult for a woman to get cash with a man's card. Paying for something by sticking a card into a slot is one thing; using a card to draw cash money is a kettle of fish of another color.)

"Why do you speak of repayment? When I am forever in your debt?"

I chose to be obtuse. "Do you truly feel that you owe me something? Just for last night?"

"Yes. You were adequate."

I gasped. "Oh!"

He answered, unsmiling: "Would you rather I had said inadequate?"

I refrained from gasping. "Georges. Take off your clothes. I am going to take you back to bed, then kill you, slowly. At the end I am going to squeeze you and break your back in three places. 'Adequate.' 'Inadequate.'

He grinned and started unzipping.

I said, "Oh, stop that and kiss me! Then we are going to San Jose. 'Inadequate.' Which was I?"

It takes almost as long to go from Bellingham to San Jose as it does to go from Winnipeg to Vancouver but this trip we had seats. We emerged above ground at fourteen-fifteen. I looked around with interest, never having visited the Confederacy capital before.

The thing I first noticed was the amazing number of APVs bouncing like fleas all over the place and most of them taxicabs. I know of no other modern city that permits its air space to be infested to this extent. The streets were loaded with hansom cabs, too, and there were slidewalks bordering every street; nevertheless these power-drive pests were everywhere, like bicycles in Canton.

The second thing I noticed was the feel of San Jose. It was not a city. I now understood that classic description: "A thousand villages in search of a city."

San Jose does not seem to have any justification save politics. But California gets more out of politics than any other country I know of-utter unashamed and uninhibited democracy. You run into democracy in many places-New Zealand uses it in an attenuated form. But only in California will you find the clear-quill, raw-gum, two-hundred-proof, undiluted democracy. The voting age starts when a citizen is tall enough to pull the lever without being steadied by her nurse, and registrars are reluctant to disenfranchise a citizen short of a sworn cremation certificate.

I did not fully appreciate that last until I saw, in an election news story, that the corpsicles at Prehoda Pines Patience Park constituted three precincts all voting through preregistered proxies. ("Death, be not proud!")

I will not try to pass judgment as I was a grown woman before I encountered democracy even in its milder, nonmalignant form. Democracy is probably all right used in sparing amounts. The British Canadians use a dilute form and they seem to do all right. But only in California is everyone drunk on it all the time. There does not seem to be a day when there is not an election somewhere in California, and, for any one precinct, there is (so I was told) an election of some sort about once a month.

I suppose they can afford it. They have a mellow climate from British Canada to the Mexican Kingdom and much of the richest farm land on Earth. Their second favorite sport (sex) costs almost nothing in its raw form; like marijuana it is freely available everywhere. This leaves time and energy for the true California sport: gathering and yabbering about politics.

They elect everybody, from precinct parasite to the Chief Confederate ("The Chief"). But they unelect them almost as fast. For example the Chief is supposed to serve one six-year term. But, of the last nine chiefs, only two served a full six years; the others were recalled except that one who was lynched. In many cases an official has not yet been sworn in when the first recall petition is being circulated.

But Californians do not limit themselves to electing, recalling, indicting, and (sometimes) lynching their swarms of officials; they also legislate directly. Every election has on the ballot more proposed laws than candidates. The provincial and national representatives show some restraint-I have been assured that the typical California legislator will withdraw a bill if you can prove to her that pi can't equal three no matter how many vote to make it so. But grassroots legislation ("the initiative") has no such limitation.

For example three years ago a grassroots economist noticed that college graduates earned, on the average, about 30 percent more than their fellow citizens who lacked bachelor's degrees. Such an undemocratic condition is anathema to the California Dream, so, with great speed, an initiative was qualified for the next election, the measure passed, and all California high-school graduates and/or California citizens attaining eighteen years were henceforth awarded bachelor's degrees. A grandfather clause backdated this benefit eight years.

This measure worked beautifully; the holder of a bachelor's degree no longer had any undemocratic advantage. At the next election the grandfather clause was expanded to cover the last twenty years and there is a strong movement to extend this boon to all citizens.

Vox populi, vox Dei. I can't see anything wrong with it. This benevolent measure costs nothing and makes everyone (but a few soreheads) happier.

