'Thanks,' Sal Heim said, accepting the drink.

'This is Walt,' the common head said to him. 'We know that if Jim Briskin is elected he'll instruct his Attorney General to find ways to shut the satellite down. Isn't that a fact ?' The two eyes, together now, fixed themselves on him in an intense, astute gaze.

'I don't know where you heard that,' Sal said, evasively.

"This is Walt,' the head said. "There's a leak in your organization; that's where we heard it. You realize what this means. We'll have to throw our support behind Schwarz. And you know how many transmissions we make to Earth in a single day.'

Sal sighed. The Golden Door kept a perpetual stream of junk, honky-tonk stag-type shows, pouring down over a variety of channels, available to and widely watched by almost everyone in the country. The shows - especially the climactic orgy in which Thisbe herself, with her famous display of expanding and contracting muscles working in twenty directions simultaneously and in four colors, appeared - were a come-on for the activity of the satellite. But it would be duck soup to work in an anti-Briskin bias; the satellite's announcers were slick prose.

Downing his drink he rose and started toward the door. 'Go ahead and stick your stag shows on

Jim; we'll win the election anyhow and then you can be sure he'll shut you. In fact, I personally guarantee it right now.'

The head looked uneasy. 'Dirty p-pool,' it stammered.

Sal shrugged. 'I'm just protecting the interests of my client; you've been making threats toward him. You started it, both of you.'

'This is George,' the head said rapidly. 'Here's what I think we ought to have. Listen to this, Walt.