Heineman ordered the gold plate to be removed to the strongroom of the Presidential Palace, to be held as potential evidence against La Lantis in any courtcase concerning the Blast.
         Then he tried to get back to sleep.
         Naturally enough, Heineman scarcely felt restful, and kept waking up, checking his room for intruders. He slept, at best, in fits and starts, and felt irritated and out of sorts when he rose in the morning.
         Heineman ate his breakfast broccoli in his office, as usual. He had a perfectly good presidential dining room, but he much preferred the office. It had become his habit to retreat into it, like an embattled animal taking refuge in its den. To tell the truth, he found the dining room much too big, too empty.
         Every morning, Heineman was nostalgic for the big communal kitchen of the House Jubiladilia. He missed Baz. He even missed little boy Loki and the toy shark Igi-Igi. But, of course, Atlanta had sent Loki north to Cherwin Skam, and even Igi-Igi was probably gone, accompanying the boy north into exile.
         It was a clear, bright sunny day, with not a trace of purple in the sky. It was the sort of day on which Heineman liked to begin his morning by walking on Eastbeach. But Eastbeach was a goodly rickshaw ride distant from the Salsa Soko Pelchis, the Presidential Mansion, and Heineman was pressed for time, because he had to prepare for his interview with Ema-Ema-Enji Holographic Geohistorical Research Team, a foreign media crew sponsored by Endomame Tech-Mech Enterprises of Pro-Pro-Kana-Kana-Bak.
         If there was one thing Heineman hated about his job, it was dealing with the foreign media. Quite apart from any personal feelings Heineman might have about holographic recordings, the media teams were hard to handle. They played rough.
        (They played a lot rougher at home, and Heineman knew it. But that did not make him feel better about confronting foreign media people, even though the media crews which came to Chalakanesian soil tended to be restrained.
         After breakfast, Heineman's first task was to submit to the attentions of Milmelca, his personal makeup artist, who had once been his slave.
        "How is your throat?" said Milmelca, as she set about her work.
        "Fine, thank you," said Heineman.
         He had bought this woman with carnal intent — he admitted that to himself, for all that he denied it to the world — but had always been too scared of his wife's anger to move from intent to action. These days, he regretted his cowardice. But regret was useless. It was too late. Under pressure from Heaven and Hell, Chalakanesia had abolished the institution of slavery, putting Milmelca forever off limits.
         Unless Heineman seduced her.
         But no no no no no no, he did not have the courage for that, Charlotte might find out, she would kill him. Or not kill him, which might be worse. He was deeply afraid of that wife of his, afraid of her lumbering gait and her mauling Bloxum hands, and that fear was one of the inescapable facts of his existence. But then, Heineman was afraid of many things.
        "You look very distinguished today," said Milmelca. "But I do think you should dye your hair. Grey."
         Heineman's hair, like the hair of a great many people born to the sealines, was pure white, and had been since birth. He knew it looked freakish to foreigners, particularly when combined with a face which looked (and was) scarcely thirty years of age.
         Milmelca did her work, and was succeeded by Atlanta.
        "Hello, Heineman," said Atlanta, dumping down an armful of bright blue plastic folders, yellow highlighters and fiber-tipped writing pens. "I hear we got rich enough."
        "Not rich enough to buy a computer," said Heineman.
         Atlanta just loved the most expensive imported stationary. And, as if that wasn't bad enough, she was always on at Heineman to import a computer and a laser printer for top quality presentation graphics. It would, of course, have taken a king's ransom in gold to shield the electronic gear and its power source from Chalakanesia's metapsychic faultline, but that didn't stop Atlanta from asking.
        "I went to the strongroom to look," said Atlanta. "It's real gold, isn't it?"
        "I haven't had an assay done," said Heineman, "but I would presume so. Now, how has your work gone?"
         Atlanta's job was evolving strategies for Heineman to use in his speeches, interviews and debates.
        "My work's gone well," said Atlanta. "Yes, I've got a whole heap of ideas here. Where's that file? Here it is. So much paper! Brod said there was all kinds of paper flying around inside your room."
        "There was some kind of wind," said Heineman stiffly.
        "Bullock said he heard someone scream. Was that you? He said it didn't sound like you."
