Jeb asked eagerly, "What have we got with fees of a thousand credits
and higher?"
* * * * *
A moment hummed by. Then the voice announced that a large batch of
political "corn" had been copyrighted in view of the current election
campaign. Jeb listened with mounting excitement to some of them: _If I
am elected, taxes will be reduced.... As I look upon the intelligent
faces in my audience.... I am reminded of a story.... What a lovely
child, Madam.... A helicopter on every roof...._
Jeb shut it off, perspiration breaking out on his face. It was a
uranium mine! Jeb's mind reeled at the astonishing fee set for these
copyright violations. A thousand credits per use. The party in power
was really out to fight off the opposing Traditionalist Party with
every possible trick, with the result that Jeb could make the biggest
cleanup of his life.
That is, if he got away alive.
Full of foreboding, Jeb floated up toward the meeting rooms of the
local Traditionalist Headquarters, which were on the fiftieth level
of a nearby skyscraper. His terrified adrenal glands kicked his heart
into a frenzy. The boys who ran the local club were no patsies. Many
an argumentative citizen had been found floating in the rarified
stratosphere, frozen stiff, with his anti-gravity belt turned on full
and his hands bound so he could not stop the upward climb.
Monitor Jeb nervously drifted into the corridor opening and restored
gravity. He sneaked past the open door, getting a quick glimpse of a
hall filled with citizens listening to a red-faced, stoutish man on a
platform.
Jeb frantically searched for and, with throat-catching relief,
found the back entrance to the big hall. It led to a dusty area of
scaffolding and discarded, rusting tools. Now Jeb was crawling down an
incline leading under the platform and found the small, railed-off area
which once had housed a hidden prompter for musical entertainments.
Panting, Jeb squatted in the dark, hearing the booming voice just above
him, only slightly muffled. As Jeb shoved the Monitex up against the
crack in the boards over him, the speaker's voice came to him strongly,
"Now, fellers, you're all precinct captains and it's a helluva empty
title to have when your party is outa power. But if we get back on the
gravy train--well, need I say more?"
A muffled roar from the audience made Jeb crouch worriedly.
"Now we're gonna take this election, see? I want all you _loyal party
workers_...."
Bong!
* * * * *
Howls of rage shook the walls and reverberated through to Jeb as the
political hacks recognized the sound and understood that somewhere a
Monitex had automatically recorded the voice vibration pattern of the
speaker in a Verbal Copyright violation.
"Kill the dirty spy!" screamed the speaker.
Bong! went the Monitex.
"Lynch him!"
In three minutes of unguarded outrage, Jeb had recorded ten thousand
credits in violations which the speakers never could escape because,
like fingerprints, all voice patterns were registered by the government.
Jeb turned to the exit behind him and crawled painfully for twenty
feet, then got up and began running. He ran straight into a brawny body
at the turn of the corridor. The next thing he knew, he was on his back
and ruthless hands were banging his head against the floor.
The siren of a golden-clad policeman cut the air and magically the
hands fell away, leaving Jeb sprawling and groggy.
After a moment, he was able to focus his eyes. The policeman stared
down at him, fists authoritatively on his hips.
"Well, I came just in time, eh?" said the cop. "Saved your neck."
Bong! went the Monitex.