lists--the masks
were too small to be more than token disguises--and beckoned to him,
at the same time walking toward his 'copter. The man in black with the
white-handled pistols followed him, spurs jingling.

"Hello, Mr. Cardon," he said, joining him. "Nothing to it. We got a
tip they were coming to sabotage Big Brother, over there. Take out our
sound-recording, and put in one of their own, like they did over in
Queens, last week. The town clowns got here in time to save
everybody's face, so there wasn't any shooting. We're staying put till
they go, though."

"_Put the Literates in their place! Our servants, not our masters!_"
the huge tridianimate bellowed.

Over in Queens, the Independents had managed to get at a similar
tridianimate, had taken out the record, and had put in one: _I am a
lying fraud! Vote for Grant Hamilton and liberty and sound
government!_

"Smart work, Goodkin," he approved. "Don't let any of your boys start
the gunplay. The city cops are beginning to get wise to who's going to
win the election, tomorrow, but don't antagonize them. But if any of
those Ku Kluxers tries to pull a gun, don't waste time trying to wing
him. Just hold on to that fiery something-or-other on his chest and
let him have it, and let the coroner worry about him."

"Yeah. With pleasure," Goodkin replied. "You know, that nightshirt
thing they wear is about the stupidest idea for a storm-troop uniform
I ever saw. Natural target in a gunfight, and in a rough-and-tumble it
gets them all tangled up. Ah, there go a couple of coppers to talk to
them; that's what they've been waiting on. Now they can beat it
without looking like they been run out by our gang."

Cardon nodded. "Tell your boys to stay around for a while; they may
expect you to leave right after they do, and then they'll try to slip
back. You did a good job; got here promptly. Be seeing you, Goodkin."

He climbed into his own 'copter and started the motor.

"_Put the Literates in their place!_" the tri-dimensional colossus
roared triumphantly after the retreating Independents. "_Our servants,
not our masters!_"

* * * * *

At eight thousand, he got the 'copter onto the lower Manhattan beam
and relaxed. First of all, he'd have to do something about answering
Slade Gardner's telecast propaganda. That stuff was dangerous. The
answer ought to go on the air by noon, and should be stepped up
through the afternoon. First as a straight