aid. "Old Suetonius describes, for
example, an instrument that accompanied dinner-parties during the reigns
of the last few Caesars. It was a device that accomplished, two thousand
years ago, the function of our proud Bureau of Seasonal Gratuities. A
feather, my boy. A simple goose-quill."

"I don't understand," Winfree said.

"I'd be hurt if you did, Captain," MacHenery said. "I've set my mind on
explaining the point. Now you see, Wes, the late Caesars were pretty
good consumers of everything but petroleum, we having that edge on them.
They spread a mighty fine table. A gourmet would bring to Rome caviar
from the Caucasus, peaches from Majorca, and, for all I know, kippers
from Britain. Picture it, Wesley: cherries served in golden bowls,
heaped on the snow trotted down from mountain-tops by marathons of
slaves. A dish called The Shield of Minerva was one of their greatest
delights; this being an Irish stew compounded of lamprey-milt,
pike-livers, flamingo-tongues, and the tiny, tasty brains of pheasants
and peacocks; eaten while viewing the floor-show of strip-teasing
Circassian girls or--Galba's invention, this--elephants walking
tight-rope. Grand, Wes. No meals like that at the supermarket; no shows
like that even on the television."

"But the feather?" Winfree prompted.

"Ah, yes," MacHenery said. "The moment our noble Roman had eaten his
fill he'd pick up the feather next to his plate and, excusing himself,
adjourn to the adjoining vomitorium. A few tickles of the palate, and
his first meal would be only a lovely memory. He'd saunter back to his
bench by the table again, ready to set to with another helping of
Minerva's Shield."

"Disgusting," Winfree said.

"Yes, indeed," MacHenery agreed, smiling and fitting his fingertips
together. "Now attend my simile, Captain. Unlike those feathered Romans
of the Decadence, we moderns settle for one meal at a sitting, and let
it digest in peace. We have instead our more sophisticated greeds,
whetted by subtle persuasions and an assurance that it's really quite
moral to ransom our future for today's gimmicks."

"Prosperity requires the cooperation of every citizen," Captain Winfree
said, quoting an early slogan of the BSG.

"Your artificial prosperity requires us, the moment we're sated with
chrome chariots and miracle-fiber dressing-gowns and electronic magics,
the minute our children have toys enough to last them through the age of
franchise, to take in hand the f