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(Once, one of the men at the Training School had said: “Little Worker, you are the most diligent companion I’ve ever trained.” The men of the school had been nice, in their stern way. But no one was like Mister Michael.)
    Today, however, Little Worker’s mind was not on her work.
    Mister Michael’s first afternoon appointment had been shown in. Little Worker lay quietly behind Mister Michael’s big brown leather chair with the brass studs. Mister Michael was meeting with the people from Washington. Little Worker paid scant attention to them. They had been cleared by Security and smelled harmless. Little Worker couldn’t even see the visitors from her vantage. They were just a collection of mildly annoying voices, which interfered with her contemplation of the new and disturbing events at home.
    When Little Worker and Mister Michael had gotten into the car, Little Worker had circumspectly sniffed Mister Michael to see if any of the hetaera’s odors still clung to him. She was relieved to find that none did. Mister Michael must have washed. For a moment she felt heartened. But as the car accelerated down the front drive, picking up its entourage of armored outriders on cycles at the security station on the periphery of the estate, Little Worker realized that her relief was wrong. Mister Michael might smell normal, but his attitude was disturbed. He was not his usual self.
    Little Worker wished she could somehow make everything right for poor Mister Michael, who worked so hard and whose wife was so bad that he had to seek relief in the arms of that disturbing gynomorph.
    Little Worker would do anything to make Mister Michael happy.
    The visitors continued to talk. Little Worker was hungry. Mister Michael had worked straight through their regular lunch hour. She would have toast with jelly for her belated midday meal, the first chance she got. Surely the Ministry’s kitchens would be able to supply some. Perhaps she could convince the home food-center—which was rather stupid—not to dispense any more bread or jelly to the Bull andromorph. It would be worth a try.
    Little Worker was suddenly bored with her own problems, since no easy solutions presented themselves. She decided to listen to the conversation.
    “—tell you that you can’t ignore them,” said a visitor. “The Sons of Dixie may seem like just another fringe group to you up here in Toronto, but back home, they command a lot of sympathy—some of it from powerful folks.”
    The man had a funny way of speaking. He sounded emotional. Mister Michael, to the contrary, spoke calmly and in the proper way.
    “I’m not proposing that we ignore them. All I said was that we cannot afford to cater to extremist elements in the Union. The whole political structure is still too fragile, too new. Naturally, for the first decade or so, there’s bound to be a bit of confusion and uneasy integration, as people settle down to a new way of being governed. But we’ve had quite a bit of experience with our own separatist element over in Quebec, and the major lesson we’ve learned is that one must be firm. In fact, I intended to sound out you gentlemen on how your constituency would react to a ban on such groups as the Sons of Dixie.”
    There was shocked silence for a moment. Then one of the visitors spoke. “Why, that’s outrageous. It’s—it’s unconstitutional !”
    “I’ll have to remind you that the Union no longer functions under that document. New times call for new measures. Unless you can convince me there would be outright revolt, I believe I’m going to propose such a measure to Parliament. No group which advocates the overthrow of the Union—by violent or peaceful means—will be permitted to function.”
    Confused grumbles and mutters and chopped-off phrases issued from the visitors. Mister Michael let them babble for a moment, before cutting through their objections.
    “Gentlemen, I’m afraid you’ll have to consider it done. Let’s turn to