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consultant for Reactions, Inc.
    “It doesn’t have anything to do with REIN,” I assured him.
    He smiled. “In that case, I suppose I’m at your service. But I’m going to impose one condition. You’ll have to meet me at Limpy’s. After today’s workout I need a—” he lowered his voice, ”—smoke.”
    “At Limpy’s in fifteen minutes,” I agreed.
    I’m no inveterate law-breaker. On the Thirty-third Amendment I entertain no firm persuasions. The temperance groups, I suppose, have their point. At least, the position that nicotine was harmful to the health of the individual and the morals of the nation had not been without its substantiating statistics.
    But I don’t think the Thirty-third will stick. It’s as unpopular as the Eighteenth was over a century ago. And I see no reason why a fellow shouldn’t have an occasional smoke, if he’s careful not to blow it in the direction of the Save-Our-Lungs Vigilantes.
    In arranging to meet Collinsworth at a smoke-easy within fifteen minutes, however, I hadn’t taken the CRMs into consideration. Not that I had any difficulty with the pickets in front of the building. Oh, they were vocal enough when I walked out. And there were even a few threats. But Siskin had exercised his influence and had a police detail stationed there on a twenty-four-hour basis.
    What did delay me was the army of opinion samplers who invariably select late afternoon for their maximum effort, when they can prey upon the hordes leaving the offices and downtown stores.
    Limpy’s is only a few blocks from Reactions. So I had taken the low-speed pedistrip, which made me a sitting duck for any pollster who might come along. And come along they did.
    The first, coincidentally, wanted to know all about my reaction to the Thirty-third Amendment and whether I might have any objection to a smokeless, nicotineless cigarette.
    Hardly had he left than an elderly woman came up, pad in hand, to solicit my opinion on fare increases on the Mc-Worther Lunar tour. That I never expected to take such an excursion made no difference.
    By the time she had finished, I had been carried three blocks past Limpy’s and could only continue on another two blocks to the first transfer platform.
    Another certified reaction monitor intercepted me on the way back. He politely rejected my request to be excused, standing unflinchingly on his RM Code rights. Impatiently, I told him I didn’t think packaged Mars taro, a sample of which he practically forced down my throat, would meet any justifying degree of consumer demand.
    There were occasions—and this was surely one of them—when I could look forward almost wistfully to the era in which simulectronics would sweep the streets clear of all the swarming CRMs.
    Fifteen minutes later than the appointed time, I was recognized and passed through the curio shop that fronted for Limpy’s smoke-easy.
    Inside, I waited for my eyes to adjust to the blue-haze murkiness. The acrid, yet pleasant odor of burning tobacco hung in the air. Omniphonic sound warmly embraced the room as tapestried walls muffled the strains of a period song, “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.”
    From the bar, I scanned the tables and booths. Avery Collingsworth hadn’t arrived. And I conjured up a humorous, yet pathetic picture of him doing his best to fend off a pollster.
    Limpy came hobbling along the catwalk behind the bar. He was a stocky, seemingly perpetually perturbed little man with a twitch in his left eyelid that compounded his caricatural appearance.
    “Drink or smoke?” he asked.
    “A little of each. Seen Dr. Collingsworth?”
    “Not today. What’ll it be?”
    “Scotch-asteroid-double. Two cigarettes—mentholated.”
    The latter came first, neatly bundled in a clear, flip-top plastic case. I took one out, thumped it on the bar and brought it to my lips. Instantly, one of Limpy’s assistants thrust a blazing, ornate lighter in front of my face.
    The smoke burned going down, but I fought off the