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earlobes, more clustered at his nostrils, and bands of stones at
his wrists and throat clicked together when he moved. “I’m so glad
you could make it!”
    He slipped his arm through Sandy’s and patted his wrist. Sandy feigned a coughing fit, freeing himself before the Rev-Gov could smother him.
    Halfjest was impossible to offend; nothing bothered him. His life
was perfect. Not only was he governor, but he was perpetually live as well. His
wire show had been second in popularity only to the Figueroas’, and since
Marjorie’s death he’d been number one in the California ratings. No other
politician was so open to global eavesdroppers. Living inside Halfjest,
receivers conned themselves into believing they were gaining a political
education, seeing the workings of government firsthand. But this was a
well-orchestrated illusion. Actually, they rode in the tanned and scented skin
of the most flamboyant entertainer since Liberace. It was showmanship, and not
politics, that gave Halfjest his appeal. He treated his audience to a rich diet
of caviar and champagne that few of them could have afforded (although, as
taxpayers, they managed to somehow), leading them through the spectacle of his
ever-changing Sacramento palace with its rich carpeting, scented lawns, and
indoor waterways, inviting them to glamorous parties like this one, marked by
meetings with the world’s rich and famous. Halfjest had opened the corridors of
power to his constituents—and taken them roller-skating down the slick marble
halls.
    He pretended to be continually open to the opinions of his
audience, occasionally reversing the flow to look in on their lives and listen
to their opinions. This was the perpetual promise of the wires: the
simultaneous involvement of all citizens in the state, their opinions and
desires constantly tallied and monitored and taken into account, then enacted
personally by their most popular representatives, the elected embodiments of
their will. However, Halfjest—like other politicians—opined that he was one
lone man, without the superhuman ability to field and synthesize all their
desires at once, and lacked the discrimination to separate momentary urges from
deep conscientious longings. The task of processing, making sense of, and
acting on so much input was beyond the ability of any computer of the day, let
alone any one person.
    And so the wires, with all their potential, were put to the
endless task of distraction.
    Had he cared to, Sandy could have flipped into his wires right now
and picked up the governor’s broadcast. Could have stood here talking to
himself through Thaxter’s POV.
    But that was sick. It was bad enough to do it singly, let alone in
duplicate. Besides, feedback was an ever present danger. Had their eyes met . .
.
    “Have you been keeping well, Sandy?”
    “Tan, Thax. Totally tan. You?”
    “I’ve been frantic preparing this birthday bash. Listen, we’re
having a contest. We need a new name for California. Something splendid to mark
the bicentennial.”
    “A new name? Are you kidding, Thax? What’s wrong with ‘California’?”
    Halfjest, disdainful, pressed an oiled hand to his breast. “You
mean you don’t know? I’ve been telling everyone what a horrid name it is. I
mean, the associations, the imagery! Ghastly!”
    “I guess I missed it.”
    The RevGov tried to reclaim Sandy’s hand, but he got it into his
pocket just in time.
    “The California myths are all so terrible. Why, Calafia was a
dreadful Amazon queen—not even a libby-lezzy! She only tolerated men as food
for her giant buzzards! It’s an awful story, and I hate our lovely realm to
bear such associations. Imagine, they came looking for gold and ended up on the
bottom of a birdcage! What were those Spaniards thinking when they came up with
the name?”
    Sandy shrugged. “They must have been pretty disappointed
when they came looking for El Dorado and found Los Angeles instead.”
    Sandy searched desperately for