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for Winterform, was killed attempting to bring the Sirian in for deportation." Another picture of a woman I loved appeared. I ran to the screen in horror.
    "Keara, wait, I love you," I whispered.
    "Funeral services for the Subdirectress will be held tomorrow at one P.M.''
    I beat the video screen with bare hands until I could feel pain. But I did not scream. Wendy still slept.
    I dressed, and slipped down to the bar. I knew I would not sleep again for a long time.
    Today, four more people would die.
    I had only started to admire the sparkle of the glass in my hand when a platoon of news-types, minicams and microphones in hand, spilled into the lounge. There was the abrupt sound of a lady's laughter, and in a burst of color such a lady forced her way through the reporters to a middle table, where she coiled easily into the molded chair.
    The colors of her dress dazzled the eye. They were meant to distract the viewer's concentration from any betraying facial expressions: I had seen this kind of performance before, and even though I entered a drunken stupor, I was not deceived.
    I looked up, into her almond-shaped eyes. They were hard eyes, swift but cynical. For a moment I felt sorry for her; she too had been scarred by encounters with a reality too terrible to be a part of a rational universe. The body she wore was older, with the skin tightening across her cheeks. Wrinkles radiated from her eyes when she smiled.
    Yet when they asked her their first question, her smile made me smile. Her voice carried clearly above the din: "Of course I'm going to lower the people's tuitions, yet raise the funding grants. That's what every Chairman for the past decade has promised, and a Chairman would never abrogate on a promise, would he?"
    There was a subdued pause; the reporters weren't sure whether she was being sincere, or whether she was just joking!
    For a moment, her cynical eyes lost their bitterness; she was laughing, a laughter no one in her audience could note or appreciate.
    Her eyes met mine; for that moment, we shared the secret joy.
    No, not again! I was in love.
    I should have left the bar. When I looked at this bitter woman, I could feel myself teetering on the edge of a pit; this lady could hurt me, scar me, and walk away.
    But I could not leave. I lacked the will power. I have never had the discipline that springs unaided to those who do what they should do, just because they know they should. For me, strength of character has always needed an outside crutch: always I have leaned on the woman I loved.
    I don't think I was a clinging vine. Yet without the sense of love and being loved, I had always been a bit broken inside. The beginnings of lifetimes had always been painful transitions for me, for my life was always loveless then. But none of those transitions had been raw hells like this .
    Since I lacked the discipline and wisdom to leave, I did the opposite: I approached the lady. A bodyguard-type male calmly moved to intercept me; I calmly tipped him off balance and tossed him to the side.
    I fear the toss was too blatant to go unnoticed; everyone turned to look at me. I poised myself before my new love, and bowed in the Victorian manner. "We must share more moments, my lady," I offered.
    Her laughter seemed a bit strained. "Heavens! I've never been propositioned so elegantly before!" She turned to a bank of minicams. "Should I have an affair with this man?" she asked. "He seems nice enough." She eyed me carefully, "Though perhaps a bit inebriated."
    One of the men leaned over a radio/calculator device. In a moment he looked up and shook his head. "I think the voters prefer their leaders to be virgins," he said with a smile.
    My lover-to-be sighed. "It's tragic, the frequency with which I must turn down my admirers."
    Three bodyguards moved in on me this time. I could have taken them all, but it would have been noisy, and probably of no avail. My lady seemed trapped by the cameras. I accompanied her boys out of the bar,