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electioneering, now your push call, that’s a tool of a different temper. The self-proclaimed independent survey. The subtly skewed question set. ‘Given that the incumbent has been generally incompetent, how would you rate his chances in this election? Given Party X’s colossal botch of the offshore oil and gas deal—oh, I forget, that was your party, wasn’t it? Silly me.”
    She looked and sounded so delighted that Adam would not have been surprised if she and not Bliss were the candidate. It struck him then just how ill prepared he had been in joining the team, making calls, telling people about Feeney without knowing anything about his opponents.
    All right, he thought, everything seems to be pointing inside this Leaning House of Pisa. Let’s see what we have.
    What he found was a room with walls painted a lemony wash and hung with paintings all of the same style, white on white, textured, arrogantly colourless. Thick dabs of oil paint applied with a trowel, it seemed, gave each work of art turbulence and depth. Looking closer he saw that the surfaces were particleboard, their angled wood chips adding to the appearance of frozen movement, to the patchy skin, the surface of a frothy sea caught and held. He noticed little else, not the texture of the chair she bade him sit upon, not the colour or pattern of the drapes, not the flooring, which he knew was more or less level but which could have been sponge toffee or slate, so intent was he on these slabs of ice and snow that seemed to pulsate and throw inexplicable dancing shadows.
    â€œI’m sorry, but I cannot allow this to continue. You are simply too young.”
    Was she was referring protectively to something subliminal in the artwork, an image of Eros or terror or hard cynical adult reality that he had not lived long enough to see? He stopped staring and turned to her.
    â€œI won’t ask how you became enmeshed with that mob. Suffice it to say that you are here now, that it is never too late, and that LB certainly could use the help.”
    Still thinking that she was referring to the paintings, Adam shook his head. He wondered if this LB she referred to was the artist, having forgotten momentarily about the trickster candidate.
    â€œI don’t...”
    â€œThat’s right. That’s why you’re here! My stars, think about it. What would the world be like if we all sleepwalked through our vigorous years?”
    Not following, Adam reverted to received wisdom. “Don Feeney...”
    â€œYou can’t work for them, you never did. Believe me. You think you do. You think that because they let you pick up the telephone and say the name of the office, it makes you important and what you’re doing legitimate. I don’t care how handsome that man is, how many times he jumps out of an airplane, how many movies he has acted in. He could be Mahatma Gandhi and I would say the same thing: he’s the government and the government has no right co-opting the young. Don’t you think it’s time you made up your own mind?”
    He didn’t know what to say. He felt a rogue smile invade each side of his face.
    â€œDon’t just sit there like a naughty monkey. Tell me I’m wrong.”
    â€œYou’re wrong.”
    â€œNo I’m not and you know it. When my husband and I were your age we were card-carrying members of the Communist Party. You couldn’t be a freethinking, conscientious, sentient being and not be. Why? Because the young know. They know intuitively that greed ravishes and destroys all that is good. But as we age we grow cowardly and acquisitive, and our armoured shells grow thick. We stop caring about beauty and searching for truth.”
    Adam felt hurt and indignant because he thought she knew just how little he did care about what he was doing for the PMO . Was he that transparent? All that work he had done already and for no pay! And when it came time to go knocking on