plastic box at the entrance to the national capital's most exclusive federally-subsidized sex club.
The dining room was an endless sea of tables and chatter and drifting smoke from a thousand burning cigarettes, all superimposed into the unvarying hum of the electronic waiter service. Winston stepped up to the automated maitre d', punched a button, and spoke into the machine. "Zot-spot Urban Bureau Chief Charles Waring. Commissioner Mike Winston requesting."
There was a brief pause, then a buzzing which was swiftly replaced by a rasping voice announcing, "Waring here."
"Mike Winston, Chief. Hot stuff. Where can I find
you?"
"Where are you now, Mike?" came the cool reply.
"I'm right here in the dining room."
"Oh." A pause, then: "Okay. Come on over. A-22."
"Be right there," Winston assured him. He made his way across the numbered aisleways to the A for Availability section, and quickly located his target.
Waring sat there alone, a large hulk with white hair and a perpetually distressed face. These were eyes which Winston had always found it difficult to gaze into .. . there was too much misery there, too much betrayal—self-betrayal, perhaps—and entirely too much bitterness for any one human being to contain. He pulled out a chair and silently sat down, fished the summary sheet from his briefcase, glanced at his boss, then lay the sheet face up on the table.
"I'm sober," Waring said, without preliminaries, "If that's what you're wondering."
Winston doubted that. But he replied, "I wasn't wondering anything of the kind." He glanced at the tray alongside Waring's chair, noted the level mark of the
bourbon bottle, smiled, and tapped the tab summary with a finger. "Something here I want you to look at," he said.
"You eat yet?" Waring wanted to know.
Winston shook his head. "It can wait. Just look at these figures, Chuck."
The nation's head nigger-tender, as he liked to call himself, sighed and reached for the paper. His eyes traveled about in a random inspection. Then he speared ; Winston with a puzzled glance. "What's all this computed yuck about?" he asked unemotionally.
"It's a demographic read-out on landflow and urban I shift, keyed specifically to the Tom count. And a cross- I read on the status of retired military surplus arms, the I mothball arsenal. Look at the flow of the past three years." 1
Waring grunted and said, "So what?"
"So there's some damned significant stuff there. Something is brewing in Black America."
Waring sighed heavily and returned once again to the sheet of data. Presently he said, "Well it still looks like a lot of computed yuck to me."
"Cross-relate, Chuck," Winston urged. "The picture is downright scarey. Most of the Toms are fractos, many of them could easily pass for white if you don't look at them too closely. And look at their flow. God, they're clustering in an entirely new trend of their own, moving in on all the vital spots of the nation. State capitals, major economic centers, mothballed military installations, the whole shmear."
"How'd you get this stuff?"
"AMS demographics. I've been wondering for several months now over the towns' inability to keep up with the demand for Toms."
"Some hot stuff," Waring said disgustedly. "You track me down here to talk about labor problems?"
A cold feeling was traveling slowly up Winston's backbone. He told his boss, "Demographics is only a part of it. Department of Army has been suspiciously busy for several years also. Those guys are planning an uprising—I'll stake my job on it—and the government
niggers are backing them up. Listen, I saw Bogan and Abe Williams together this morning. And, of all places, in a back room of Oakland Town Hall."
Waring emitted a dry cackle. He reached for the bourbon, poured a hefty slug into his glass, squirted in some seltzer, and said, "You don't drink, do you."
Winston shook his head. "But I might learn to."
"At your age, Winston, it's hopeless. You have to get an early start if you want
The dining room was an endless sea of tables and chatter and drifting smoke from a thousand burning cigarettes, all superimposed into the unvarying hum of the electronic waiter service. Winston stepped up to the automated maitre d', punched a button, and spoke into the machine. "Zot-spot Urban Bureau Chief Charles Waring. Commissioner Mike Winston requesting."
There was a brief pause, then a buzzing which was swiftly replaced by a rasping voice announcing, "Waring here."
"Mike Winston, Chief. Hot stuff. Where can I find
you?"
"Where are you now, Mike?" came the cool reply.
"I'm right here in the dining room."
"Oh." A pause, then: "Okay. Come on over. A-22."
"Be right there," Winston assured him. He made his way across the numbered aisleways to the A for Availability section, and quickly located his target.
Waring sat there alone, a large hulk with white hair and a perpetually distressed face. These were eyes which Winston had always found it difficult to gaze into .. . there was too much misery there, too much betrayal—self-betrayal, perhaps—and entirely too much bitterness for any one human being to contain. He pulled out a chair and silently sat down, fished the summary sheet from his briefcase, glanced at his boss, then lay the sheet face up on the table.
"I'm sober," Waring said, without preliminaries, "If that's what you're wondering."
Winston doubted that. But he replied, "I wasn't wondering anything of the kind." He glanced at the tray alongside Waring's chair, noted the level mark of the
bourbon bottle, smiled, and tapped the tab summary with a finger. "Something here I want you to look at," he said.
"You eat yet?" Waring wanted to know.
Winston shook his head. "It can wait. Just look at these figures, Chuck."
The nation's head nigger-tender, as he liked to call himself, sighed and reached for the paper. His eyes traveled about in a random inspection. Then he speared ; Winston with a puzzled glance. "What's all this computed yuck about?" he asked unemotionally.
"It's a demographic read-out on landflow and urban I shift, keyed specifically to the Tom count. And a cross- I read on the status of retired military surplus arms, the I mothball arsenal. Look at the flow of the past three years." 1
Waring grunted and said, "So what?"
"So there's some damned significant stuff there. Something is brewing in Black America."
Waring sighed heavily and returned once again to the sheet of data. Presently he said, "Well it still looks like a lot of computed yuck to me."
"Cross-relate, Chuck," Winston urged. "The picture is downright scarey. Most of the Toms are fractos, many of them could easily pass for white if you don't look at them too closely. And look at their flow. God, they're clustering in an entirely new trend of their own, moving in on all the vital spots of the nation. State capitals, major economic centers, mothballed military installations, the whole shmear."
"How'd you get this stuff?"
"AMS demographics. I've been wondering for several months now over the towns' inability to keep up with the demand for Toms."
"Some hot stuff," Waring said disgustedly. "You track me down here to talk about labor problems?"
A cold feeling was traveling slowly up Winston's backbone. He told his boss, "Demographics is only a part of it. Department of Army has been suspiciously busy for several years also. Those guys are planning an uprising—I'll stake my job on it—and the government
niggers are backing them up. Listen, I saw Bogan and Abe Williams together this morning. And, of all places, in a back room of Oakland Town Hall."
Waring emitted a dry cackle. He reached for the bourbon, poured a hefty slug into his glass, squirted in some seltzer, and said, "You don't drink, do you."
Winston shook his head. "But I might learn to."
"At your age, Winston, it's hopeless. You have to get an early start if you want
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