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woman—what was her name?
    Tinglo? Bringlo? Something like that—was dangerous. Wall waved his hand over the sensor, wiggling his fingers, and the holoproj vanished. He thought about it for a moment, then called to his computer. He had recently renamed the device, in honor of an old friend.
    "Cteel."
    "My Lord Factor?"
    "Contact the minority whip of Parliament, I forget her name."
    "Madame Hinglow."
    "Yes. I would like to see her, at her convenience."
    "My Lord," the computer said. It even sounded like Cteel, no large feat, since it had his voice tapes for programming.
    Wall considered his intended action. The scalpel or the smash? Both were effective, but which would be the better for this situation? The carrot or the stick? Or both?
    "Cteel, while you're at it, get me the psychfile on Madame Hinglow. Vocal and visual."
    The computer's answer was to light the holoproj again. A soft female voice began to speak. Wall turned to look at the image, smiling as he did so.
    * * *
    "Factor Wall, how nice to see you again."
    Wall gestured toward the orthopedia facing his own. "Please, do relax."
    Madame Hinglow allowed the device to accommodate her large form. She was an attractive woman, wide-hipped and large-breasted, and she had changed her clothing from the conservative suit she wore in Parliament to a clearsilk wrap. The nearly-invisible cloth revealed erotic tattoos on her abdomen, as well as her tri-colored pubic thatch, worn in the currently popular lap-braid style. Wall suspected that she had been dusted with a pheromone pump, but it didn't matter. As an exotic albino, he was immune to such devices.
    As she leaned back into the orthopedia, she allowed her legs to part slightly, showing him lips rouged in two shades of red. She was very good, he thought. But it was wasted on him.
    "You are looking well," she said.
    Wall smiled and nodded. Now the fugue would begin in earnest. She was, he recalled, an excellent player.
    "You were very effective in your debate with the majority whip this morning," Wall said. It was a mostly neutral statement, but the fugue sense was plain enough: I saw you, I heard you, I know what you said .
    "I am honored you took time from your busy schedule to notice our small proceeding." And in fugue, Wall heard, Why were you watching me? A bit abrupt, but he could understand that: she was worried.
    "The argument has supporters on both sides," he said, "but don't you think you run some small risk in taking what might be—ah—the less popular side?"
    I don't like what you said. We cannot allow even one moon to have its way. That path leads to disaster.
    Unconsciously, the minority whip brought her knees together. That body language needed no expert in fugue to read. "I... that is, such things must be taken into account, of course." What do you want me to do?
    Wall smiled. She capitulated quickly. No fool, this woman. A shame, since he would have liked to spin the game out a bit longer; still, the result was important, too.
    "I understand that the upcoming election is likely to result in a victory for the minority party," he said. "As many as, say, fifty seats might be changed.
    Which would make you majority whip, would it not?" If you change your attitude, you may have the carrot. I can arrange this easily enough.
    Madame Hinglow's knees relaxed again. She smiled. "Naturally I would like to see my party ascend. But political life has been somewhat wearisome of late. I have even entertained the idea of retiring." What if I don't go along?
    Wall's smile grew. Ah, some spirit, after all. Good.
    "Do you know the game of poisonball?" You have heard the carrot, now hear the stick.
    "I don't follow sports, I'm afraid." I'm listening .
    "It's a fascinating game. Two players stand a few meters apart, separated by an airwall. The airwall will allow a solid object to pass through, if it moves sufficiently fast. The players are naked, save for a power racquet each. The object is to use the racquet to propel a ball