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Vidiac piped in,
but not Mister Dryden's; we had nothing to watch but each other.
    "Basic morning meets, OM," said Mister Dryden, slipping
his stance, weaving slightly, as if the increasing altitude affected
his sense of balance. "You can skip. Three contractings and one
intrapersonal. No shakes."
    "No problem," I said. Most important business meetings I attended with Mister Dryden, so that I might lend counsel and
prevent assassination. I knew so much about the workings of the
organization in most areas as he did-most, but not all. One area
remained an enigma and I suspected, then, that it always would.
I suspected as well that so long as it did, I would go no further
than I already had; it was something the family kept tight, and
underwrapped, like the crazy uncle locked in the attic roomthough whatever it was, was considerably more useful than that.

    "Who're you seeing?" Avalon asked, making noises with her
straw and giggling, her bottle tucked in the crook of her arm. The
more she drank, the stronger her accent grew. She was born in
Washington Heights. Her parents were English, by way of Barbados-perhaps vice versa. Her given name was Judy-Judy
something; she never said what. Proxies tend to lose touch with
their families during their time spent as lalas. Avalon hadn't seen
hers since she was eleven; she once sent them a Christmas card.
    "Pards," said Mister Dryden, chewing his lip, tapping the walls
with his fingers as if attempting to send messages to the spirit
world. "La Rue from StanBrand, Jameson from XBP, Timmer-
man from Gorky-Detroit. They're reporting me preprogram. "
    "Sounds thrilling. Who's the fourth?"
    "Lope. "
    "He's a nice old man," she said. "The old ones always spend
more sugar than the young ones."
    "Is he still working with Intel?" I asked; Lope hadn't been by
in months-working on arms deals in Siberia, I believed.
    "He's working his old boys with this one. He stands to Mar-
ielize Atlantic City."
    "Why?"
    "We won't."
    The system was simple and, unlike most systems, often worked.
Mister Dryden steered the business; the computers and midmen
ran it; his father owned it. His father owned many things. Dryco
piefingered every major country, stuck both hands deep into America. Mister Dryden's father-the Old Man, we pegged himwas the most successful of those who had bested the Ebb.

    "How long's it going to take?" asked Avalon. "I'm freezin'
my ass."
    "Hourish. I'm gauging that Lope '11 conference today."
    "I didn't think he liked violence," I said.
    Mister Dryden laughed, pressing the up button several more
times. "Ask Dad," he said.
    In the halcyon days, in those shimmery years lostbegone, the
Old Man and his wife-Susie D-controlled the most profitable
recreational drug circulation network between the Americas. With
trusted assistants such as Lope and with friendly competitorsthose they hadn't had to buy, as it were-they directed other
promising enterprises on an equally productive scale: carting and
disposal, active/passive pleasure provision, domestic security and
international antiterror assistance, and general import-export. Even
then the family was rich, though of comprehensible wealth.
    "Note me, OM," said Mister Dryden. "Call a maintenant."
    For years the Drydens stood firm, reinvesting their profits and
growing evermore secure. Their influence was strong, before;
afterward, it was complete. The administration of that day, having beguiled the nation so willfully with enthralling lies, suffered
a succession of unexpected horrors, long developing and at last
erupting. The panic was on; no one understood what was happening well enough to concoct a believable deceit in time, and so for
a while it all came down. The Old Man and Susie D knew when
to move and when to lay still, and as all began to tumble they
caught, reaped, secured, and ran. Their plan worked well-for
them, and for their friends. It was as if the country had been in a
theater when the cry of fire