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  “Maybe a negotiator,” I suggested. “Someone that both parties would listen to, who could work for a compromise. If you contact the Arbiters Guild—”

  “Those deals are fixed,” Mr. Culver said flatly. “We’ve been screwed before.”

  Oh? That would be something for the Tyrancy to look into. “Well, some public figure, perhaps, who—”

  “Like the president of Jup Bub!” he finished, though that had not been my notion. “You’ll do it, won’t you, sir? You understand the needs of the working man, and you rank high enough, so maybe the Tyrant would listen to you!”

  “I, uh—” I said, for the moment overwhelmed by this development.

  The woman took my hand. “You will, won’t you, Mr. Garcia?” she beseeched.

  What choice was there? I did, in a guise they didn’t know of, have a certain responsibility in this matter, and I probably could do something, both because of my talent with people and because my sister Spirit would surely recognize me. “It is difficult to deny a beautiful woman,” I said.

  She flung her arms around me and kissed me. I suppose no matter how many women a man knows, that particular type of thrill never abates.

  Thus I found myself approaching the mayor’s office, where he was being held hostage. The mob leaders were glad to see me, now that they were aware of my identity and mission. I sensed immediately that they had gotten themselves into more than they cared for but were riding the tiger and couldn’t get off.

  “Give me an open public line to the Tyrant,” I said. “I will try to achieve a compromise settlement.”

  The mob leaders acquiesced. Jose Garcia was indeed a man they respected, as the Tyrant was not. Of course, they had little to lose; if I could not strike a fair bargain, I could become their hostage too.

  The mayor’s screen illuminated, and in a moment the White Bubble was on the line. The mayor’s secretary had been released for this duty; the mayor remained bound and looked somewhat the worse for wear.

  “I am Jose Garcia, of Jupiter Bubble,” I said. “May I speak to the Tyrant, please?”

  The secretary at the other end kept a straight face. Of course the average citizen could not call in and be put right through to the Tyrant! “One moment, sir; I will put his secretary on.”

  Shelia appeared. She, too, kept a straight face, but I knew she recognized me. “I am Jose Garcia,” I repeated. “I have been selected to negotiate for the City of Cago, and if I could perhaps talk to the Tyrant—”

  “The Tyrant is not available at the moment,” Shelia said smoothly. “But if you will describe your business further, Mr. Garcia, I will try to determine whether a direct interview is warranted.”

  Of course, the Tyrant was unavailable! But I had a role to play. “Señora, this is important. Twenty people have died, the mayor is held hostage, and the city is under siege by order of the Tyrant. I must talk to him directly!”

  “Hey, don’t push your luck,” one of the mob leaders whispered to me. “You aggravate the Tyrant, he’ll send a ship to blast us all out of the atmosphere!’

  What kind of a reputation did I have? But Shelia was responding: “We are aware of the situation in Cago, Mr. Garcia. We did not know that you were there, but if you are in a position to negotiate, I can relay your statement to the Tyrant.”

  I became visibly excited. “People are dying here!” I repeated. “The mayor and his staff are hostage, and they will be killed if something is not done. If the Tyrant cares at all for the common man, as I do ...”

  Shelia didn’t respond immediately, taking stock. “Let me check,” she said. She spoke inaudibly into her intercom. Then: “The Tyrant is tied up in a meeting he cannot leave at the moment, but he is cognizant of the situation in Cago and will negotiate privately through me, if it can be kept brief. Will your party accede to that, Mr. Garcia?”

  I turned to the mob leaders. “This is the Tyrant’s personal secretary,” I said. “I believe she knows almost everything the Tyrant knows, and she has his ear at the moment. I think we can trust what she says. Is it satisfactory to deal through her?”

  The mob leaders exchanged glances. “We care only about results,” one said, and the others agreed. “If she can deliver—”

  “The trouble started because of the Pop-Null program,” I said to Shelia. “The women here want their babies.”

