eather forced upon us by regulation of
the Bureau of Seasonal Gratuities and visit the parish Potlatch Pyre,
our modern vomitorium, to spew up last year's dainties to make
belly-room for a new lot," MacHenery said.

"Daddy!" Peggy MacHenery protested from the living-room doorway. "What
sort of table-talk is that?"

"Truth is the sweetest sauce, Peggy," MacHenery said, getting up from
his chair. "What delights have you cooked up for us, child?"

"Your favorite dish, Daddy," Peggy said, grinning at him. "Peacock
brains on toast."

* * * * *

The next two weeks were too busy for Captain Winfree to partner Kevin
MacHenery on the fencing-mat. He was double-busy, in fact; planning the
biggest Potlatch Day in twenty years at the same time he started the
wheels of his project to make birthdays Gratuity Days for every consumer
in his District.

The girls, assisted by two of the male sergeants, had decorated the
District Headquarters till it glittered like a child's dream of the
North Pole. Against one wall they'd placed the Xmas tree, its branches
bearing dozens of dancing elves, Japanese swordsmen, marching squads of
BSG-recruits, prancing circus-ponies; all watch-work figures busy with
movement, flashing with microscopic lights, humming little melodies that
matched their motions. A giant replica of the Bureau's cap-emblem--the
Federal eagle clutching between his talons a banderole bearing the
motto, _'Tis More Blessed to Give Than Receive_--had been mounted on the
center wall, the place of honor. Beneath the eagle stood a bandstand
draped in bunting, ready to accommodate the Bureau of Seasonal
Gratuities Brass-Band-and-Glee-Club, the members of which were to fly in
from Washington to grace the bridal day with epithalamiums and martial
song.

The big work, the eight-hours-a-day and after-supper-overtime work, was
the preparation for Potlatch Day, the festival that meant to the BSG
what April Fifteenth means to the Internal Revenue Service. Cases of
fireworks piled up in the brick warehouse next door to Headquarters.
Sawdust-packed thermite grenades were stacked right up to the perforated
pipes of the sprinkler system. _No Smoking_ sign blossomed a hundred
yards on every side. The blacklists, naming consumers who'd withheld
dated gifts from the Potlatch Pyres of earlier years, were brought up to
date and distributed to the Reserve BSG Officers in each township of
Winfree's District. These