        "There was nobody," said Heineman. "Look, can we just drop it?"
        "What's the problem?" said Atlanta. "Is it your voice? How is your voice today?"
        "Standing up to the strain," said Heineman. "But let's just concentrate on work, okay? No idle chit-chat. There was a bit of wind, okay? I woke up in a hurry, okay? Maybe I cried out. You know, when you wake up in the night, sometimes you shout."
        "If you say so," said Atlanta.
        "So let's drop it," said Heineman. "It was a minor shunting incident, that's all."
        "Okay, okay," said Atlanta. "Consider it dropped. Right, then. Let's get down to work."
         Atlanta then launched herself into a disquisition on strategy, quickly building up enthusiasm for her own words. After lengthy preliminaries, she started getting to the meat of the matter.
        "We've nothing of objective value to offer either Heaven or Hell," said Atlanta, "so you must stress the notion of moral responsibility. They wrecked Chalakanesia, so they should repair it. Moral responsibility."
        "Moral responsibility," said Heineman.
         Atlanta continued, pausing whenever she wanted a confirming echo from Heineman. He felt like a large, ungainly parrot, and resented being made to feel that way. Still. His sister was good at what she did: so good as to be more or less indispensable. Her services also came very cheaply. True, he sometimes had to do her small favors, like getting certain people out of jail, and pardoning the minor misdemeanors of others — he never asked why those people in particular, but presumed she got money out of it.
         So let her profit. At least she didn't ask him to directly loot the treasury on her behalf, except when she got the odd outrageous notion like that of importing a computer. Besides, reliable political advisers were hard to come by in Chalakanesia. Atlanta might not be entirely straight in her dealings, but, as his sister, she was as trustworthy as anyone else he could expect to come by.
        "Okay," said Atlanta, "I'm afraid that's all I've got to offer you."
        "Is Nodo ready?" said Heineman.
         Nodo was his media analyst.
        "I would hope so," said Atlanta. "But I'm not his hand-holder. Oh, when you see him, ask him about his wife."
         Heineman thought that was a good idea. It would preempt any stupid questions about screams in the night, and whirling winds, and voices shouting.
         Primed by Atlanta's advice, Heineman, who had managed to forget about Nodo's recent marriage, kicked off his briefing session with Nodo by saying:
        "And, how do you find married life?"
         Nodo, who knew his boss well, deduced that this was not a spontaneous question. He knew Heineman had earlier been closeted with Atlanta, and now made the logical deductions.
        "It's okay," said Nodo, who was embarrassed by the question, and thought life would be easier for all of them if Atlanta realized she couldn't run everything. "How's your sister?"
        "My sister?" said Heineman in surprise. "The same. As ever."
        "She's got too much time on her hands," said Nodo. "Maybe you should make her a judge."
         Nodo was contemptuous of Atlanta's "political analysis," and thought her habit of dealing in vaporous generalizations only served to confuse Heineman. Nodo thought they could quite happily do without her.
        "A judge!" said Heineman. "I can't do that! She's far too young. She's only thirty-three."
        "And you're only thirty-one," said Nodo.
         He was not usually so bold, but a lot was at stake. Nodo was not exactly power-hungry, but he was certainly tired of having to fight with Atlanta for his share of Heineman's attention.
        "It would look too much like nepotism," said Heineman.
        "It would be nepotism," said Nodo. "Shameless, unabashed nepotism. But everyone thinks you're corrupt anyway. You're president, hence axiomatically corrupt. After all, why does anyone go into politics except to rort the public and get rich? Prove their prejudices, you'll make everyone happy."
        "That's the most stunningly cynical thing I've heard all year," said Heineman. "It's also not true. None of the Gan think I'm in it for profit. They think it's all about power."
        "And?" said Nodo.
        "Maybe they've got a point," said Heineman, who thought that maybe they had, though he did not like to admit it. "Still, I'm not going to make Atlanta a judge."
        "I would," said Nodo. "Then at least you'd know where she is. Well. Shall we start?"
        "Start away," said Heineman.
         And the briefing began.
         Nodo was glad to have avoided further questions about his marriage, which was a potentially embarrassing subject for both of them, since Nodo's wife had been sired illegitimately by Kansko Chansko, Heineman's father.
