It will be quite a trial, she said to herself with relish.

From a nearby office, probably the brokerage firm next door, the amplified sound of a man's voice rose up and then was turned down to a more reasonable level. Someone had tuned in the

TV, was watching the Republican-Liberal presidential candidate giving his latest speech.

Perhaps I should listen, too, she decided, and reached to turn on the TV set at her desk.

The set warmed, and there, on the screen, appeared the dark, intense features of Jim Briskin. She swiveled her chair toward the set and momentarily put aside Tito's report. After all, anything

James Briskin said had become important; he might easily be their next president.

'... an initial action on my part,' Briskin was saying, 'and one which many may disapprove of, but one dear to my heart, will be to initiate legal action against the so-called Golden Door Moments of Bliss satellite. I've thought about this topic for some time; this is not a snap decision on my part. But, much more vital than that, I think we will see the Golden Door satellite become thoroughly obsolete. That would be best of all. The role of sexuality in our society could return to its biological norm: as a means to childbirth rather than an end in itself.'

Oh, really ? Myra thought archly. Exactly how ?

'I am about to give you a piece of news which none of you have heard,' Briskin continued. 'It will make a vast difference in all our lives ... so great, in fact, that no one could possibly foresee its full extent at this time, A new possibility for emigration is about to open up at last. At Terran

Development...'

On Myra's desk the vidphone rang. Cursing in irritation, she turned down the sound of the television set and took the receiver from its support. 'This is Mrs. Sands,' she said. 'Could you please call back in a few moments, thank you ? I'm extremely busy right now.'

It was the dark-haired boy, Art Chaffy. 'We were just wondering what you'd decided,' he mumbled apologetically. But he did not ring off. 'It means a lot to us, Mrs. Sands.'

'I know it does, Art,' Myra Sands said, 'but if you'll just give me a few more minutes, possibly half an hour ...' She strained to hear what James Briskin was saying on the television; almost, she could make out the low murmur of words. What was his new news ? Where were they going to emigrate to ? A virgin environment ? Well, obviously; it would have to be. But precisely where is it ? Myra wondered. Are you about to pull this virgin world out of your sleeve, Mr. Briskin ?

Because if you are, I would like to see it done; that would be worth watching.

'Okay,' Art Chaffy said. 'I'll call you later, Mrs. Sands. And I'm sorry to pester you.' He rang off, then.

'You ought to be listening to Briskin's speech,' Myra murmured aloud as she swung her chair back to face the television set; bending, she turned the audio knob and the sound of Briskin's voice rose once more to clear audibility. You of all people, she said to herself.

'... and according to reports reaching me,' Briskin said slowly and gravely, 'it has an atmosphere nearly identical to that of earth, and a similar mass as well.'

Good grief, Myra Sands said to herself. If that's the case then I'm out of a job. Her heart labored painfully. No one would need abort brokers any more. But frankly I'm just as glad, she decided.

It's a task I'd like to see end - forever.

Hands pressed together tautly, she listened to the remainder of Jim Briskin's momentous Chicago speech.

My god, she thought. This is a piece of history being made, this discovery. If it's true. If this isn't just a campaign stunt.

Somewhere inside her she knew that it was true. Because Jim Briskin was not the kind of person who would make this up.

At the Oakland, California, branch of the U.S. Government Department of Special Public

Welfare, Herbert Lackmore also sat listening to presidential candidate Jim Briskin's Chicago speech, being carried on all channels of the TV as it was beamed from the R-L satellite above.

He'll be elected now, Lackmore realized. We'll have a Col president at last, just what I was afraid of.

And, if what he's saying is so, this business about a new possibility of emigration to an untouched world with fauna and flora like Earth's, it means the bibs will be awakened. In fact, he realized with a thrill of fright, it means there won't be any more bibs. At all.

That would mean that Herb Lackmore's job would come to an end. And right away.

Because of him, Lackmore said to himself, I'm going to be out of work; I'll be in the same spot as all the Cols who come by here in a steady stream, day in day out - I'll be like some nineteen-yearold Mexican or Puerto Rican or Negro kid, without prospects or hope. All I've established over the years - wiped out by this. Completely.

With shaking fingers, Herb Lackmore opened the local phone book and turned the pages.

It was time to get hold of - and join - the organization of Verne Engel's which called itself

CLEAN. Because CLEAN would not sit idly by and let this happen, not if CLEAN believed as

Herb Lackmore did.

Now was the time for CLEAN to do something. And not necessarily of a non-violent nature; it was too late for non-violence to work. Something more was required, now. Much more. The situation had taken a dreadful turn and it would have to be rectified, by direct and quick action.

And if they won't do it, Lackmore said to himself, I will. I'm not afraid to; I know it has to be done.

On the TV screen Jim Briskin's face was stern as he said. '... will provide a natural outlet for the biological pressures at work on everyone in our society. We will be free at last to ...'

'You know what this means ?' George of George Walt said to his brother Walt.

'I know,' Walt answered. 'It means that nurf Sal Heim got nothing for us, nothing at all. You watch Briskin; I'm going to call Verne Engel and make some kind of arrangements. Him we can work with.'

'Okay,' George said, nodding their shared head. He kept his eye on the TV screen, while his brother dialed the vidphone.

'All that gabble with Sal Heim,' Walt grumbled, and then became silent as his brother stuck him with his elbow, signaling that he wanted to listen to the Chicago speech. 'Sorry,' Walt said, turning his eye to the vidscreen of the phone.

At the door of their office Thisbe Olt appeared, wearing a fawnskin gown with alternating stripes of magnifying transparency. 'Mr. Heim is back,' she informed them. 'To see you. He looks -

dejected.'

'We've got no business to conduct with Sal Heim,' George said, with anger.

Tell him to go back to Earth,' Walt added. 'And from now on the satellite is closed to him; he can't visit any of our girls - at any price. Let him die a miserable, lingering death of frustration; it'll serve him right.'

George reminded him acidly, 'Heim won't need us any more, if Briskin is telling the truth.'

'He is,' Walt said. 'He's too simple a horse's ass to lie; Briskin doesn't have the ability.' His call had been put through on the private circuit, now. On the vidscreen appeared the miniature image of one of Verne Engel's gaudily-uniformed personal praetorian flunkies, the green and silver outfit of the CLEAN people. 'Let me talk directly to Verne,' Walt said, making use of their common mouth just as George was about to address a few more remarks to Thisbe. 'Tell him this is Walt, on the satellite.'

'Run along,' George said to Thisbe, when Walt had finished. 'We're busy.'

Thisbe eyed him momentarily and then shut the office door after her.

On the screen Verne Engel's pinched, wabble-like face materialized. 'I see you - at least half of you - are following Briskin's rabble-rousing,' Engel said. 'How did you decide which half was to call me and which half was to listen to the Col ?' Engel's distorted features twisted in a leer of derision.