g other things. The sabotage has really fouled
up the west coast trains, and shipments haven't been coming through on
schedule. You know--they ask for one thing, and get the wrong weight, or
their supplier is out of material, or something goes wrong. And there's
personnel trouble, too--too much direction and too little work. It's
beginning to look as if they'll never get going. And now it looks like
there's going to be another administration shakeup, and you know what
that means--"

Hart nodded thoughtfully. "They'd better get hopping," he muttered. "The
conference in Berlin is on the skids--it could be hours now." He looked
up. "But you got the story rigged all right?"

Shandor's face flattened in distaste. "Sure, sure. You know me, Hart.
Anything to keep the people happy. Everything's running as smooth as
satin, work going fine, expect a test run in a month, and we should be
on the moon in half a year, more or less, maybe, we hope--the usual
swill. I'll be in to work out the war stories in the morning. Right now
I'm for bed."

He snapped off the video before Hart could interrupt, and started for
the door. The rain hit him, as he stepped out, with a wave of cold wet
depression, but a cab slid up to the curb before him and he stepped in.
Sinking back he tried to relax, to get his stomach to stop complaining,
but he couldn't fight the feeling of almost physical illness sweeping
over him. He closed his eyes and sank back, trying to drive the
ever-plaguing thoughts from his mind, trying to focus on something
pleasant, almost hoping that his long-starved conscience might give a
final gasp or two and die altogether. But deep in his mind he knew that
his screaming conscience was almost the only thing that held him
together.

Lies, he thought to himself bitterly. White lies, black lies,
whoppers--you could take your choice. There should be a flaming neon
sign flashing across the sky, telling all people: "Public Information
Board, Fabrication Corporation, fabricating of all lies neatly and
expeditiously done." He squirmed, feeling the rebellion grow in his
mind. Propaganda, they called it. A nice word, such a very handy word,
covering a multitude of seething pots. PIB was the grand clearing house,
the last censor of censors, and he, Tom Shandor, was the Chief
Fabricator and Purveyor of Lies.

He shook his head, trying to get a breath of clean air in the damp cab.
Sometimes he wondered where it was leading, where it would