“I thought they only had a couple of telepaths in the whole sphere!” an obese commercial-type was saying.

“So did I,” a slenderized companion answered, “but I guess those were just the ones they knew about—you know, legal ones.”

“They can really find out your most secret memories?” This from an old harridan who obviously had one hell of a past, but didn’t necessarily want it known.

“But … they could learn all my accounts, all the latest information I’ve gleaned about which stocks are due to rise!” The beefy, florid-faced individual in the conservatively expensive coverall glared in righteous indignation. “That’s a completely immoral competitive advantage!”

“Have to be stopped,” his companion agreed. “Have to be.”

“They could take over!” a sweet young thing shrilled, “and they might clamp down on the vice laws!”

“Telepaths certainly wouldn’t want people running around with their heads full of smut.” Her companion had the look of a questionable publisher. “I mean, what about civil rights?”

“But what about civil rights?” Snow-white hair, face full of authority, oozing confidence—maybe a judge?

“They’d be gone.” His companion was younger, but cut from the same cloth. “Make Pohyola Exec Sec’y, give him full emergency powers—and the first thing he’ll do is suspend the constitution. We’ll have a full-scale dictatorship in a year.”

“Are you two going to natter about technicalities at a time like this?” a slender, intense-type bawled, turning on them. “Do you realize what our chances of getting approval for a price-hike would be if telepaths were running the Department of the Economy?”

They finally broke free of the mob, into a clear space in front of a drop-tube. Whitey hit the button; time stretched out as they waited, chafing, unable to do anything. Then the doors valved open and more citizens streamed out, chattering,

“… threat to everything we believe in …”

“… probably sacrifice babies at those secret meetings they have …”

“… got to vote Pohyola in!”

“Inside, folks,” Whitey growled, and they sprang. The doors valved shut behind them, and Whitey hit the street-level button.

“I’m scared, Grandpa,” Lona said softly.

“Comes of having brains,” Whitey growled. “Me, I’m just terrified.”

Sam’s eyes were huge in a pale, drawn face.

Dar’s voice was very low. “These people are so scared, they’re actually going to be willing to give up all their rights!”

“Willing?” Whitey snorted. “They’re going to rush to it!”

“Whitey … my mission …”

“Still important,” Whitey snapped. “If they lose the election, they’ll still try their coup. In fact, they may not wait for due process.”

The doors valved open. “Walk calmly,” Whitey growled. “Don’t do anything out of the ordinary. Just follow Papa.”

The crowd was much thinner here where people were coming into the terminal or leaving it, but there were still a lot of huddles of frantic citizens. Whitey strolled through them with his crew, retrieved his luggage, and sauntered out the ground-transport door.

A uniform stepped up to them with a man inside it. “Mr. Tambourin?”

Dar’s heart jammed into his throat. Then he realized it didn’t have any brass or badge; it couldn’t be Security.

Whitey turned his head slowly, glowering. “Yes?”

“Mr. Bocello’s compliments, sir. Would you accept his hospitality for the next few days?”

“Horatio always did have a great sense of timing,” Whitey sighed, pressing back into the limousine’s seat. It responded, adjusting itself to his contours.

“What’s in the cupboard?” Dar nodded at a sliding panel set into the wall in front of him.

“Why not ask the driver?” Whitey nodded toward a speaker-grill. “He’s just on the other side of the wall.”

“Why not?” Dar pressed the panel glowing beneath the grill. “Uh, can you tell me what this little cupboard in the forward wall is?”

“A complete bar, sir,” the chauffeur replied. “Please feel free to drain it. I hope we have your brands stocked.”

“Oh, anything expensive is fine, thanks.” Dar slid open the hatch, grinned at the gleaming panel in front of him, checked the codes listed above it, and punched up a Deneb Dimmer. “Next order?”

“Sirian Scrambler,” said Lona.

“Canopus Concentrate,” said Sam.

“Château LaMorgue ‘46,” said Whitey.

Dar squinted at the index. “Sorry, Whitey, all they’ve got is a ‘48.”

“Well, that wasn’t a bad year,” Whitey sighed. “It’ll do.”

Dar pressed in the code and glanced at Father Marco.

“Nothing, thanks.” The priest raised a palm. “I only drink in the early morning.”

Dar shrugged, took his tumbler out of the slot, and settled back with a contented sigh. “I’m beginning to see advantages to decadence.” He beamed down on the city passing beneath them. Then he frowned. “What’s that?”

Below them, a mob filled several streets, waving signs and throwing bricks.

“What?” Whitey leaned over to the window, looking down. “Hey, not bad! Let’s see if we can hear them.” He turned a knob and punched a button beneath the speaker grille. It filtered faint words to them:

“Espers are Ethical!”

“Don’t Sell the Psis!”

“Terra for Telepaths!”

Whitey nodded with satisfaction. “A political demonstration. Nice to hear the voice of dissent.”

“The bricks are bouncing back at them,” Dar called. “Bouncing off of thin air, in fact. What is it, a force-field?”

“Give the man a point!” Lona said brightly. “You’ve got it, sophisticate—it’s a force-field. Makes sure the demonstrators don’t hurt anybody.”

“There’re a few Security men outside the force-field …”

“Well, you wouldn’t expect them to be inside, would you?”

“But why do they need them, with the force-field?”

“Who do you think set it up?”

“Also, they’re the official sign that the government is hearing the citizens’ grievances,” said Sam, with full sarcasm.

“The government approves?”

“The government embraces it, almost to the point of lewdness. They’ve even written it into law—for every hundred thousand persons demonstrating for eight hours, they get one vote on the issue in the Assembly.”

Dar turned to her, frowning. “Sounds a little dangerous. A fad could get voted into law that way.”

“Not when you remember that the Assembly represents ninety-three human-inhabited planets with a total population of eighty billion. You have to have forty-eight votes just to get the issue onto the agenda! Not that it hasn’t happened, mind you—but rarely, very rarely.”

“Two of the programs based on such issues have been enacted into law,” Father Marco reminded her.

“Two laws in five centuries? Not exactly a great track record, Father!”

“Well, no. It does require that the majority approve the issue.”

“Yeah.” Sam slid over next to Dar and stared out the window gloomily. “But some chance is better than none, I suppose. At least it gives the counterculture the illusion that they can accomplish something.”

They passed over three more demonstrations on the way to Bocello’s; each was huge, making the pro-telepath mob look like a handful—and all screaming for the telepaths’ blood.

“What’re we getting upset about?” Dar wondered. “We’re not telepaths!”

“Try and prove that to Pohyola,” Sam growled.

What with one thing and another, their nerves were in a fine state of disarray by the time the limo landed.

They stepped out into the midst of a tournament.

The knights had apparently unhorsed each other; the beasts in question were standing back, watching their masters with jaundiced eyes. The knights were hewing at each other with broadswords that went CLICK! CLUNK! whenever they met. The Green Knight wore full plate armor; his opponent wore a haubergeon. Behind and above them stood a scoreboard with two outline-drawings of a human form; whenever one of the knights managed to “wound” his opponent, the “wound” would show up on the scoreboard as a red light, and a chime would ring the knight’s number of points.