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more important matters. The Brazilians are pushing us on the boundary negotiations. Do we want to let them north of Chiapas, or don’t we?”
    Little Worker tuned out the unimportant talk. She was more concerned with her delayed meal.
    At last Mister Michael, consulting his watch, said, “Well, enough of work. We have a few more days during your stay to discuss such things. I believe you expressed a desire to meet my charming wife. She should be here any moment.”
    Everyone waited. Little Worker shifted positions to ease a cramp in her right haunch. Mister Michael’s wife never arrived.
    When the visitors had been shown out with many apologies, Mister Michael returned to his seat. He was silent for a time. Then he banged his fist on the desk. “Something has to be done about that woman,” he said. “Something has to be done.”
    Little Worker silently agreed.
     
    * * *
     
    One day not long after this time, Little Worker found herself home alone.
    This was highly unusual, for she was seldom separated from Mister Michael. In public or private, Little Worker was always by his side. Even when he traveled abroad, Little Worker went with him. (Little Worker had been to a lot of places with odd names, mostly other cities; aside from a few curious smells here and there, they all seemed alike.) But today Mister Michael was at the doctor’s, getting his anti-aging treatment. He had just started the treatments six months ago, when they became available. The location of the doctor’s clinic was secret, even from Little Worker. Mister Michael had explained to her that it was for her own protection, so that no one could capture her and force her to reveal where the clinic was. Little Worker had to smile at the thought of anyone capturing her. For one thing, no one ever paid any attention to her. Who would think she knew anything worth knowing? Little Worker felt it would have been all right for her to go with Mister Michael, but he wouldn’t hear of it. It was just him and the car, and the car would have its short-term memory wiped clean after the trip.
    As for Mister Michael’s wife—Little Worker didn’t know where she was and didn’t really wonder. After the trouble she had caused, Little Worker couldn’t have cared what happened to her.
    All that mattered was that for the first time in six months—and only the second time since she had become Mister Michael’s companion—she was without him.
    It made Little Worker very uneasy.
    So Little Worker wandered through the big empty house, searching for something to occupy her until Mister Michael should return.
    Upstairs, a fleeting impression made her pause outside the door of the bedroom of Mister Michael’s wife. Aromas of Bull seeped out to her. Impulsively, Little Worker tried the golden handle of the door. It turned without resistance, and the door opened. Little Worker entered.
    The Bull was lying on a couch. He wore nothing but a spandex thong that held his large genitals as in a pouch. He was flipping the pages of a colored picture book. When he heard Little Worker enter, he laid the book on his hard muscled stomach, pictures up. Little Worker could see that the pictures were of matings, illustrating various positions.
    “Hello,” said Bull. “Do you wish to have sex?”
    “No, I do not wish to have sex. I am Little Worker. I do not have sex with anyone. I wish to talk.”
    “I can talk.”
    “Very good. Would you like something to eat while we talk?”
    “Peanut butter is good.”
    Little Worker went to an intercom. “Food-center?”
    “Yes?”
    “Please send a jar of peanut butter to the bedroom of Mister Michael’s wife.”
    “With a spoon?”
    Bull looked guilty, as if doing something wrong. “No spoon.”
    “No spoon,” repeated Little Worker into the intercom.
    When the peanut butter arrived, Bull greedily unscrewed the cap and, dipping blunt fingers in, began to eat. Little Worker watched with approval. She knew very well how nice it was to