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got out a red handkerchief and carefully mopped his forehead. His hands were shaking. ‘Listen, Appleton,’ he said, managing to make his voice more natural, now. More steady. Yet the shaking continued down deep in the man, out of sight. Nick sensed it, knew it was there. Hidden and buried, out of fear. ‘They’re going to get me, too. If they’re executing Cordon they’ll just go on and wipe all of us out, all the way down to minnows like me. And we’ll go into those camps, those damn, lousy, rotten detention camps on Luna. Did you know about them? That’s where we’re going. We – my people. Not you.’
    ‘I know about the camps,’ Nick said.
    ‘Are you going to turn me in?’
    Nick said, ‘No.’
    ‘They’ll get me anyway,’ Zeta said bitterly. ‘They’ve been compiling lists for years. Lists a mile long, even on microtapes. They’ve got computers; they’ve got spies. Anyone could be a spy. Anyone you know or have ever talked to. Listen, Appleton – Cordon’s death means we’re not just fighting for political equality, it means we’re fighting for our actual physical lives. Do you understand that, Appleton? You may not like me very much – God knows we don’t get along with each other –
but do you want to see me murdered?’
    ‘What can I do?’ Nick said. ‘I can’t stop the PSS.’
    Zeta drew himself up, his dumpy body rigid with the agony of despair. ‘You could die along with us,’ he said.
    ‘Okay,’ Nick said.
    ‘“Okay”?’ Zeta peered at him, trying to understand him. ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘I’ll do what I can,’ Nick said. He felt numbed by what he was saying. Everything was gone, now: the chance for Bobby had been effectively voided, and a race of tire regroovers would go on forever.
    I should have waited, he thought. This just simply happened to me; I didn’t expect it – I don’t really understand it. It must be because Bobby failed. And yet I’m here saying this, telling Zeta this. It’s been done.
    ‘Let’s get over to my office,’ Zeta said hoarsely, ‘and open a pint of beer.’
    ‘You have liquor?’ He could not imagine it, the penalty was so terribly great.
    ‘We will drink to Eric Cordon,’ Zeta said, and led the way.

SIX
    ‘I have never drunk alcohol before,’ Nick said as they sat facing one another across the table. He had begun to feel terribly odd. ‘You read in the papes all the time that it causes people to go berserk, to suffer complete changes of personality, suffer brain damage. In fact—’
    ‘Scare stories,’ Zeta said. ‘Although, it’s true you should go easy at first. Take it slow; let it just slide down.’
    ‘What’s the penalty for drinking alcohol?’ Nick asked. He found himself having trouble forming words.
    ‘A year. Mandatory, without possibility of parole.’
    ‘Is it worth it?’ The room, around him, seemed unreal; it had lost its substantiality, its concreteness. ‘And isn’t it habit-forming? The papes say once you start, you can never—’
    ‘Just drink your beer,’ Zeta said; he sipped his, downing it without apparent difficulty.
    ‘You know,’ Nick said, ‘what Kleo would say about my having alcohol?’
    ‘Wives are like that.’
    ‘I don’t think so. She’s like that, but some aren’t.’
    ‘No, they’re all that way.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Because,’ Zeta said, ‘their husband is the source of all their financial money.’ He belched, grimaced, leaned back in his swivel chair, the beer bottle gripped in one large hand. ‘To them – well, look at it this way. Suppose you had a machine, a very complex delicate machine, which when it was working properly it pumped out, fed out, a line of pops. Now, supposing that machine—’
    ‘Is that really how wives feel about their husbands?’
    ‘Sure.’ Zeta burped again, handed Nick the bottle of beer.
    ‘It’s dehumanization,’ Nick said.
    ‘Sure it is. Bet your purple and green ass it is.’
    ‘I think Kleo worries about me because her