  “If they get their babies,” she replied, “then every other woman on the planet will want hers, and all the ills of overpopulation will return. The Tyrant will not relent on that.”

  Indeed he would not! But there were avenues for compromise. “We know that babies will have to return, or the species will end,” I said. “Can the schedule for return be established, so that at least our women know with what they are dealing? As I recall, the women supported the Tyrant when he sought power, and some reciprocal gesture now—”

  Shelia consulted with her other party, whom I suspected was Spirit. The schedule for the return of babies had already been set but not publicized, pending the appropriate time to announce it. This seemed to be that time.

  “The Tyrant agrees that in one year, pending good behavior, permits matching the death rate will be issued in Cago. In two years that will be extended to the nation as a whole.”

  I heard an intake of breath. Suddenly there was news of the schedule of the restoration of births! Surely the women of Cago would eagerly accept that. We had planned to start it in certain major cities, then expand a year later. But I pushed for more. “There have been deaths here, because of the overreaction of the mayor’s police and the murders at the valve. Those police must be put on trial and restoration made.” I saw the mob members tense; I had already gotten them much of what they wanted, and they were concerned that I was pushing too far.

  “The Tyrant will grant permits for births to match the number of deaths resulting from this crisis,” Shelia replied. “An investigation will be made into the incident and appropriate action taken. That is as far as the Tyrant will go.”

  I knew the mob leaders would accept this. “But how can we be sure the Tyrant will keep his word?” I demanded.

  “We accept!” a mob leader cried, shouldering me aside.

  “But no action to be taken against the people in this room!” I exclaimed. “Amnesty—”

  Shelia smiled. “Amnesty,” she agreed. “But I think if you open your mouth, again, Mr. Garcia, the Tyrant may reconsider.”

  “Agreed!” another mob leader cried, hauling me back. They had had to act to prevent me from throwing away all that I had gained, for the Tyrant was known to be mercurial when challenged. But they were vastly relieved and pleased.

  That ended the occupation of the mayor’s office. The mob dispersed peacefully, and the valve was closed. The mayor was suspended from office, pending the completion of the investigation; no action was taken against the known mob members, and twenty birth permits were issued to the women of the city. Those at the head of the “eligible” roster would profit. And Jose Garcia was a hero.

  • • •

  Yet soon after my success as a popular figure came a personal tragedy. It started, for me, with an article by Thorley. In it he set forth the suggestion that a member of the Tyrant’s cabinet had been corrupted by a person of the opposite sex and that funds for that department were being abused. “Does the Tyrant know?” he asked rhetorically. “If so, why doesn’t he act?”

  Now, this was fighting language. Shelia showed me the column and awaited my reaction. I read it with anger. All my cabinet members were good people, dedicated to their jobs; I knew I had not misjudged any. Yet Thorley was not a man to manufacture charges from air. “We’ll deal with this openly,” I snapped. “Issue a news release: my challenge to Thorley to name the cabinet member.”

  “Are you sure that’s wise, sir?” she asked. “If the name becomes public, you could be placed in an awkward position.”

  I should have paid closer attention to the warning, but I was in the office only briefly, about to retu
rn to my role as Garcia. “I don’t believe there is anyone,” I said. “But if there is, I’ll deal with it openly. The Tyrancy may not be popular right now, but we cannot afford to have any suggestion of scandal touch it.”

  “As you wish, sir,” she agreed.

  In due course the challenge was published, and, thereafter Thorley named the member. It was my sister Faith.

  Now I wished I had listened to Shelia! It had not occurred to me that the suspect would be a family member. Certainly I would have preferred to handle this quietly. But I was stuck with an open situation.

  I talked to Spirit, as I also should have done before. “What’s going on here?”

  “It seems to be true,” she said. “A handsome and poised man has been courting her for influence. She meant well, but he was recommending corrupt cronies, and she has authorized their appointments. I don’t believe she suspected, but she should have. She’s blinded by love.”

