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building unit a toilet flushed.
    “Did you do that, Bunce? Did you make the lights go on? Is my electricity somehow flowing through the Fernberg Clock & Hock?”
    “Look at the left palm, Moldenke.” He looked at the palm.
    “Okay, Bunce. I'm looking. Now what?”
    “Are you looking at it closely?”
    “As close as I can under the circumstances.”
    “What are the circumstances?”
    “Mucus collecting in one of the eyes. It's all but cemented shut.”
    “Wear the goggles, boy. Why do you think we give you goggles? Now, hold the palm up there and look twice as hard.” Moldenke did that. “Are you looking hard enough?”
    “I'm looking. I'm looking.”
    “Pay attention to surface conditions, qualities of the skin, stuff like that.”
    Moldenke studied the palm. The lights surged, the radio went louder. Outside, the wind picked up. The door of the refrigerator opened and swung back on its hinges. A weather report came on the radio:
     
    Possible dry storms in the bottoms area, reports not confirmed, estimates of high winds, gauzemen working overshifts, nothing official, stay tuned, remain calm...
     
    “Did you hear that, Bunce? ”
    “Yes, I heard it. It was a good one. I liked it. "
    What about the palm? Have you looked at it sufficiently?”
    “Yes, I think so.”
    “Good. Now, look at the pocket on the hip matching that palm you just looked at so intently.” Moldenke looked at the left pocket, examined it.
    “Examine the pocket, Moldenke.”
    “I am. I am.” He saw grease, hanging strings, and dirt.
    “Good. Tell me what you see.” Moldenke told him what he had seen. “Fine. Look at the palm again.” He looked at the palm again. “Have you looked?”
    “Yes.”
    “Perfect. Now, put the palm in the pocket, along with the hand.” He put the hand in his pocket, along with the palm. “Is it in there good?”
    “Yes. It's not so easy sitting down.”
    “Good enough. Now, take it out.” He took it out.
    “Is it out?”
    “Yes. It's out.”
    “Excellent, boy. Now, tell me what you've learned from this.”
    “I suppose I've learned that the palm remains while the pocket wears away. Skin regenerates, cloth is a oneway business. Something like that. I learned something along those lines. Am I right?”
    “Close enough, close enough. Hah! And they call old Burnheart a great scientist. I wonder about his pupil. Moldenke, you're a clever boy. Pure reason, almost untainted, white light, etcetera. I would probably love you, Moldenke, if times were right. I'd strap on my artificial vagina for you. We could slug a few pinebrews and watch some football. If things were only a little tighter, or a great deal looser than they are, who knows? Sure, I wear a smear of rouge. Sure, I've dug potatoes out of garbage hills. Sure, I've played my share of football. And what does it come to? A throat full of polyps and a set of false eyes. Moldenke, you're sliding downward. I am not your friend. The test is over.”
     
    24]
     
    He read the letter Burnheart had left:
     
    Dear Friend Moldenke,
    Some years back, as I gather, the government phased out the postal cats. Heretofore, as you may be aware, the government was actually paying them 10 chit a paper week to eat the rats and other rodents that were eating the mail, a kind of twisted food-chain deal. That plan went along nicely for a time, until some jellyhead in some post office hole decided that further rules were needed in order to stem the tide of profiteering, slave-holding, and poison-running, which rose among the cats. These rules were known as the Private Bag Ordinances (the P.B.O.'s), and they generally held that the rats of a given mail bag were the property, the private and exclusive property of the cat who could daily stalk the area of the bag. Naturally, this served only to increase the dominance of the stronger cats over the weaker cats, as you might expect. Not surprisingly, the weaker cats lobbied for ordinances declaring that all bags must be