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Park. People living on the minimum guaranteed income, those who for some unfathomable reason disdained work, tended to congregate there. They were also inclined to take in criminals and hide them. Now and then the organics raided the area and swept up a few of the wanted. It was time for another search.
    Caird had coffee brought in. While sipping the hot liquid, he cooled off. Finally, envisioning his dunking, he began laughing. There was something funny about the scene even if he was the one humiliated. If he had seen the incident in a movie, he would have thought it laugh-provoking. And he had to admire Rootenbeak to some degree. Who would have expected a whiner, a sniveler, a nothing, to erupt like that?
    Tracking him down was a routine better left to the patrolmen. He switched off the display and started to tell the strip to call Wallenquist’s office. Then he remembered that he was to apply for a reproduction license. Just as he was going to code in the propagation department of the Population Bureau, the face of Ricardo “Big Dick” Wallenquist appeared on a wall strip.
    “Good morning, Jeff.”
    Wallenquist’s fat red face beamed. “Morning, Major.”
    “You saw my message?”
    “Yes, sir. I had some prior duty. I was just going to ...”
    “Come up to my office, Jeff. Now. I’ve got something interesting. No run of the mill, no distilled-water bootlegger. I’d rather be face to face.”
    Caird stood up. “Right away, Major.”
    Wallenquist made a big thing of the personal touch. He deplored communication through electronics. It was too impersonal, too aloof. “Barriers go up then, man! Wires, waves, screens! You can’t really know a person or like him or get him to know you and like you if you’re talking through machines. You’re just ghosts then. What we need is flesh and blood, man. Touch and smell. Electricity can’t transmit nuances or soul. Can’t send you the proper signals. Only face to face, nose to nose can do that. God knows we’ve lost too much humanity. We must preserve it. Flesh to flesh, eye to eye. Touch and smell.”
    All very fine, Caird thought as he went up on the elevator. The trouble was that Wallenquist was an onion-fiend. Ate them for breakfast, lunch, and supper. And he insisted on getting as close as possible to the person he was talking to.
    Wallenquist’s office was twice as big as Caird’s, which was the way it should be. The major, however, was only one-fourth larger than his lieutenant. Six feet and seven inches tall, he weighed two hundred and eighty-seven pounds. Ninety of that had to be excess fat. The Health Department was after him, of course, but he had enough connections to keep its attention from being more than a minor nuisance. No subordinate bureaucrat was going to tackle an organic major head-on, and the Health Department supervisors were rather lax about getting rid of their own lard. It was the person without power, the little guy, who had to toe the mark in this officially classless society. Thus it had been and would be.
    The major rose from his huge padded chair when Caird entered, and he shook hands with himself. Caird shook his own hands.
    “Sit down, Jeff.”
    Caird took a chair. Wallenquist came around the crescent-topped desk and sat on its edge. He leaned far forward until he seemed to be in danger of toppling off. Like Humpty-Dumpty, Caird thought. But that big egg did not eat onions.
    Grinning, Wallenquist said, “How’s the wife, Jeff?” For a second, Caird felt sick. Had Ozma done something unlawful?
    “Fine.”
    “Still painting those insects?”
    ‘‘Still.”
    Wallenquist boomed laughter and slapped Caird’s shoulder.
    “Isn’t that something! I don’t know if it’s art, but it’s sure good publicity. Everybody knows about her. I heard about the party given in her honor.”
    Caird relaxed. The major was just going through his warming-up routine. Nose to nose, eye to eye, flesh to flesh.
    “How’s the daughter? Arid ... uh