windows. Visual motion was, however,
provided by a giant clock. The only concessions to Ev were a special
little hutch for the super-mongoose; and a bar, carefully regulated to
make certain he never completely blotted out the hypothetical brainwave
"network."

Cam did his best to pump Ev for the identity of his "Associates", but
the old sack of iniquity was wise to his game. He'd rear back and squint
at Cam like a Lebanese fruit vendor and thoughtfully pick his nose.
"Like to know me confederates, is it?" he'd ask. Then, with a great show
of candor: "Well, one of them is a sea creature, but I'll say no more
than that. I know you'd never be able to live with the thought of being
in business with a squid."

Then Ev would laugh wildly. "Ah, wouldn't he like to know!"

"It's only for your own protection," Cam expostulated. "I know there are
more people in this lash-up. We've got to make certain that they're safe
from accident--can't have the _Gestalt_ disrupted."

"Bosh," was Ev's invariable verdict.

Meanwhile, Cam's little elves paraded through with all the paraphernalia
of the Big Push. Livid posters, featuring a Messianic Sowles. Full-page
ads, exhorting everyone with an ounce of American decency in his body,
to attend the Rally Under The Stars. Subliminal commands were sneaked
into the visiphone and 3-D circuits. Couples in Drive-Ins found
themselves determined to be among those who stood up to be counted at
the Bowl. Christian Soldiers across the continent chartered all manner
of craft, from Ocelots to electromag liners, to bear them to the great
event. Goodies by the thousand were stamped out to hawk to the faithful:
Badges, banners, bumper stickers, wallet cards, purse-sized pix of
Sowles, star-and-cross medallions and lapel pins.... The potential
proceeds of the Rally alone began to assume war-chest proportions.

And above all they worked on the Speech. This had to be the greatest
sockdolager since Goebbels explained Stalingrad. Cam's feverish brain
had figured out a host of effects to catalyze the audience reaction. But
in the last analysis, triumph or disaster would hinge on the oral effort
of the Grim Reaper, as some of the minions at MAB had come to term
Sowles.

So, Huckster Heaven became a memory, like a place in a previous
existence. Other clients were neglected; and it was even left to Curt
Andrews to follow up Occidental Tobacco.

Books were carted in, thumbed through for inspiration, and cast bac