with me; as you may know, I’ve been retained to search for Cally, trying to produce her on demand for the trial. It’s a mess; she lasered an employee of this Kansas City retailer, its one and only tried and true ‘scuttler repairman. He had gone across, exploring. Too bad for him. But in the great scheme of all things . . .’
‘Yes,’ Jim Briskin agreed. Cravelli was right; it was small cost indeed. With so many millions of lives—and, potentially, billions—involved.
‘Naturally TD has declared this top-secret. They’ve thrown up an enormous security screen; I was lucky to get hold of the poop at all. If I hadn’t already had a man in there . . .’ Cravelli gestured.
‘I’ll name you to the cabinet,’ Jim Briskin said. ‘As Attorney General. The arrangement doesn’t please me, but I think it’s in order.’ It’s worth it, he said to himself. A hundred times over. To me and to everyone else on Earth, bibs and non-bibs alike. To all of us.
Sagging with relief and exultation, Tito Cravelli burbled, ‘Wow. I can’t believe it; this is great!’ He held out his hand, but Jim ignored it; he had too much else on his mind at the moment to want to congratulate Tito Cravelli.
Jim thought, Sal Heim got out a little too soon. He should have stuck around. So much for Sal’s political intuition; at the crucial moment it had failed to materialize for him.
Seated in her office, abort-consultant Myra Sands once more leafed through Tito’s brief report. But already, outside her window, a news machine for one of the major homeopapes was screeching out the news that Cally Vale had been found; it had been made public by the police.
I didn’t think you could do it, Tito, Myra said to herself. Well, I was wrong. You were worth your fee, large as it is.
It will be quite a trial, she said to herself with relish.
From a nearby office, probably the brokerage firm next door, the amplified sound of a man’s voice rose up and then was turned down to a more reasonable level. Someone had tuned in the TV, was watching the Republican-Liberal presidential candidate giving his latest speech. Perhaps I should listen, too, she decided, and reached to turn on the TV set at her desk.
The set warmed, and there, on the screen, appeared the dark, intense features of Jim Briskin. She swiveled her chair toward the set and momentarily put aside Tito’s report. After all, anything James Briskin said had become important; he might easily be their next president.
‘ . . . an initial action on my part,’ Briskin was saying, ‘and one which many may disapprove of, but one dear to my heart, will be to initiate legal action against the so-called Golden Door Moments of Bliss satellite. I’ve thought about this topic for some time; this is not a snap decision on my part. But, much more vital than that, I think we will see the Golden Door satellite become thoroughly obsolete. That would be best of all. The role of sexuality in our society could return to its biological norm: as a means to childbirth rather than an end in itself.’
Oh, really? Myra thought archly. Exactly how?
‘I am about to give you a piece of news which none of you have heard,’ Briskin continued. ‘It will make a vast difference in all our lives . . . so great, in fact, that no one could possibly foresee its full extent at this time, A new possibility for emigration is about to open up at last. At Terran Development . . .’
On Myra’s desk the vid-phone rang. Cursing in irritation, she turned down the sound of the television set and took the receiver from its support. ‘This is Mrs Sands,’ she said. ‘Could you please call back in a few moments, thank you? I’m extremely busy right now.’
It was the dark-haired boy, Art Chaffy. ‘We were just wondering what you’d decided,’ he mumbled apologetically. But he did not ring off. ‘It means a lot to us, Mrs Sands.’
‘I know it does, Art,’ Myra Sands said, ‘but if you’ll just give me a
‘Yes,’ Jim Briskin agreed. Cravelli was right; it was small cost indeed. With so many millions of lives—and, potentially, billions—involved.
‘Naturally TD has declared this top-secret. They’ve thrown up an enormous security screen; I was lucky to get hold of the poop at all. If I hadn’t already had a man in there . . .’ Cravelli gestured.
‘I’ll name you to the cabinet,’ Jim Briskin said. ‘As Attorney General. The arrangement doesn’t please me, but I think it’s in order.’ It’s worth it, he said to himself. A hundred times over. To me and to everyone else on Earth, bibs and non-bibs alike. To all of us.
Sagging with relief and exultation, Tito Cravelli burbled, ‘Wow. I can’t believe it; this is great!’ He held out his hand, but Jim ignored it; he had too much else on his mind at the moment to want to congratulate Tito Cravelli.
Jim thought, Sal Heim got out a little too soon. He should have stuck around. So much for Sal’s political intuition; at the crucial moment it had failed to materialize for him.
Seated in her office, abort-consultant Myra Sands once more leafed through Tito’s brief report. But already, outside her window, a news machine for one of the major homeopapes was screeching out the news that Cally Vale had been found; it had been made public by the police.
I didn’t think you could do it, Tito, Myra said to herself. Well, I was wrong. You were worth your fee, large as it is.
It will be quite a trial, she said to herself with relish.
From a nearby office, probably the brokerage firm next door, the amplified sound of a man’s voice rose up and then was turned down to a more reasonable level. Someone had tuned in the TV, was watching the Republican-Liberal presidential candidate giving his latest speech. Perhaps I should listen, too, she decided, and reached to turn on the TV set at her desk.
The set warmed, and there, on the screen, appeared the dark, intense features of Jim Briskin. She swiveled her chair toward the set and momentarily put aside Tito’s report. After all, anything James Briskin said had become important; he might easily be their next president.
‘ . . . an initial action on my part,’ Briskin was saying, ‘and one which many may disapprove of, but one dear to my heart, will be to initiate legal action against the so-called Golden Door Moments of Bliss satellite. I’ve thought about this topic for some time; this is not a snap decision on my part. But, much more vital than that, I think we will see the Golden Door satellite become thoroughly obsolete. That would be best of all. The role of sexuality in our society could return to its biological norm: as a means to childbirth rather than an end in itself.’
Oh, really? Myra thought archly. Exactly how?
‘I am about to give you a piece of news which none of you have heard,’ Briskin continued. ‘It will make a vast difference in all our lives . . . so great, in fact, that no one could possibly foresee its full extent at this time, A new possibility for emigration is about to open up at last. At Terran Development . . .’
On Myra’s desk the vid-phone rang. Cursing in irritation, she turned down the sound of the television set and took the receiver from its support. ‘This is Mrs Sands,’ she said. ‘Could you please call back in a few moments, thank you? I’m extremely busy right now.’
It was the dark-haired boy, Art Chaffy. ‘We were just wondering what you’d decided,’ he mumbled apologetically. But he did not ring off. ‘It means a lot to us, Mrs Sands.’
‘I know it does, Art,’ Myra Sands said, ‘but if you’ll just give me a
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