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Cream was the intellectual appendix to the swollen intestine of the Nipple . It came free to every subscriber of the pad—those government grants again—and was read by about one in ten, according to our more optimistic surveys. It published thousands of times more words per hour, and included most of our political coverage.
    Somewhere between those two was the electronic equivalent of the Sunday supplement, published weekly, called Sundae .
    “Here’s what I want,” Walter went on. “You’ll go out and cover your regular beats. But I want you to be thinking Sundae while you do that. Whatever you’re covering, think about how it would have been different two hundred years ago, back on Earth. It can be anything at all. Like today, sex. There’s a topic for you. Write about what sex was like back on Earth, and contrast it to what it’s like now. You could even throw in stuff about what people think it’s gonna be like in another twenty years, or a century.”
    “Walter, I don’t deserve this.”
    “Hildy, you’re the only man for it. I want one article per week for the entire year leading up to the Bicentennial. I’m giving you a free hand as to what they’re about. You can editorialize. You can personalize, make it like a column. You’ve always wanted a column; here’s your chance at a byline. You want expensive consultants, advisors, research? You name it, you got it. You need to travel? I’m good for the money. I want only the best for this series.”
    I didn’t know what to say to that. It was a good offer. Nothing in life is ever exactly what you asked for, but I had wanted a column, and this seemed like a reasonable shot at it.
    “Hildy, during the twentieth century there was a time like no other time humans have seen before or since. My grandfather’s great-grandfather was born in the year the Wright brothers made the first powered flight. By the time he died, there was a permanent base on Luna. My grandfather was ten when the old man died, and he’s told me many times how he used to talk about the old days. It was amazing just how much change that old man had seen in his lifetime.
    “In that century they started talking about a ‘generation gap.’ So much happened, so many things changed so fast, how was a seventy-year-old supposed to talk to a fifteen-year-old in terms they both could understand?
    “Well, things don’t change quite that fast anymore. I wonder if they ever will again? But we’ve got something in common with those people. We’ve got kids like Brenda here who hardly remember anything beyond last year, and they’re living side by side with people who were born and grew up on the Earth. People who remember what a one-gee gravity field was like, what it was to walk around outside and breathe free, un-metered air. Who were raised when people were born, grew up, and died in the same sex. People who fought in wars. Our oldest citizens are almost three hundred now. Surely there’s fifty-two stories in that.
    “This is a story that’s been waiting two hundred years to be told. We’ve had our heads in the sand. We’ve been beaten, humiliated, suffered a racial set-back that I’m afraid…  ”
    It was as if he suddenly had heard what he was saying. He sputtered to a stop, not looking me in the eye.
    I was not used to speeches from Walter. It made me uneasy. The assignment made me uneasy. I don’t think about the Invasion much—which was precisely his point, of course—and I think that’s just as well. But I could see his passion, and knew I’d better not fight it. I was used to rage, to being chewed out for this or that. Being appealed to was something brand new. I felt it was time to lighten the atmosphere a little.
    “So how big a raise are we talking about here?” I asked.
    He settled back in his chair and smiled, back on familiar ground.
    “You know I never discuss that. It’ll be in your next paycheck. If you don’t like it, gripe to me then.”
    “And I have