Carlton Brock got up at seven. There was no hot water - it was barely warm - so he was in a bad mood when he began calling the three state territory governors who hadn't made it to the conference.

He made the calls short and snappy. This is what has been agreed, this is what you do. Alaska and Hawaii meekly agreed with everything. But the guy from Puerto Rico got difficult. He complained that he hadn't been asked to vote by phone or telex.

"You weren't asked to vote because your vote would have mattered about as much as a fart during a thunderstorm," Brock snarled, with eloquence enhanced by the Wild Turkey he'd had before starting the calls. "Don't you know the rules? Absolute majority wins. We've got fifty one votes total. Twenty six is an absolute majority. Everything discussed yesterday got forty seven ayes. Case closed."

He added that he'd be conducting a performance review in a month's time. Any governor found lacking would be immediately replaced.

"But this is impossible," cried out the governor of Puerto Rico. "We are still working out the borders of the districts. And I haven't appointed most of the governors."

"Well, you better start moving faster, or it's your ass," snapped Brock, and hung up.

He ate a hurried, secret breakfast consisting of a tin of sardines and hard-boiled eggs and bread. He really needed a second bourbon after that. Then Lea showed up to tell him Mr. Gino Valente was ready and waiting for Brock's call.

"How did he react when you told him I wanted a talk, Lea?" Brock asked.

"Oh, he was overjoyed. Very enthusiastic."

"That's great."

"Yes."

"This was a 'yes' full of doubt, Lea. Out with it!"

"I don't want you to think that I'm prejudiced in any way, sir. But he sounds, he sounds very Italian."

"Did you understand everything he said?"

"Oh yes, perfectly."

"Then there's no problem," said Brock. "Thank you, Lea."

She left, and Brock flexed his fingers before dialing the number she'd brought him, and picking up the receiver.

He was feeling slightly stunned when he put it down again a few minutes later. He'd just given the governorship to a mafia mobster! That was what Panatella had meant by 'very Italian'. Her inborn tact had prevented her from being more explicit. Yes, Mr. Valente was one of the wise guys. He as much as said so, before making an offer Brock couldn't refuse.

Mr. Valente said he, his family, and friends all loved the idea of colonizing a new world. They'd already planned a network of colonies not only in Illinois state territory, but throughout the United States. The heavy emphasis Mr. Valente put on the word 'planned' told Brock many of those colonies were up and running already.

As state territory governor, Mr. Valente would have the entire Illinois network at his disposal. And he could solemnly promise Brock right away that Illinois would become a top producer of food and other goods needed in the Old World.

"I know how to motivate people, sir," Valente told Brock. "I know how to reason with them. My people are all very reasonable people. Reasonable and reliable. And very highly motivated, very ambitious. They have real drive. They will make perfect colonial government representatives."

Brock believed him. He also believed him when Valente said he had family ties in most American cities. Mr. Valente was very influential, and the casino he'd managed at one time in Reno was more profitable than most of the famous Las Vegas casinos.

"I just have a natural knack for running a business," Mr. Valente said modestly. "It runs in the family, so to speak. It will be good to put all this talent to good use, working for the government."

He said it in a special tone, and Brock heard loud and clear that Mr. Valente's talented family and friends would otherwise work against the government. So he made Mr. Valente governor on the spot. After all, what mattered most was productivity. Brock had no doubt that under Mr. Valente, New World Illinois would turn out to be a very productive territory.

Brock barely had the time to visit the bathroom before Weinberger showed up, a full ten minutes early.

The Weinberger that entered Brock's suite was a very different Weinberger from the grey-faced zombie that used a wheelchair to get around. He radiated energy and good mood so strongly it was detestable. This transformation had taken place following a long consultation with John Knox, the chief doctor at the United Nations building.

Knox had examined Weinberger pretty thoroughly and in almost total silence: he grunted a couple of times, as if a suspicion had been proven right. Then he said:

"You're in remarkably fine shape, Mr. Weinberger. There is no reason for you to use this wheelchair. I believe you have a purely psychological problem. It's all a matter of restoring your confidence."

Weinberger agreed strongly his confidence could use major repairs.

"In that case," said Knox, "I recommend that you come in every morning for a shot of vitamins and nutrients that will be beneficial for your nervous system."

