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undertook to meet the cost of her incarceration himself instead of leaving her as a charge on public funds, and consequent inevitable disaster.
    At the time Flamen had wondered why the directorate gave ground so swiftly. He stopped wondering the moment the first of the swingeing monthly bills arrived, together with the unchallengeable State-comped contract to which he had carelessly committed himself. He didn't have to consult a computer to discover that he was cornered. And he couldn't provide a cushion by, say, moving to a less expensive house. He was compelled to maintain that standard of living which was quote appropriate unquote for a person to whom Holocosmic allotted five slots a week. His accountants were first-rate and his tax demands were laughable, but he couldn't weasel out of his obligatory expenditures. He was defeated before he started by the scale of Holocosmic's computers; his own were good, but for equipment like theirs you had to hire computers like his to write the programs— no human being could manage it.
    So knowing the knife was in: what to do? Make overtures to a rival network? Suicide—apart from the obvious truism that when only one spoolpigeon had managed to stay in business no network was likely to be interested in hiring a newcomer, he'd be dropped on his butt within hours on some specious but adhesive charge such as disloyalty to his employers. Also he would instantly stop being able to meet Celia's hospital bills out of income, and the penalty for premature removal was colossal. Though Mogshack's last report had been cautiously optimistic, it was clear that Celia was not by any means fully recovered. So that left one possible solution: hold his audience. Somehow. Anyhow. It was his only resource, the computer factor which showed a higher rating for him personally, Matthew Flamen, than for an all-advertising segment.
    And in an age when people were far too preoccupied with their own business for even the most savory scandal and gossip to attract their attention . . .
    Definitely a Red Queens Race, he told himself. And I'm running short of breath.

FOURTEENAN OBJECT LESSON CONCERNING A VERY IMPORTANT SUBJECT
     
    Eugene Voigt didn't go quite so far as to turn off his Screen, but he did disconnect his ears after the first minute or so of the eager-beaver's diatribe. They were an excellent design, by far the best he had ever worn, and he liked the location of the silence trigger particularly; it was concealed under the drooping eaves of his moustache and could be inconspicuously activated by a mere touch of the tongue. Besides, it was offered as a regular feature instead of as a customized option. It would be worth sticking with this brand for a while—at least until rival manufacturers overtook it. And it was hard to discern what room was left for improvements short of direct sub-dermal implantation.
    The eager-beaver (his name was irrelevant but he held a resonantly-titled post in the lower echelons of the PCC) kept talking for a full quarter of an hour, but Voigt had realized what he was going to say within the first few seconds and none of the phrases he caught by idle lip-reading contradicted his first guesstimate. When the tirade finally subsided he said, "Forget it. It won't work."
    "But Holocosmic clearly intends to—"
    "You won't make it stick," Voigt told him firmly. "You won't make anything stick. The subject of communications, on this planet of ours, is dead."

FIFTEENIT'S A COMMON PLATITUDE THAT KNOWLEDGE IS NEUTRAL BUT EVERY NOW AND THEN IT WOULD BE USEFUL IF IT WERE ON YOUR SIDE RATHER THAN THEIRS
     
    It was hot outside; it was much hotter inside because the lighting was old-fashioned and there had to be a hell of a lot of it. Pedro Diablo's dark skin shone with perspiration. But his white teeth shone even brighter. He was enjoying himself.
    "One final time!" he coaxed. "I swear they're going to lap this up in Conakry and Lumumbaville!"
    The actress playing King Leopold of the