  Faith—once the most beautiful of young Hispanic women, then the plaything of pirates, finally a respected member of my cabinet. She had enormous support among the masses, for she had truly labored for the welfare of the poor and had accomplished many excellent reforms. But this was scandal, and now I had to act.

  I summoned my sister. When she appeared at the White Bubble, I was struck by her elegance. In her mid-fifties, she was a handsome woman, and her dedication to her position enhanced the aura of class. It was hard to believe that she had gotten involved in this sordid thing.

  “Is the charge true?” I asked, and knew that it was; her reaction betrayed her.

  She spread her hands. “I love him, Hope.”

  “He has interfered with the Tyrancy,” I said. “An example must be set.”

  She gazed at me and turned away. That hurt me; I wish she had protested in some more obvious way.

  We arrested the man and put him on public trial within days. We suspended Faith from her office. I hated this, but it had to be done.

  There was no question of the man s guilt. The facts came out quite clearly. All of the suspect appointments were nulled, and the man was sent to labor in space.

  And Faith was found in her Ami apartment, dead. She had taken a euthanasia pill.

  Now the storm broke in earnest. For the condemnation of the man there was applause, but for the fate of Faith there was horror.

  Demonstrators marched, and not only in Ami. WHY DID FAITH HUBRIS DIE? the banners demanded.

  The answer I remember best is the one made by Jose Garcia. In that guise I was known as an ardent supporter of the common man, so I was one of the ones the media sought for comment. “I believe she died because the Tyrant lost track of basic human nature,” I said, expressing the recriminations of the Tyrant far more accurately than they knew. “He has become insensitive to the feelings of others, including his closest family members. He failed to realize how seriously his sister would take the scandal and the destruction of the man she loved. He should have handled this matter privately, allowing her to retire and to join her lover in exile if she chose. Perhaps this is a reflection of his isolation from the passions and needs of the common folk. I’m sure he is extremely sorry now.”

  “Now that the damage has been done?” a reporter asked, and I nodded affirmatively.

  “Do you believe that the Tyrant is losing control and perhaps should be deposed?” another pressed.

  Now, that was a leading question, well worth avoiding. But in my mood of grief and regret I stepped into it. “Sometimes I think so,” I agreed.

  It was not long after that that the Resistance contacted Jose Garcia. “Do you believe that the Tyrancy should be ended?” an anonymous visitor asked.

  I controlled my reaction. The Resistance had been bedeviling the Tyrancy increasingly. This was a nonviolent movement that spread ideas rather than physical mischief; it seemed to have no organization, which made it almost impossible to uproot. It supported the return of Jupiter to democracy without reversing all the reforms made by the Tyrancy. The problem with that notion was that every out-of-power movement espouses lofty ideals, but few retain those ideals when they achieve power. I was sure that it would not be safe to give over the reins until the reforms were complete. But it didn’t necessarily appear that way to the common man. Thus the Resistance was dangerous, and we needed to be rid of it, but had no handle on it.

  I realized that Jose Garcia might represent that handle. If he joined the Resistance and worked his way into the confidence of its leaders, this could be the key to an important success.

  But it disturbed me deeply to think that it had taken the death of my sister to open this particular avenue. Certainly, if I could have traveled back in time and replayed that matter, I would have acted to protect Faith. I had indeed neglected her; I had hardly paid attention to her in the past two years. Now, too late, I thought about her constantly.

  I think, in retrospect, that this was the true beginning of my madness. Something had snapped in me, and it could never quite be mended. Perhaps Faith’s demise only foreshadowed my own. But this was not apparent at the time, and indeed my grief gradually diminished in intensity and faded into the background, so that I was not aware of the change that was occurring in me.

  So I answered that I did have some question about the Tyrancy but did support many of its reforms, so was not ready to commit myself to any rash course. After all, I reminded my querent, I owed much to the Tyrancy; it had put me in charge of a major company and allowed me to reorganize it to my satisfaction.