About fifteen o'clock Georges and I were sliding along the south side of the National Plaza in front of the Chief's Palace, headed for the main offices of MasterCard. Georges was telling me that he saw nothing wrong with my having asked to stop at a Burger King for a snack in lieu of luncheon-that, in his opinion, the giant burger, properly prepared from top sirloin substitute and the chocolate malt made with a minimum of chalk, constitutes California's only contribution to international haute cuisine.

I was agreeing with him while burping gently. A group of women and men, a dozen to twenty, were moving down the grand steps in front of the Palace and Georges had started to swing off to avoid them when I noticed the eagle-feather headdress on a little man in the middle of the group, spotted the much-photographed face under it, and checked Georges with one hand.

And caught something out of the corner of my eye: a figure coming out from behind a pillar at the top of the steps.

It triggered me. I pushed the Chief down flat to the steps, knocking a couple of his staff aside to do it, then bounded up to that pillar.

I didn't kill the man who had lurked behind that pillar; I merely broke the arm he had his gun in, then kicked him sort of high when he tried to run. I hadn't been hurried the way I had been the day before. After reducing the target the Chief Confederate made (really, he should not wear that distinctive headdress), I had had time to realize that the assassin, if taken alive, might be a clue to the gang behind these senseless killings.

But I did not have time to realize what else I had done until two Capital police seized my arms. I then did realize it and felt glum indeed, thinking about the scorn there would be in Boss's voice when I had to admit that I had allowed myself to be publicly arrested. For a split moment I seriously considered disengaging and hiding behind the horizon-not impossible as one police officer clearly had high blood pressure and the other was an older man wearing frame spectacles.

Too late. If I ran now using full overdrive, I could almost certainly get away and, in a square or two, mingle with the crowd and be gone. But these bumblers would possibly burn half a dozen bystanders in trying to wing me. Not professional! Why hadn't this palace guard protected their chief instead of leaving it up to me? A lurker behind pillars fer Gossake!-nothing like that had happened since the assassination of Huey Long.

Why hadn't I minded my own business and let the killer burn down the Chief Confederate in his silly hat? Because I have been trained for defensive warfare only, that's why, and consequently I fight by reflex. I don't have any interest in fighting, don't like it-it just happens.

I did not then have time to consider the advisability of minding my own business because Georges was minding mine. Georges speaks unaccented (if somewhat stilted) BritCan English; now he was sputtering incoherently in French and trying to peel those two praetorians off me.

The one with the spectacles let go my left arm in an effort to deal with Georges so I jabbed him with my elbow just under his sternum. He whooshed and went down. The other was still holding on to my right arm, so I jabbed him in the same spot with the first three fingers of my left hand, whereupon he whooshed and laid himself across his mate, and both vomited.

All this happened much faster than it takes to tell it-i.e., the cows grabbed me, Georges intervened, I was free. Two seconds? Whatever it was, the assassin had disappeared, his gun with him.

I was about to disappear, too, with Georges even if I had to carry him, when I realized that Georges had made up my mind for me. He had me by my right elbow and had me firmly pointed toward the main entrance of the Palace just beyond that row of pillars. As we stepped into the rotunda he let go my elbow while saying softly, "Slow march, my darling-quietly, quietly. Take my arm."

I took his arm. The rotunda was fairly crowded but there was no excitement, nothing at all to suggest an attempt had just been made a few meters away to kill the nation's chief executive. Concession booths rimming the rotunda were busy, especially the offtrack betting windows. Just to our left a young woman was selling lottery tickets-or available to sell them I should say, as she had no customers just then and was watching a detergent drama on her terminal.

Georges turned us and halted us at her booth. Without looking up she said, "Station break coming up. Be with you then. Shop around. Be my guest."

There were festoons of lottery tickets around the booth. Georges started examining them, so I pretended a deep interest, too. We

stretched the time; presently the commercials started, the young woman punched down the sound and turned to us.

"Thanks for waiting," she said with a pleasant smile. "I never miss One Woman's Woes, especially right now when Mindy Lou is pregnant again and Uncle Ben is being so unreasonable about it. Do you follow the theater, deane?"

I admitted that I rarely had time for it-my work interfered.

