h time.

Flinching from the unpleasant problem, he stared at the city skyline,
his mind drifting lazily. He thought about Royal Pastel Mink Monday.
Some said it was just another Day dreamed up by furriers to make
people fur-conscious. Others said it commemorated a period of great
public indifference which cost large numbers their freedom to vote.

Of course the other party had their symbology too--like the Teapot
Celebration. No one seemed to know for sure what it meant. Anyway, why
worry how they started? Why did people knock on wood for luck--or
throw salt over their left shoulder?

But then once in awhile there arose some who spelled out a strange
lonely cry, calling themselves the conscience of the people. They
spoke sternly of the thin moral fiber of the country, berating the
people for what they called their amoral evolution brought on by
indifference and negligence until they no longer could hear the still
guiding voice of their conscience. But they were scornfully laughed
down and it seemed to Philon he heard less and less of these men.

In the late afternoon a whip from party headquarters dropped in.
"Hello, Feisel," Philon said with little enthusiasm for the
swarthy-faced man.

Without even the formality of a greeting Feisel smiled down at Philon
in a half-sneer. "Well, Philon, how we doin' with the fifty grand,
eh?"

Philon tossed a sheaf of papers on the desk with a gesture of
impatience. "Now look, I'll raise the fifty G's by the end of the
week."

Feisel lifted a thin black eyebrow and shrugged elaborately. "Just
inquiring, my friend, just inquiring. You know--just showing friendly
interest."

"Well, go peddle your papers to somebody else. You make me nervous."

Feisel sniffed with injured pride. "That's gratitude for you. And just
when I was going to put a little bee in your bonnet. I thought you'd
like to know what happened to another guy just like you. You see, he
got ideas, instead of digging to get his quota. He tried to lam out
and you know where they found him? On the sidewalk below his
twenty-third-floor window."

As Feisel went out, Philon swore softly at his retreating back. But
Feisel's little story sent a chill through him.

That evening when he descended from his copter port and stepped into
his living room he was surprised to hear young voices upstairs.
Deciding to investigate he stepped on the escalator. At John's door he
poked his head in.

"Hello."

A young blond-headed