  That, it seemed, was the correct answer. The Resistance was not looking for rabid partisans but for thoughtful, concerned citizens who had sensible doubts about the Tyrancy. I certainly fitted that description at the moment.

  Thus I became a revolutionary. But this was only the beginning and really did not intrude on my life. Later that was to change, but only gradually, so that most of my life was unchanged.

  • • •

  My promise to balance the budget had seemed a mockery in the early years, as the deficits became greater than ever before. But as the company improved, became competitive, and then was the leader in Bubble technology, and other companies emulated our methods in order to become competitive with us, what had been a financial liability became a financial asset. Jupiter industry began contributing massively to the health of Jupiter society. Similarly the reduction in medical expenses helped, and the population control program, spreading to RedSpot and other Latin Jupiter nations so that their population pressure was easing in the same fashion ours was. Already the reduction in illegal immigration was measurable, and the related expenses were dropping proportionately. The Tyrancy might be condemned for the cutoff of procreation, but the job was being accomplished. And you know, as the economic situation improved, so did the attitude of the citizens. When the Tyrancy was two years old, I was being lasered in effigy in every major city; by the time it was five years old, I was being accepted as a necessary evil, and when it was eight years old, I was being hailed as an economic genius. Of course, by that time the antidote to the sterilizing agent in the food was being made available to just about anyone who asked for it, and babies were being born again, to families whose situations were secure. The hardships of the immediate past seemed to be forgotten. Contrary to popular belief, popular memory is short, and the conditions of the present color the public impression of both past and future.

  I won’t say that everything was wonderful, just that we had at last balanced the budget and were now retiring the planetary debt at a significant rate. Jupiter had again become the economic and social leader of the System. Buoyed by this, the people tended to overlook the remaining problems, such as the persistent illicit drug trade and the inability to fit every citizen in the job he most wanted. But we were working on these too.

  Let me just give one example, the one that pleases me most, perhaps because it can be indirectly traced to my own management policy at Jupiter Bubble. I had set up task forces to explore new notions and develop them i
f that proved feasible. Some of these cost the company a good deal of money, because not every bright new notion makes sense, but that is only evident after it has been tried. Some merely wasted time. But some few did pan out, and these made up for all the rest.

  One of our executives, Caspar Yonner, had transferred in from the Jupiter Fungus Company—known colloquially as Jupfun— and he had fungus on the brain. He had had a notion to develop a strain of fungus that would grow outside a bubble, directly in the atmosphere. Naturally that nonsense had not been tolerated there, but naturally we had considered it more carefully. It did sound scatterbrained, but the potential reward was so great that we decided to take the risk.

  You see, much of our food is bacterial in nature. It is relatively inefficient to grow grains and vegetables, and colossally inefficient to grow animals for slaughter. But the right kind of fungoid cultures, yeasts, or bacteria can generate an enormous amount of protein in a very short time, to just about any specification. From the vats emerged imitation animal flesh of many flavors, nutritious and inexpensive, and this was shaped into steaks or bacon or chicken legs to supplement the plant-derived food. Thus the fungus industry was one of the vital ones, which was why the Tyrancy had nationalized one of the inefficient fungus companies. It had floundered under our tutelage in the usual fashion, losing its best personnel. We had hired Yonner because his credits were good.

  Culturing bacteria was a tricky business, because the cultures propagated extremely rapidly and mutated often. The solar radiation seemed to be mostly responsible. If a single cell were mutated, remained viable, and bred true to its modification, in a single day we could have a thousand tons of pseudo-vanilla pudding that looked and smelled like rotten eggs, and tasted worse. In such event, about the only thing to be done was to flush out the bubble to kill off the mutated strain, repressure, flood it with saprophytic agents to digest the refuse, and start over. Yonner had been this route several times and had noticed that sometimes the mutated culture returned in the same form in the replacement batch. Either a similar mutation had occurred, which was highly unlikely, or somehow one or more spores had survived the depressurization.