'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 vidphone 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 few more minutes, possibly half an hour ...' She strained to hear what James Briskin was saying on the television; almost, she could make out the low murmur of words. What was his new news ? Where were they going to emigrate to ? A virgin environment ? Well, obviously; it would have to be. But precisely where is it ? Myra wondered. Are you about to pull this virgin world out of your sleeve, Mr. Briskin ?
Because if you are, I would like to see it done; that would be worth watching.
'Okay,' Art Chaffy said. 'I'll call you later, Mrs. Sands. And I'm sorry to pester you.' He rang off, then.
'You ought to be listening to Briskin's speech,' Myra murmured aloud as she swung her chair back to face the television set; bending, she turned the audio knob and the sound of Briskin's voice rose once more to clear audibility. You of all people, she said to herself.
'... and according to reports reaching me,' Briskin said slowly and gravely, 'it has an atmosphere nearly identical to that of earth, and a similar mass as well.'
Good grief, Myra Sands said to herself. If that's the case then I'm out of a job. Her heart labored painfully. No one would need abort brokers any more. But frankly I'm just as glad, she decided.
It's a task I'd like to see end - forever.
Hands pressed together tautly, she listened to the remainder of Jim Briskin's momentous Chicago speech.
My god, she thought. This is a piece of history being made, this discovery. If it's true. If this isn't just a campaign stunt.
Somewhere inside her she knew that it was true. Because Jim Briskin was not the kind of person who would make this up.
At the Oakland, California, branch of the U.S. Government Department of Special Public
Welfare, Herbert Lackmore also sat listening to presidential candidate Jim Briskin's Chicago speech, being carried on all channels of the TV as it was beamed from the R-L satellite above.
He'll be elected now, Lackmore realized. We'll have a Col president at last, just what I was afraid of.
And, if what he's saying is so, this business about a new possibility of emigration to an untouched world with fauna and flora like Earth's, it means the bibs will be awakened. In fact, he realized with a thrill of fright, it means there won't be any more bibs. At all.
That would mean that Herb Lackmore's job would come to an end. And right away.
Because of him, Lackmore said to himself, I'm going to be out of work; I'll be in the same spot as all the Cols who come by here in a steady stream, day in day out - I'll be like some nineteen-yearold Mexican or Puerto Rican or Negro kid, without prospects or hope. All I've established over the years - wiped out by this. Completely.
With shaking fingers, Herb Lackmore opened the local phone book and turned the pages.
It was time to get hold of - and join - the organization of Verne Engel's which called itself
CLEAN. Because CLEAN would not sit idly by and let this happen, not if CLEAN believed as
Herb Lackmore did.
Now was the time for CLEAN to do something. And not necessarily of a non-violent nature; it was too late for non-violence to work. Something more was required, now. Much more. The situation had taken a dreadful turn and it would have to be rectified, by direct and quick action.
And if they won't do it, Lackmore said to himself, I will. I'm not afraid to; I know it has to be done.
On the TV screen Jim Briskin's face was stern as he said. '... will provide a natural outlet for the biological pressures at work on everyone in our society. We will be free at last to ...'
'You know what this means ?' George of George Walt said to his brother Walt.
'I know,' Walt answered. 'It means that nurf Sal Heim got nothing for us, nothing at all. You watch Briskin; I'm going to call Verne Engel and make some kind of arrangements. Him we can work with.'
'Okay,' George said, nodding their shared head. He kept his eye on the TV screen, while his brother dialed the vidphone.
'All that gabble with Sal Heim,' Walt grumbled, and then became silent as his brother stuck him with his elbow, signaling that he wanted to listen to the Chicago speech. 'Sorry,' Walt said, turning his eye to the vidscreen of the phone.
At the door of their office Thisbe Olt appeared, wearing a fawnskin gown with alternating stripes of magnifying transparency. 'Mr. Heim is back,' she informed them. 'To see you. He looks -