         All that, of course, was ancient history. Since then, a really major scandal had shaken the Family Jubiladilia, when it had been revealed that Heineman's grandfather Zinjanthrop had been a sometime child molester. As a major flood sweeps away all memory of a minor kitchen spillage, that scandal had obliterated the lesser one concerning the genesis of Nodo's wife.
         Still, the subject was potentially painful, for Heineman at least, since his father's philandering had caused him the most dreadful trouble. When his illicit affair had been exposed, Kansko Chansko had lost his seat on the senate of Islam Demaxus. The senate seat had gone to Vignis Vo Gorkindachina, a timber merchant, an import from the Gulf of Heaven, who had taken the traditional route to power, and had bribed various senators to vote him that seat.
         The Family Jubiladilia had later been involved in a dreadful struggle to wrest that seat back from Gorkindachina. At last, after a world of unpleasantness, the seat had gone to Heineman. But further unpleasantness — including the exposure of Zinjanthrop's past — had occurred when Heineman had contested a grueling presidential election, his opponent being Gorkindachina.
         All in all, Nodo thought, the less said about his marriage the better.
        "Shall we get going?" said Heineman.
        "Certainly," said Nodo. "You'll be asking for aid?"
        "Hinting at it, at the very least," said Heineman.
        "Then," said Nodo, switching into play-acting mode, and assuming the role of a hard-nosed interrogator from the Gulf and the Chasms, "do you realize that nearly half of the inhabitants of Barth Banchup Bakchakris live beneath the poverty line? Since the very citizens of Hell are suffering so badly, how can Chalakanesia ask for charity?"
        "We're not asking for charity," said Heineman. "We're asking for a redress of wrongs. It's your mad machine which ran amok and wrecked our cities. La Lantis smashed us, but good."
        "Mr President," said Nodo, interrupting this flow of rhetoric, "most people in Heaven and Hell won't know what La Lantis is."
        "Won't they?" said Heineman. "It's their institution!"
        "What's Naflamak?" said Nodo.
        "I've no idea!" said Heineman.
         Though the odd name was, strangely, vaguely familiar.
        "Naflamak," said Nodo, "is our very own consulate in Barth Banchup Bakchakris. It's named after a hero, you know, the one who did that job on the megawhale."
        "Oh, I remember!" said Heineman.
        "Yes, but this is media," said Nodo. "There's no time for remembering. You can't wrestle with these people. You've got to punch them out. Knock them down and senseless."
        "So what do I say?" said Heineman, wincing at Nodo's over-vigorous intensity. "Where was I, anyway?"
        "You were talking about La Lantis and the toad," said Nodo. "But don't mention La Lantis, it means no more to a foreigner than Naflamak does to you. Mad scientists, that's what you should say."
        "If I did," said Heineman, "I'd have every scientist in creation jumping on my head!"
        "Mr President," said Nodo, "nobody's ever met a scientist, not even in Barth Banchup Bakchakris. Nobody's met them, nobody understands them, they've got no constituency. They grow snot, Mr President. They dig it out of their noses and paste it on petri dishes. Look at any cartoon book. They're famous for it. Scientists are weird people who spend their lives chasing lice that live on owls. There are whole comic books about just exactly that."
         Heineman did not know whether this was true. Were there really cartoons and comic books about scientists? Did they grow snot? Or was that slander? And — lice on owls? Were there really such creatures? Or was that just Nodo's caprice?
        "I still don't really feel good about slandering scientists," said Heineman.
         He spoke with perfect honesty, for, somewhere in the course of his education, he had acquired a kind of reverence for the disinterested quest for knowledge.
        "You don't feel good about it!" said Nodo. "Mr President, why not? The omagulous toad was a scientific device. Scientists built it, scientists tested it, and it was our country they smashed up badly."
        "Yes, but," said Heineman, "the decision to test the toad wasn't a scientific decision. It was a political decision. Teladex had a hand in it, as much as anyone. The Conference knew the risk. They chose to balance our risk against their potential benefit. That's politics, not science."
        "It takes too many words to put across," said Nodo. "The concept's too slippery."
        "Too slippery!" said Heineman. "It's simplicity itself!"