Weinberger had arrived in Brock's suite right after receiving his daily injection from the good doctor. In addition to vitamins, he also received a mix of drugs tested and approved by Dr. John Knox for his own personal use. They included cocaine and a couple of amphetamine derivatives, plus half a dozen other compounds for balance - the doctor didn't want Weinberger climbing walls or jumping off the roof of the UN building to see if he could really fly.

After receiving his daily shot Weinberger was ready to conquer the world, just like the doctor had promised. He bounced around Brock's reception room like a basketball gone crazy, clicking and grinding his teeth. Brock had to force him to sit down, and asked about the purpose of their meeting.

"I mean, why come to me? You got something, you talk to Caron or Odongo, not little poor me. I'm just the governor of the United States."

Weinberger let our a bark of laughter and said:

"You're so modest, Carlton. Everyone knows you pull the strings around here. I'm here because I need your support, of course. We have this big pow-wow coming at two o'clock today, and I want to propose something, and I want to humbly ask for your support."

"What is it?"

"I want to propose that the tax collectors are also responsible for all of Earth's citizens, and any payments due to the local, er, Earth government."

"What? Can you explain in a little more detail?"

"Naturally! The world's tax collection system will rely on tax collectors, contracted for a percentage of the moneys they collect. So why not make them responsible for everyone instead of just the mint owners and the colonizers? They could also handle the minimum guaranteed income payments, and the remittances made to local Old World governments. Put everything under one roof. Much simpler."

It really was much simpler. It also meant taking over all fiscal control from the local governments at all levels. This move would greatly increase Weinberger's influence and clout.

"Every local government official will scream bloody murder," Brock said. "You're basically cutting their balls off. They will become totally dependent on us for money."

Weinberger shrugged.

"I don't see that as a bad thing," he said. "And I will propose we increase their cut. They were to get 25% of the profit generated by colonies created on their New World territory. I want us to give them 50% of everything we collect. More than double of what they had."

"But they'll be losing the taxes they'd collected directly."

"Do you see any government on Earth, at whatever level - municipal, county, province or state, national - do you see ANY of those guys as able to collect any taxes in the foreseeable future?"

Brock thought about it for a moment, and concluded Weinberger was right.

"You got a point there," he said. "What's more, it would give us a little extra push. For example, that asshole Penny - you know, president of the US - is getting increasingly difficult about using troops to set up colonial government centers in the New World. The troops and their commanders are downright enthusiastic. They love it. If I told them to pull a coup tomorrow, they'd do that for sure. They hate Penny. Everybody hates Penny. He's such an asshole."

"Am I to understand you'll support my proposal?"

"You talk to anyone else about this?"

"You are the first," said Weinberger, and jumped out of his seat, unable to contain himself any longer.

"We'll give them half the money," he barked, "But we'll keep the other half! And we will control ALL the money. And oh yes, I want to tell you that I shall also propose a flat 50% tax on everything. No deductions, no write-offs of any kind. Everyone pays half, keeps half, including colonizers, all the way up and down through the money chain. But then who will be the recipient of the final half, the half which isn't split with anyone else? The local government. It's all theirs, they decide how to spend it. They'll all agree, I'm sure they will."

"You're getting into deep waters here," Brock warned. "They're gonna blame us for problems with money supply. There's no way they will have enough coin to pay everyone their minimum income for at least a few months more."

"They'll issue scrips," Weinberger said confidently.

"Scrips? Like, bank notes? I thought we were getting away from that kind of stuff."

"I've already discussed it with Troll. He agrees it's the only solution, on the condition that every issued scrip is backed by solid coin by the end of this year. Earth year."

Brock just couldn't stand being in the same room with Weinberger any more. Weinberger was driving him crazy. He was circling the room at such speed that watching him made Brock dizzy.

He said:

"I'll support your proposal. Now get the hell out of here. I've got another meeting coming up."

"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" cried Weinberger, and waltzed out of Brock's suite.

Brock sat down and did some heavy-duty frowning after Weinberger had left. He knew about Knox's treatment - the good doctor provided him with up-to-date information on all of his patients. He decided he would have to speak to Knox, and ask him to reduce the dosage a little.

He looked at the clock: not even ten, and Odongo wasn't due until eleven. It was time to get together with Lea for some serious breakfast. She had mentioned she might be able to arrange mushroom omelettes.

He was so taken with this thought that he forgot to lock his door.

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