blade screamed again. This time it shaved off an inch-thick Chicken Little steak. “Crumbs behind me hook it away and cut it up and put it on the conveyor.” There were tunnel openings spotted around the circumference of the dome, with idle conveyor belts visible in them. “Doesn’t she grow at night?” “No. They turn down the nutrient just enough; they let the waste accumulate in her just right. Each night she almost dies. Each morning she comes to life like San Lazaro. But nobody ever pray before pobrecita Gallina, hey?” He whacked the rubbery thing affectionately with the flat of his slicer. “You like her,” I said inanely. “Sure, Jorge. She does tricks for me.” He looked around and then marched the circuit of the nest, peering into each of the tunnel mouths. Then he took a short beam from one of them and casually braced it against the door to the nest. It fitted against a cross-bar on the door and against a seemingly-random groove in the concrete floor. It would do very well as a lock. “I’ll show you the trick,” he said, with an Aztec grin. With a magician’s elaborate gesture he took from his pocket a sort of whistle. It didn’t have a mouthpiece. It had an air tank fed by a small hand pump. “I didn’t make this,” he hastened to assure me. “They call it Gallon’s whistle, but who this Gallon is I don’t know. Watch- and listen.” He began working the pump, pointing ihe whislle purposefully al Chicken Little. I heard no sound, bul I shuddered as ihe rubbery protoplasm bulged in away from ihe pipe in ihe hemispherical depression. “Don’1 be scared, companero,” he told me. “Just follow.” He pumped harder and passed me a flashlight which I slupidly turned on. Herrera played the soundless blast of the whistle against Chicken Little like a hose. She reacled with a bigger and bigger cavity thai finally became an archway whose floor was ihe concrete floor of the nest. Herrera walked into the archway, saying: “Follow.” I did, my heart pounding frightfully. He inched forward, pumping ihe whistle, and the archway became a dome. The entrance into Chicken Little behind us became smaller . . . smaller . . . smaller . . . We were quile inside, in a hemispherical bubble moving slowly through a hundred-ion lump of gray-brown, rubbery flesh. “Light
on the floor, companero,” he said, and I flashed it on the floor. The concrete was marked wilh lines lhal looked accidental, bul which guided Herrera’s feel. We inched forward, and I wondered vividly whal would happen if the Gallon whislle sprang a leak . . . After about two thousand years of inch-by-inch progress my light flashed on a crescent of metal. Herrera piped the bubble over it, and il became a disk. Still pumping, he slamped three limes on il. Il flipped open like a manhole. “You firsl,” he said, and I dived inlo il, not knowing or caring whether the landing would be hard or soft. It was soft, and I lay there, shuddering. A moment laier Herrera landed beside me and ihe manhole above clapped shul. He stood up, massaging his arm. “Hard work,” he said. “I pump and pump that thing and I don’l hear il. Some day il’s going lo slop working and I won’l know ihe difference until-” He grinned again. “George Groby,” Herrera inlroduced me. “This is Ronnie Bowen.” He was a short, phlegmatic consumer in a fronl-office suil. “And ihis is Arluro Denzer.” Denzer was very young and nervous. The place was a well-lighted little office, all concrele, with air regeneralors. There were desks and communication equipmenl. Il was hard lo believe that the only way to get in was barred by thai mouniain of protoplasm above. Il was harder lo believe lhal ihe squeak of inaudibly high-frequency sound waves could goad lhal insensale hulk inlo moving aside. Bowen look over. “Pleased lo have you wilh us, Groby,” he said. “Herrera says you have brains. We don’l go in a greal deal for red lape, but I wanl your profile.” I gave him Groby’s profile and he look it down. His mouth tighlened with suspicion as I lold him the low educational level. “I’ll be frank,” he said. “You don’l lalk like an uneducaled man.” “You know how some kids are,” I said. “I spenl my time reading and viewing. Il’s lough being righl in the middle of a family of five. You aren’i old enough lo be respected and you aren’t young enough to be the pel. I fell kind of losl and I kepi irying lo better myself.” He accepted il. “Fair enough. Now, whal can you do?” “Well … I think I can write a better conlacl sheel lhan you use.” “Indeed. Whal else?” “Well, propaganda generally. You could slari stories going