        "But hardly a visual simplicity," said Nodo decisively. "You have to give people something they can grasp. Mad scientists, you know. Instant image. Wild beard, beautiful daughter, buzzing machine in the background. Beautiful communication! Snap snap snap! Hit them with the punches. This is your lead. You say, I'm not asking for charity! I'm demanding damages! It was your mad scientists who smashed up my country! Babies were smashed into walls, old women drowned in the harbors, and five of my best friends were killed in the collapse of an aqueduct."
        "But that's not true!" said Heineman.
         Nodo threw up his hands in exasperation.
        "Mr President, as your media briefer, I'm telling you that dead friends crushed by aqueducts are good media. That's an image, it'll get across, if you need names and biographies to back it up then I can find you five, I can find you fifty, I've got files on the Blast stacked knee-high to an elephant. But — but if you don't want to learn then there's nothing I can do for you! Absolutely nothing!"
         They sat facing each other. Nodo, for once in his life, was ferociously angry, frustrated beyond endurance by Heineman's political denseness. And Heineman? He wished, more than he had ever wished anything ever before in his life, that he was just an accountant.
        "Okay, okay," said Heineman, grumbling acquiescence. "Dead babies. Mad scientists. Smashed friends."
        "Mr President," said Nodo, "you still don't sound enthusiastic. But I don't see what the problem is. There were dead babies, I had a statistical tabulation done, there were five newborns killed in Lexis, figures from elsewhere are similar. As for friends — "
        "It's the mad scientist bit," said Heineman.
        "Mr President, Mr President," said Nodo, unable to conceal his disgust, "if you — I don't know. How about ... barbarians? Yes? Machine-mad barbarians. Does that sound better? I mean, it was their machine, they were barbarous to use it, the name of scientific research doesn't get dragged through the blood."
        "Machine-mad barbarians," said Heineman, trying the sound of it.
        "It's a good, bold image," said Nodo. "Machines are them, not us. Stress our ecological purity. Stress their machine-mad recklessness. Then demand damages. Then, Mr President, you'll probably be asked this: what have you got to give us? Why should we spend money putting you back on your feet when you've nothing to offer us?"
         A standard question, and one to which Heineman gave the pat standard answer:
        "We already provide valuable economic services to both Heaven and Hell. By maintaining vast sealands free from industry, Chalakanesia serves as a cleansing mechanism to help mop up some of the pollution from the industries of the Gulf and the Chasms. If it wasn't for us, you'd die in your own wastes."
         This was not so much a half-truth as a tenth-truth, but, as Nodo had often said, a tenth-truth was usually much more serviceable than an out-and-out lie.
         As the briefing continued, Heineman's attention began to slip, and he started speculating about Nodo's proposal that Atlanta should be made a judge. It would certainly limit her scope for mischief. She had definitely miscalculated — or acted with malice — when suggesting that Heineman awaken the question of Nodo's marriage. Tan Spanda Del Sholomok Nodo had married Quarleen the Younger, who was Heineman's half-sister, the illegitimate daughter his father Kansko Chansko had sired on the singing girl now known as Quarleen the Younger.
         That made Nodo — what? Heineman's brother-in-law? Was the husband of an illegitimate half-sister a brother-in-law?
        "Answer the question!" said Nodo.
        "Pardon?" said Heineman. "Could you rephrase that?"
         He had learnt that lesson very early in political life. Never say you weren't listening. Say, instead: could you rephrase that. Or say: what do you mean by that? Or say: what significance do you attach to that question? Or say: what do you think?
        "Cigarettes," said Nodo. "You want economic aid from Heaven and Hell, yet you're still opposed to cigarette imports. Every analysis shows that the cigarette industry would be a significant boost to Chalakanesia's gross national product. Instead, you've made smoking cigarettes a capital offence!"
        "Mass murder," said Heineman, "would also increase the gross national product. Mass murder would give employment to a whole range of coroners, assassins, undertakers and coffin-makers. Obviously the gross national product is not an absolute good. The governance of nations requires the balancing of a basket of different values, different goods, some of which are mutually contradictory."
        "So you don't believe in free trade," said Nodo sharply.