"That's too bad; it's very educational. Take Tim-that's my roommate-won't look at anything but sports. So he doesn't have a thought in his head for the finer things in life. Take this crisis in Mindy Lou's life. Uncle Ben is purely persecuting her because she won't tell him who did it. Do you think Tim cares? Not Tim! What neither Tim nor Uncle Ben realizes is that she can't tell because it happened at a precinct caucus. What sign were you born under?"

I should phrase a prepared answer for this question; human persons are always asking it. But when you weren't born, you tend to shy away from such things. I grabbed a date and threw it at her: "I was born on the twenty-third of April." That's Shakespeare's birthday; it popped into my mind.

"Oho! Have I got a lottery ticket for you!" She shuffled through one of the Maypole decorations, found a ticket, showed me a number. "See that? And you just walked in here and I had it! This is your day!" She detached the ticket. "That's twenty bruins."

I offered a BritCan dollar. She answered, "I don't have change for that."

"Keep the change for luck."

She handed me the ticket, took the dollar. "You're a real sport, deane. When you collect, stop by and we'll have a drink together. Mister, have you found one you like?"

"Not yet. I was born on the ninth day of the ninth month of the ninth year of the ninth decade. Can you handle it?"

"Woo woo! What a terrific combo! I can try... and if I can't, I won't sell you anything." She dug through her piles and strings of paper, humming to herself. She ducked her head under the counter, stayed awhile.

She reappeared, red-faced and triumphant, clutching a lottery ticket. "Got it! Look at it, mister! Give a respectful gander."

We looked: 8109999

"I'm impressed," Georges said.

"Impressed? You're rich. There's your four nines. Now add the odd digits. Nine again. Divide that into the odd digits. Another nine. Add the last four-thirty-six. That's nine squared, for two more nines, making another four nines. Add all up at once and it's five nines. Take away the sum and you have four nines again. No matter what you do, you always keep getting your own birthday. What do you want, mister? Dancing girls?"

"How much do I owe you?"

"That's a pretty special number. You can have any other number on the rack for twenty bruins. But that one- Why don't you just keep piling money in front of me until I smile?"

"That seems fair. Then if you don't smile when I think you should, I'll pick up the money and walk away. No?"

"I may call you back."

"No. If you won't offer me a fixed price, I won't let you spar around about it after I've made a fair offer."

"You're a tough customer, sport. I-"

Speakers on all sides of us suddenly started blasting "Hail to the Chief," followed by "The Golden Bear Forever." The young woman shouted, "Wait! Over soon!" A crowd of people came in from outside, walked straight through the rotunda, and on down the main corridor. I spotted the eagle-feather headdress sticking up in the middle of the clump but this time the Chief Confederate was so tightly surrounded by his parasites that an assassin would have a hard time hitting him.

As it became possible to hear again the lottery saleswoman said, "That was a short one. Less than fifteen minutes ago he went through here heading out. If he was just going down to the corner for a pack of tokes, whyn't he send somebody instead of going hisself? Bad for business, all that noise. Well, sport, have you figured out how much you'll pay to get rich?"

"But yes." Georges took out a three-dollar bill, laid it on the counter. He looked at the woman.

They locked gazes for about twenty seconds, then she said glumly, "I'm smiling. I guess I am." She picked up the money with one hand, handed Georges the lottery ticket with the other. "I bet I could have sweated you out of another dollar."

"We'll never know, will we?" "Cut for double or nothing?"

"With your cards?" Georges asked gently.

"Sport, you'll make an old woman out of me. Be elsewhere before I change my mind."

"Rest room?"

"Down the corridor on my left." She added, "Don't miss the drawing."

As we walked toward the rest room Georges told me quietly in French that gendarmes had passed behind us while we were dickering, had gone into the rest room, come out, back into the rotunda, and down the main corridor.

I cut him off, speaking also in French-telling him that I knew but this place must be filled with Eyes, Ears-talk later.

I was not snubbing him. Two uniformed guards-not the two with stomach problems-had come in almost on our heels, hurried past us, checked the rest room first-reasonable; an amateur often tries to hide in a public rest room-had come out and hurried past us, then deep into the Palace. Georges had quietly shopped for lottery tickets while guards looking for us had brushed past him, twice. Admirable. Quite professional.

