Tachyon turned to Blaise, gestured toward the television with his bow. "It is going to be a desperate battle."

And as if in preparation for that upcoming battle, the alien had dressed in boots and breeches, with a black stock wrapped about the high lace collar of his shirt. An officer in Napoleon's Army could not have been more of a peacock than the slim, diminutive figure in his shimmering green outfit. On his breast in lieu of a Garter order hung a plastic ID card indicating that the bearer was one of the press contingent from the Jokertown Cry.

Blaise pulled a face and took a big bite out of a croissant. "Boring."

"Blaise, you are thirteen. Old enough to leave behind childish matters and take an interest in the larger world. On Takis you would be leaving the women's quarters. Preparing for your intensive education. Taking responsibility within the family. "

"Yeah, but we're not on Takis, and I'm not a joker, so I don't care a fuck."

"What did you say?" asked his grandsire in freezing accents.

"Fuck, you know, fuck. Anglo-Saxon word-"

"Crudity is never the mark of a gentlemen."

"You say it."

"Rarely. And please do as I say, not as I do." But Tachyon had the grace to grin sheepishly. "But child, jokers or not, we must care. We too are unique individuals, and if Barnett and his philosophy of oppression were to reach the White House it would devour us as well as the most miserable inhabitant of Jokertown. He wishes to place us in sanatoriums." Tachyon gave a snort of derision. "Why doesn't he just say the ugly word-concentration camps."