        "Free trade is not the issue," said Heineman. "The policy of my administration is that equal products can compete on equal terms in Chalakanesia. But we don't have a cigarette industry. If Heaven and Hell want to make profits from cancer-sticks, then that's their business, but all such cancer-sticks have been banned in Chalakanesia for the last five hundred years."
         Heineman did not in fact think the media crew would ask him about cigarettes. Heaven and Hell seemed to have exhausted their interest in that subject. But you could never tell. There seemed to be no end to the number of foreigners who had bright ideas for making a buck out of Chalakanesia, by selling it cancer, by using it as a dumping ground for toxic wastes, by turning the whole archipelago into the world's largest brothel, by offloading unsafe pharmaceuticals onto unsuspecting Chalakanesians, or by using those same Chalakanesians as a resource for high-tech organ banks.
        "There are lots of people who want to make us richer by making us dead," said Heineman, getting into the swing of things, "but, though I'll take any reasonable road to profit, I haven't yet been able to convince myself that a rich corpse is a happy corpse."
        "Good," said Nodo. "Good."
        "You mean, you think we would be better off dead?" said Heineman, who was still wired for combat, and had not realized that Nodo's "good" was a genuine compliment.
        "Ah, the briefing's over, Mr President," said Nodo.
        "Oh," said Heineman. "Sorry. I got a bit worked up there."
         He felt deflated. Anger was a wonderful thing. It was like one of those therapeutic drugs which knocks out anxiety. Like a drug, though, it brought an unwanted hangover in its wake. Heineman always enjoyed getting angry, at least in public debate, but afterwards he tended to be guilty at the ferocity with which he had attacked his political enemies, or to feel embarrassed by the unstinting strenuousness with which he had defended some position in which he really only half-believed.
         "It was sincere," said Nodo. "I liked it."
         Heineman kept his face expressionless. He was embarrassed to admit, even to himself, just how much Nodo's praise meant to him. Particularly since that praise was always genuine, and never easily given. It was Nodo's job to be play hardball, to come up with the worst, hardest, most controversial, unfairest, wartiest and heavily loaded questions he could throw in Heineman's direction. To help him do his job, Nodo cultivated a hardball persona quite at odds with his true nature, which was colorless.
        "That's it, then," said Nodo, gathering up his briefing papers. "You did very well, Mr President."
        "Thank you," said Heineman. "Do I have time for a tea break?"
        "Unless you're badly dehydrated," said Nodo, "I wouldn't advise it. I suggest we head for the senate chamber and watch the crew set up. You might learn something worth knowing."
         Heineman doubted it, but, as Nodo's judgment in such matters had proved consistently better than his own, he had no option but to comply with the suggestion, and so they quit the Presidential Mansion and headed for the senate chamber.
         As Heineman and Nodo made that short journey, Heineman realized that Nodo had never bothered to ask after the health of his throat. Really, it shouldn't matter, but Heineman still felt hurt. He had fought with an assassin, had almost been strangled, could have had his throat crushed entirely, could have died, could have lost his voice for life. Milmelca had asked after the health of Heineman's throat, and so had Atlanta. Why not Nodo?
         In accordance with Chalakanesian custom, Heineman allowed Nodo the lead, this being one of the small courtesies which superiors were supposed to show to their subordinates. Unaware that he had missed a move in the Great Game of office politics, Nodo led the way into the grounds of the senate, while his president glowered resentfully at his back.
         Heineman was marginally appeased when he was saluted by the soldiers of the Senate Guard as he strode past the Guardian Wards. Still, he could have wished the guards had been armed with fryguns rather than those distressingly quaint feudal-age jaghooks and turtle prods. The prospect of an encounter with foreigners from the Gulf and the Chasms always put such thoughts in his mind.
        "We should ask for free showcubes," said Nodo, speaking when they were just inside the Guardian Wards, in the circular courtyard known as the Senate Sanctum.
        "Later," said Heineman, who did not want to talk about showcubes, not right then.
         Heineman halted, and genuflected in front of the mirarilusistan which dominated that courtyard. This gesture was not merely to satisfy propriety. This particular mirarilusistan, this particular Garden for the Dead, was tied up in his mind with all manner of happy memories dating back to his days as a senator. He had been much, much happier then, and life had been much simpler. So at least he remembered it.