But I had to wait to tell him so. There was a person of indeterminate sex selling tickets to the rest room. I asked her(him) where the powder room was. She (I decided on "she" when closer observation showed that her T-shirt covered either falsies or small milk glands)-she answered scornfully, "You some kind of a nut? Trying to discriminate, huh? I ought to send for a cop." Then she looked at me more closely. "You're a foreigner."

I admitted it.

"Okay. Just don't talk that way; people don't like it. We're democratic here, see?-setters and pointers use the same fireplug. So buy a ticket or quit blocking the turnstyle."

Georges bought us two tickets. We went in.

On our right was a row of open stalls. Above them floated a holo:

THESE FACILITIES ARE PROVIDED FREE FOR YOUR HEALTH AND COMFORT BY THE CALIFORNIA CONFEDERACY-JOHN "WARWHOOP" TUMBRIL, CHIEF CONFEDERATE.

A life-size holo of the Chief floated above it.

Beyond the open stalls were pay stalls with doors; beyond these were doorways fully closed with drapes. On our left was a news-and-notions stand presided over by a person of very determined sex, bull dyke. Georges paused there and surprised me by buying several cosmetics and a flacon of cheap perfume. Then he asked for a ticket to one of the dressing rooms at the far end.

"One ticket?" She looked at him sharply. Georges nodded agreement. She pursed her lips. "Naughty, naughty. No hanky-panky, stud."

Georges did not answer. A BnitCan dollar passed from his hand to hers, vanished. She said very softly, "Don't take too long. If I buzz the buzzer, get decent fast. Number seven, far right."

We went to number seven, the farthest dressing room, and entered. Georges closed the drapes, zipped them tight, flushed the water closet, then turned on the cold water and left it running. Speaking again in French, he told me that we were about to change our appearance without using disguises, so, please, my dear, get out of the clothes you are weaning and put on that suit you have in your jumpbag.

He explained in more detail, mixing French and English and continuing to flush the commode from time to time. I was to wear that scandalous Superskin job, more makeup than I usually do, and was to attempt to look like the famous Whore of Babylon or equivalent. "I know that's not your métier, dear girl, but try."

"I will attempt to be 'adequate.'

"Ouch!"

"And you plan to wear Janet's clothes? I don't think they'll fit."

"No, no, I shan't drag. Just swish."

"Excuse me?"

"I won't dress in women's clothes; I will simply endeavour to appear effeminate."

"I don't believe it. All night, let's try."

We didn't do much to me-just that one-piece job with the wet look that had hooked Ian, plus more makeup than I am used to, applied by Georges (he seemed to feel that he knew more about it than I did-he felt that way because he did), plus-once we were outside-that here-it-is-come-and-get-it walk.

Georges used on himself rather more makeup than he had put on me, plus that vile perfume (which he did not ask me to wear), plus at his neck a shocking-orange scarf I had been using-as a belt. He had me fluff his hair and spray it so that it stayed bouffant. That was all... plus a change in manner. He still looked like Georges-but he did not seem like the virile buck who had so wonderfully worn me out the night before.

I repacked my jumpbag and we left. The old moose at the newsstand widened her eyes and caught her breath when she saw me. But she said nothing as a man who had been leaning against the stand straightened up, pointed a finger at Georges, and said, "You. The Chief wants you." Then he added, almost to himself, "I don't believe it."

Georges stopped and gestured helplessly with both hands. "Oh, dean me! Surely there has been some mistake?"

The flunky bit a toothpick he had been sucking and answered, "I think so, too, citizen-but I ain't going to say so and neither are you. Come along. Not you, sister."

Georges said, "I positively am not going anywhere without my dean sister! So there!"

That cow said, "Morrie, she can wait here. Sweetie, come around behind here with me and sit down."

Georges gave me the barest negative shake of his head but I did not need it. If I stayed, either she would take me straight back to that dressing room or I would stuff her into her own trash can. I was betting on me. I will put up with that sort of nonsense in line of duty-she would not have been as unpleasant as Rocky Rockford- but not willingly. If and when I change my luck, it will be with someone I like and respect.

I moved closer to Georges, took his arm. "We have never been separated since Mama on her death bed told me to take care of him." I added, "So there!" while wondering what that phrase means, if anything. Both of us pouted and looked stubborn.

