“I’m glad you called,” she said. “I need your help with the wording of this posting for CASSANDRA. See what you think: ‘Senator Sells Soul to Lowest Bidder…’ Do you like it?”

“Cass-”

“Originally I had ‘Highest Bidder,’ but I changed it to ‘Lowest.’ I’m not sure what it means, but I like it. It says ‘sleazy.’ That’s just the headline. Do you want to hear the whole post?”

Randy said, “Cass, will you please calm down?”

“Too late. I’ve drunk three Red Bulls.”

“Well, take a pill. You’re coming unhinged. You’re completely misinterpreting this. I’m telling you, it’s a coup what I’ve pulled off.”

“What did they promise you?”

Randy had been in Washington long enough to lie smoothly, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it to her. Anyway, she wouldn’t believe him. Once you’ve slept with a woman, it’s harder to lie to her, despite the necessity. “That Transitioning would get a good full hearing, with all sides represented, in the plain light of day. You have to understand, Cass, this is the way to go.”

“I can’t even discuss it. And please, spare me a lecture on ‘How Our Democracy Works.’ It’s a good thing it was your ancestor and not you who worked on the Declaration of Independence. You’d have put in a clause reimbursing King George for the tea they dumped in Boston Harbor.”

“What do you want me to do? Get down on my one good knee and beg forgiveness?”

“A new record. Less than a minute into the conversation and you’ve played the amputee card. I’m beginning to wonder if it’s your leg you left over there or two other parts.”

“That’s not very nice.”

“Sorry. No, actually I’m not sorry.”

“All right. Start over. I’m sorry I didn’t consult with you first.”

“You should have.”

“I know. You’re right. I’m pathetic.”

“More.”

“How can I ever forgive myself? I should have told the president, ‘I have to check with my girlfriend first.’”

“Girlfriend? You mean the one you got the whole idea from in the first place?”

“Intellectual partner. Soul mate. Anam cara.”

“What?”

“It’s Celtic. A good thing. Trust me.”

“Trust is the issue here, Randy.”

“I’m sorry. Okay? I am truly, sincerely sorry.”

“Try practicing in front of a mirror. Call me in the morning.”

“I will. But no blogging, okay? Promise?…Cass?…Ca-ass?”

Cass and Terry were working on a PowerPoint presentation for a client who was looking to get a fat government subsidy for distilling automobile fuel out of used fast-food restaurant fry grease when the senator from the great state of Massachusetts walked in, looking somewhat less great than his state. He was limping, Cass noticed, and for once it had the look of sincerity. He slumped wordlessly into a chair.

“Did you really,” he said to Cass, rubbing his forehead, “have to say that about me on your website?”

Terry looked at Cass.

She explained, “I quoted Groucho Marx: ‘I’ve got principles. And if you don’t like those, I’ve got others.’”

“Sounds about right,” Terry snorted.

“Before you two swoop down and begin feasting on my carcass,” Randy said, “I’ve got something to say.”

“If it’s your Ich bin ein asshole speech,” Terry said, “I’m all ears.”

“Finished?” Randy said. “I called Bucky Trumble this morning, and I gave him what-for.”

Terry said to Cass, “‘What-for’? Is that WASP-talk?”

“I said to him, ‘How could you put Gideon Payne on the commission when just the other day he suggested that Cass and I were…screwing in a minefield?’ He said they had to put him on. I told him in no uncertain terms that I was not pleased.”

Cass said, “I bet that had him quaking in his loafers.”

“I’m trying,” Randy said, “to make amends.”

“Why don’t you tell us what deal you struck with them in return for this abortion.”

Randy glanced at Terry, then at Cass with a look of Not in front of the children.

“Is he suggesting,” Terry said to Cass, “that I leave-my own office?”

Cass said, “Randy. What do I have to do-toss a stick of dynamite down your throat? Just tell us.”

“This stays in this room. They’re thinking of dumping Laney. And when they do, they’ll make me VP.”

Cass and Terry stared.

“They were very impressed with the way I’ve handled the Transitioning bill.”

Still no reaction from Cass and Terry.

“He said I remind him of JFK.”

Cass and Terry reacted. They burst out laughing.

“You, uh,” Cass said, trying to compose herself, “got this in writing?”

“Of course not. It’s a deep, deep secret. Which I’m counting on you two to keep. So don’t, please, blow it for me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Well, at least I got it right that you sold out to the lowest bidder.”

“Lowest bidder? They’re offering me the vice presidency! You make it sound like I won ten dollars in some county fair for growing the second biggest cucumber.”

“More like for laying the biggest egg. There wasn’t much point left to Transitioning after your Boomer pork giveaway spree. And now you’ve thrown the rest of it down the drain for a slot on some idiot commission.”

Randy glowered.

“And you can cool it with the ‘kinda spooky’ look. You look like a poodle pretending to be a Rottweiler.”

For a few seconds, Randy looked as though he might take off his leg and start smashing furniture. Then the air went out of him. His muscles untensed. Suddenly he looked like a schoolboy who’d run out of excuses. Cass was almost moved to comfort him.

“I guess I have made a bit of a pig’s breakfast of it,” Randy said, chewing on a fingernail.

“There,” Cass said. “See? Telling the truth is like riding a bicycle. No matter how out of practice you are, it’ll come back to you.”

“I don’t suppose you two would help me clean up the breakfast?”

Cass and Terry looked at each other.

Randy added, “On a professional basis, of course.”

“Oh,” Terry snorted, “definitely.”

Randy said, “I can’t do this without you.”

“What about that crack ninja Senate staff of yours?”

“I don’t like them. I don’t trust them. They scare me.”

Cass said, “I work for Terry. It’s up to him.”

“In that case,” Randy said, “I’m done for.”

Terry said, “Are you capable of following instructions?”

“Within reason,” Randy said, reverting to aristocratic mode.

It was Cass, not Terry, who issued Randy his first instruction: to call Bucky Trumble and tell him that if Gideon Payne was going to be on the presidential commission, then so was Cassandra Devine. When she got Bucky on the phone, he resisted, but Randy, with Cass hovering over him, informed the president’s chief counselor that he didn’t really have a choice in the matter.

The ring tone of Gideon Payne’s cell phone was programmed to the sound of church bells tolling “Hallelujah.” All day long it had sounded like Easter Sunday.

A number of his callers were incredulous that he had accepted a job on a commission appointed to study the feasibility of legalizing mass suicide. Many of these were big SPERM donors. Gideon patiently explained that he was now in a position to influence-or as he put it, “determine”-the outcome. He did not reveal the precise terms of his deal with the president. But he hinted heavily that before long they would be hearing a message of support from the White House about SPERM’s long cherished memorial on the Mall to the 43 million unborn. To this reassurance, he added, with a coy little chortle, that with him on the commission, Transitioning now stood as much chance of becoming national policy as a snowball in the infernal region.

Gideon did not have much chance to wallow in his new position. The next day, a sheepish-sounding Bucky Trumble called him to say that, uh, well, it seems that Cassandra Devine is also going to be on the commission.

“This is monstrous!” Gideon exploded. “She’s the architect of this fiendish scheme! It’s like putting Adolf Hitler on the board of B’nai B’rith!”