He had no idea how Barb smiled and chatted through it all as though she were actually enjoying herself. Christ, maybe she was. The next thirty minutes passed in a painful series of meet 'n' greets with a procession of dignitaries, foreign guests, senators and Congressbots, and Seattle City Council officials, all of whom had been elected well after he'd left the City Engineers Department. It was with a truly pathetic sense of gratitude that he spotted Barney Tench, his old college bud and now reconstruction czar, working the buffet over by the windows.

"Barn! Man, how you doin'?" he called out over the heads of the crowd, instantly drawing the attention of about fifty or sixty people to Tench, who was caught stuffing a giant piece of crabmeat into his mouth. Allan Horbach actually face-palmed himself, and Barb gave him a small kick in the back of his leg.

"But I need to talk to Barney," he protested. "It's about work."

"Not now, Mister President," the protocol Nazi insisted. "Mister Ford is about to perform."

"The poet?" said Kip. "Oh. Great."

Back through the press of the crowd they went, every step blocked by somebody who wanted a small piece of his time, all the way up to the front of the room, where Kip was introduced to a thin, nervous-looking man in a slightly ill-fitting suit. He instantly felt for him. Ford looked no more comfortable than he did.

"Mister President," said Allan Horbach, "might I present our first poet laureate of the new age."

That's what we're calling it now, he thought. When did we start calling the end of the fucking world a new age?

He shook Ford's hand and leaned in close to be heard over the crowd.

"Don't worry, buddy; by tomorrow this'll all just be a terrible nightmare."

"What?" Ford looked shaken. "Oh. A joke. I see. Okay, then. Shall I read now?"

"I think the president wants to say a few words first," said Horbach.