The man called Mornie looked at me, back at Georges, and sighed. "Hell with it. Tag along, sister. But keep your mouth shut and stay out of the way."

About six checkpoints later-at each of which an attempt was made to peel me off-we were ushered into the Presence. My first impression of Chief Confederate John Tumbril was that he was taller than I had thought he was. Then I decided that not wearing his headdress might make the difference. My second impression was that he was even homelier than pictures, cartoons, and terminal images showed him to be-and that opinion stayed. Like many another politico before him, Tumbril had turned a distinctive, individual ugliness into a political asset.

(Is homeliness a necessity to a head of state? Looking back through history I cannot find a single handsome man who got very far in politics until we get clear back to Alexander the Great... and he had a head start; his father was a king.)

As may be, "Warwhoop" Tumbril looked like a frog trying to be a toad and just missing.

The Chief cleared his throat. "What's she doing here?"

Georges said quickly, "Sir, I have a most serious complaint to make! That man- That man"-he pointed at the toothpick chewer-"tried to separate me from my dear sister! He should be reprimanded!"

Tumbnil looked at Mornie, looked at me, looked back at his parasite. "Did you do that?"

Morrie asserted that he had not but even if he did, he had done so because he had thought that Tumbnil had ordered it but in any case he thought- "You're not supposed to think," Tumbnil ruled. "I'll talk to you later. And why are you leaving her standing? Get a chair! Do I have to do all the thinking around here?"

Once I was seated, the Chief turned his attention back to Georges. "That was a Brave Thing you did earlier today. Yes, sir, a Very Brave Thing. The Great Nation of California is Proud to have raised Sons of Your Caliber. What's your name?"

Georges gave his name.

'Payroll' is a Proud California Name, Mr. Payroll; one that shines down our Noble History, from the rancheros who threw off the Yoke of Spain to the Brave Patriots who threw off the Yoke of Wall Street. Do you mind if I call you George?"

"Not at all."

"And you can call me Warwhoop. That's the Crowning Glory of Our Great Nation, George; All of us are Equal."

I suddenly said, "Does that apply to artificial people; Chief Turnbnil?"

"Eh?"

"I was asking about artificial people, like those they make at Berkeley and Davis. Are they equal, too?"

"Uh... little lady, you really shouldn't interrupt while your elders are speaking. But to answer your question: How can Human Democracy apply to creatures who are Not Human? Would you expect a cat to vote? Or a Ford APV? Speak up."

"No, but-"

"There you are. Everybody is Equal and Everybody has a vote. But you have to draw the line somewhere. Now, shut up, damn it, and don't interrupt while your betters are talking. George, what you did today-well, if that klutz had actually been making an attack on my life-he wasn't and don't you even forget it-you could not have behaved in a manner more becoming to all the Heroic Traditions of Our Great California Confederacy. You Make Me Proud!"

Tumbril stood up and came out from behind his desk, hooked his hands behind him, and paced-and I saw why he had seemed taller here than he had outside.

He used some sort of a highchair or possibly a platform at his desk. When he stood with no fakery, he was about up to my shoulder. He seemed to be thinking aloud as he paced. "George, there is always a place in my official family for a man of your demonstrated courage. Who knows?-the day might come when you would save me from a criminal who seriously intended to harm me. Foreign agitators, I mean; I have nothing to fear from the Stalwart Patriots of California. They all love me for what I have done for them while occupying the Octagon Office. But other countries are jealous of us; they envy our Rich and Free and Democratic lifestyle and sometimes their smoldering hatred erupts in violence."

He stood with his head bowed for a moment, in reverent adoration of something. "One of the Prices of the Privilege of Serving," he said solemnly, "but one which, with All Humility, one must pay Gladly. George, tell me, if you were called upon to make the Last

Supreme Sacrifice that Your Country's Chief Executive might live, would you hesitate?"

"It all seems most unlikely," Georges answered.

"Eh? What?"

"Well, when I vote-not often-I usually vote Réunioniste. But the present Prime Minister is Revanchiste. I doubt that he would have me."

"What the devil are you talking about?"

"Je suis Quebecois, M. le chef d'etat. I'm from Montréal."