“It should,” Jason said.

“They’re like the last flock of whooping cranes,” the clerk said, starting forward now that the old black had reached the far side. “Protected by a thousand laws. You can’t jeer at them; you can’t get into a fistfight with one without risking a felony rap—ten years in prison. Yet we’re making them die out—that’s what Tidman wanted and I guess what the majority of Silencers wanted, but”—he gestured, for the first time taking a hand off the wheel—“I miss the kids. I remember when I was ten and I had a black boy to play with … not far from here as a matter of fact. He’s undoubtedly sterilized by now.”

“But then he’s had one child,” Jason pointed out. “His wife had to surrender their birth coupon when their first and only child came … but they’ve got that child. The law lets them have it. And there’re a million statutes protecting their safety.”

“Two adults, one child,” the clerk said. “So the black population is halved every generation. Ingenious. You have to hand it to Tidman; he solved the race problem, all right.”

“Something had to be done,” Jason said; he sat rigidly in his seat, studying the street ahead, searching for a sign of a pol-nat checkpoint or barricade. He saw neither, but how long were they going to have to continue driving?

“We’re almost there,” the clerk said calmly. He turned his head momentarily to face Jason. “I don’t like your racist views,” he said. “Even if you are paying me five hundred dollars.”

“There’re enough blacks alive to suit me,” Jason said.

“And when the last one dies?”

Jason said, “You can read my mind; I don’t have to tell you.”

“Christ,” the clerk said, and returned his attention to the street traffic ahead.

They made a sharp right turn, down a narrow alley, at both sides of which closed, locked wooden doors could be seen. No signs here. Just shut-up silence: And piles of ancient debris.

“What’s behind the doors?” Jason asked.