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blinding light, and before us an immense mushroom-shaped balloon 2 rose up from what I learned later was the Place de l’Opera. As we watched, it swelled and expanded, and in huge letters the words W ELCOME S T . E WAGIOW appeared on its sides.
    “Gladys!” I said, when I could speak.
    “The St. Ewagiow haven’t taken over the city,” she laughed. “It’s only the Board, darling.”
    Even today I marvel at the cunning of those Mechanical Brains. They had reasoned that since Greater Miami was a famous convention city, a makebelieve St. Ewagiow carnival featuring that death cult’s philosophy would be a popular novelty certain to attract a horde of visitors. And among these visitors, there would be genuine St. Ewagiows who would welcome the opportunity of playing at legality. Everything on the outside revolved around that corrupt word PLAY.
    “You’re kept informed; I’m kept in the dark,” I said bitterly when she was finished with her explanations.
    Her eyes were fixed on that hideous mushroom shape. “What a wonderful bit of luck for the Miami Chamber of Commerce. I’d hate to be the Mayor of Greater Reno or Greater Los Angeles! They’ll all be wanting a St. Ewagiow convention now.”
    My U-Latu cigar had gone out but I didn’t relight it. I wanted no artificial stimulants to make me forget the ugly truth. I was of no importance. The Commissioner, for all his stories of how he had fought for me, was going along with Them.
    When we landed it was plain that the St. Ewagiow, or rather the crowds of extras and would-be-actors and actresses who infested the country, were having a field day. Driving to our hotel, a parade stopped our Shrinkmobile 1 . Before us marched hundreds of beautiful woman in black swimming suits, their hair tinted the same shade of gray. A tombstone gray, I suppose, for they were each carrying a miniature skeleton with a sign attached. The skeletons were two-foot affairs about the size of small infants, painted in colors representing human skin, from Swedish blonde to Congo black. Their heads were grotesque chalky white skulls that swayed and bounced with each step of the marching gray-haired woman. The signs carried the following slogan in different languages: THIS IS ME, THIS IS YOU.
    And so forth: in French ( C’EST MOI, C’EST TOI ), in Greek, Russian, German, Japanese, Tagalog, Punjabi, and God only knew what else.
    Next was a float with a dozen men holding scythes while above their heads a red banner lettered in many languages flew in the breeze: THE ONE TRUE REVOLUTION IS THE REVOLUTION OF DEATH.
    The next float seemed as if it had come straight out of an embalmer’s parlor. It held three glass coffins inside of which lay, respectively, a little girl of six, a young man in his twenties, and an elderly woman. The signs for this one were out of the Bible: THERE IS A TIME TO LIVE AND A TIME TO DIE. ECCLESIASTES.
    It all made me shudder. Where I haled from we joked about death, but within decent limits. This parade was horrible, as if the stink of real corpses were rising from it. I was thinking I couldn’t fail! The A-I-D had to be found and hidden away for all time, never again to menace the people of the world.
    “Isn’t it clever?” Gladys laughed. “C’est moi, C’est toi.”
    “Clever!” I muttered. “The cleverness of self-destruction.”
    The driver turned around and smiled. “We have everything in Miami! Last week we had two conventions. Real ones, not like this show. The Descendants of the Good Samaritans — ”
    “And on July 4th you’ll have the Society of Unknown Dead!” I said. “And you’ll be through driving a Shrinkmobile!”
    “No, sir,” he said. “I like my job. I’ll never forget the day I received my certificate from the B.O.”
    “He means the Board of Occupations,” Gladys explained to me.
    “Did They pick your job, too?” I asked.
    “Who else is better qualified, darling? I’d been playing in the yard when my father called me into the