        "An extra showcube wouldn't cost them much, Mr President," said Nodo, interrupting Heineman's attempted meditation, "and if we had it we'd be in a stronger position to protest if they mangle us in the final presentation. An ordinary showcube doesn't cost very much, you know, it's the capture-blocks which are so abominably expensive, they — "
        "I know, I know," said Heineman.
         He was often annoyed by Nodo's lecturing, and was particularly irritated whenever Nodo ventured to lecture him on finance. After all — it was Heineman who was the accountant!
        "Let's go inside, then," said Nodo.
         Heineman had a suffocating sense of being over-managed. The boy would be telling him when to wash his hands next! Still, at Nodo's urging, Heineman headed inside, and accompanied his media briefer up the stairs which took them to the Strangers Gallery, which encircled and overlooked the floor of the senate. This allowed them to watch the foreign media crew setting up.
        "This team is from Sakura Amir," said Nodo.
        "Sakura Amir," said Heineman. "Now why is that significant?"
        "It was, supposedly at least, the destination of Nanji Plumdekarus Clock."
        "The fugitive orderly?" said Heineman.
        "The same," confirmed Nodo.
        "Do you think there's a connection?" said Heineman.
         Nodo considered.
         Once you started entertaining conspiracy theories, there was no end to the number of connections you could make. Nanji Plumdekarus Clock was the hospital orderly who had leagued with Doctor Jam Satu Sebelas to arrange for the assassin Eglug Oberon to disappear from the Rebus Rokroth.
         Clock appeared to have fled to Sakura Amir, a city in the Gulf of Heaven, east of Idosolaris and west of Prodolikus of the Golden Spheres. Now here was a foreign media crew which originated from the same city.
        "I think it's sheer coincidence," said Nodo. "All the media crews have their studios there. It's not far from Prodolikus, but land is a lot cheaper."
        "Studios?" said Heineman.
        "Big ones," said Nodo. "If they can't block an event, they mock it, then show the drama as the fact."
        "Is that honest?" said Heineman. "Is it even lawful?"
        "It's how they work," said Nodo.
         Down below, on the floor of the senate, there was no hint of mock. This was going to be blocked for real.
         Looking down on the scene below, Heineman could tell two things immediately. The first was that the media crew had skimped on the gold. As Chalakanesia's metapsychic faultline tended to attack all devices which transmitted energy, and as gold was the best shielding against the faultline, the floor of the senate should have been ablaze with gold screens and shields. Instead, there was precious little of the stuff in evidence. Heineman immediately predicted equipment failures.
         The second thing —

        * * *
         
         In the Hari Mok, the roughnecks had just overturned Panjalo Pantaline's table, spilling her beer all over the floor. At first, she thought they were just some drunks from one of the stag party groups which had been filling the place with uproar. But then they started to get really rough.
        "Hey!" yelled Panjalo. "Hari!"
         In response to that cry, Hari himself, the proprietor of the best known bar and grill in the city of Lexis, came striding across the room, intent on sorting things out.
        "Stay back!" yelled one of the roughnecks.
        "Yes, you keep out of this," warned another. "We want this heretic. She's gone too far this time."
        "I've done nothing!" cried Panjalo.
        "Don't you deny it!"
        "What am I supposed to have done?" wailed Panjalo.
        "You know what you've done!" yelled the roughest of the roughnecks.
         Then there was a prolonged and hideous scream.
         Someone had just stepped on the cat.

        * * *
         
         Elsewhere, there was screaming and wailing. It had happened, it had happened. It could not be undone, it could not be denied. The smoke went up to the skies, proof of hideous sacrilege.
         Overhead, the sky was gashed with purple. The day had dawned clear and bright, but it was clear and bright no longer. The emotional weather was changing, and quickly, making one of those abrupt moodshifts which so baffled every statistician who tried to find a clear pattern for the activities of the metapsychic faultline.
         The bruising of the sky, together with the wailing of the ever-growing crowd, hinted at a potential for a vast metapsychic ugliness. The emotional weather was deteriorating, and a big crowd was gathering, a crowd of people under stress, the collective mind of the crowd one great big jagged disaster just waiting to happen. Under conditions, the city of Lexis could quite possibly be hit by a massive metapsychic spike — even in broad daylight.