"Exactly," said Degler. "So why do so many environmental regulations wind up, harming the environment? I say, what if it's on purpose?"

"Can't be," said someone in the crowd. "What purpose?"

"Yeah, who would gain?"

"The Babbage Society? "

"No, the Greens. The Greens would gain job security," said someone else.

"Job security how? They're pledged to clean things up."

"No they aren't," said Tom Degler with a grin. "They're pledged to advocate rules whose apparent purpose is to make someone else clean things up."

"That's right. There's a difference. The rules only require actions, not results."

"I have a question," said an elderly fan. "Why did the Greens become so popular back in the '90s, which was after the worst pollution had been already cleaned up? None of you kids remembers the old days, when coal smoke blanketed every city and the Cuyahoga River caught fire."

Alex had finally figured out why Degler grinned all the time. He was watching funny pictures inside his head. "This is your hobby, isn't it?"

Degler grinned at him. "What is?"

"Throwing out wild ideas and watching people play with them."

"No, this is my profession. Dropping seed crystals in a supersaturated solution. Plumbing is my hobby."

Chairman Buck Coulson produced a giant cake covered with chocolate frosting, baked in the shape of a manhole cover. He presented it to Degler as Con Chair. Degler wiped a tear from his eye. "I'm touched, folks. I am truly touched."

"Hell, Tom," said Bob. "We've known that for years."

"Okay!" said Buck rubbing his hands. "That's three uses." He pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket and made a note.

Alex looked around for help. He saw Sherrine nearby with a glass of bhlog in her hand and beckoned to her. Sherrine giggled and weaved her way to his side. "What did Buck mean, that's three uses?" He had to lean close to make himself heard over the noise of the room party. The jostling crowd pressed Sherrine against him just as he bent close. He wasn't about to complain.

"Mmmm," said Sherrine, lingering against him for just a moment, bracing herself with her arm around him. "Egscyooze--I mean, excuse me. I'm sorry."

"I'm not."

"Have some bhlog?" She held her glass up to him.

"No, thanks. I had one. It ripped the top of my head off. What's in that stuff?"

"Oh, I don't know. No one does. It's a closely guarded secret known to no one." Sherrine giggled again.

"You're drunk."

She pressed a finger against her lip. "Shhhhh. Maybe no one will notice." She drank the rest of her bhlog. Then she pointed at the cake. "Chocolate-covered manhole covers are, is the only idea Tom ever threw out that never went anywhere. What can you say about chocolatecovered manhole covers?"

Alex smiled. "Not much."

"A cake for Tom, that's three. A source of food on an alien planet, that was first."

"What was the second?"

Her diction became careful and solemn. "The American Dental Association thinks they are bad for children's teeth."

It must have been almost one in the morning. There was only a handful of fans still lolling about in the Video Room. Sherrine sat tailor fashion near the door, talking tete-a-tete with Dinsby. The others had wandered off. Some were dozing on the floor. Buck grew sufficiently bored to turn on the TV. He sat splayed in the sofa changing channels at random with his phaser. Tom Degler snored beside him.

Slouched in the armchair with his head buzzing, Alex let his mind drift with the TV. Buck would not stay on one channel long enough for anything to make sense. If, after five glasses of bhlog, anything could make sense.

"For relief of hemorrhoids," the TV declared, "use--°!°--the President of the United States--°!°--couldn't imagine anything more exciting--°!°--building value in every step of design and construction--°!°--don't miss all the action--°!°--with Barbie--°!°--But what if lance discovers us, darling--°!°--coming up next--°!°--Sherrine Hartley--°!°---ll right, let's move em out--°!°--for Captain Spaulding, the African explorer--"

"Wait!" said Alex suddenly alert. "Buck! Back up a couple channels."

°!°°!° and a photograph of Bob and Sherrine graced the screen. "--of those suspected of harboring the fugitives. Hartley is a computer nerd. Her boyfriend, Needleton, is a scientist. Needleton's van was used in the getaway. It was found in Milwaukee--"

"See Spot," snarled Buck. "See Spot run. Run, Spot, run."

"Quiet!"

"--seeing them should contact the State Police. Captain Lee Arteria of the U.S. Air Force Office of Special Investigations is leading the pursuit. Outdoor shot of a hard-looking officer in fatigues. "We're piecing the evidence together, Heather," Arteria told the newser. "There are several promising lines of inquiry--"

Alex grabbed the phaser from Coulson's hands and stabbed at the buttons until the screen went black.

Bob spoke without turning from the screen. "The backdrop. It was the Museum of Science and Industry in Chicago."

Coulson frowned. "Arteria looks familiar. I've seen him somewhere before. At a con? Art show?" He shook his head. "A long time ago."

Had Sherrine seen this? Alex twisted and looked by the door. Barbara and Sherrine were gone. But they were there earlier.

He left the Video Room and wandered down the corridor. An open room door showed fans carpeting the beds and floor. Other doors were closed and silent. The Con was shutting down for the night.

Downstairs in one of the function rooms, he found Dinsby in a circle of femmefans surrounding Gordon.

"… syllables, accents or feet," Gordon was saying.

"But English stresses are too strong for syllabic poetry, which is why haiku does not work in English. Accentual poetry is the native English structure. As in Beowulf, which has four beats per line with central pause. Is also the limerick like you hear in nursery rhymes and rap. But accent structure can degenerate into mere broken prose,' like free verse, which is basic form used for advertising copy. Was Chaucer who invented the foot, which combines accent and syllable-- "Yes, Alex, what is it?"

Alex put a hand on a table to steady himself. "I'm looking for Sherrine. Have you seen her?"

"She was with me earlier," Dinsby said. "I came out here for the midnight poetry panel. I saw her leave the room party a few minutes ago. I think she went outside." She pointed to the side door on the right.

Outside, the night air was a knife in his lungs and the stars hung like diamonds on velvet. He exhaled a cloudy breath. Not as cold as it had been up north; but still… The moon was low in the west, casting pale, pearly shadows. One of the shadows moved slightly and Alex headed toward it.

She was hunched up with her knees tucked under her chin and her arms wrapped around her legs. Alex hunkered down beside her. She looked at him; looked away and drew her sleeve across her nose.

"You shouldn't cry during an ice age," he told her. "Your eyes will freeze closed."

"Or open. I'd rather have them freeze open. Better to see if anyone's chasing you."

"You saw the news clip, then."

She said nothing, but Alex could sense her nod. "I won't make a very good 'wanted fan,' will I? If they showed Fang or Crazy Eddie on national TV with everyone in the country asked to turn them in… they'd throw a party."

"They think they can't be caught. They have faith in their own wits."

"I'm in real trouble, then. My instincts are no damned good."

"Your instincts are the best."

"I'm drunk, and I'm depressed, and I'm cold."

Alex didn't think he could do much about the first two complaints. He put his arm around her. "Do you want to go back inside? It's warmer there."