Authors: Frederik Pohl
My first thought was my worst thought. “A Fair Practices squadron?” I guessed. “They’re canceling the spots? They’ve got a counterinjunction—?”
He frowned. “Nothing like that, Mr. Tarb. Gosh! I’ve never
such hourlies! Every one of the campaign spots is drawing optimum-plus-fifty responses, the March of Dollars is swamped with pledges—no, no, it’s not a
“Then what, Dixmeister?” I cried.
He said uncertainly, “It’s all those people. You’d better come up and see.”
And so I did, and from the second floor of the Agency building I could look out over the street, the square, the windows opposite. And every inch was packed with people.
The funny thing is that even so I couldn’t believe it at first. I thought they were a lynch mob—until I heard them cheering.
And the rest of the world? RussCorp, Indiastries, S.A.
—all of them? You begin to hear cheering there, too; and where it will end I know not. Old habits die hard for nations as well as individuals. Monoliths are hard to demolish.
But they’ve started unloading the shuttles in Arizona again, and the monolith has begun to crack.