"I have a message for you," said Flora's secretary, a plump, middle-aged woman named Bertha. She waved a piece of paper. "Congressman Blackford wants you to call him back."

"Does he?" Flora said, as neutrally as she could. "All right, I'll do that. Thank you." She went into her inner office and closed the door after her. She didn't turn around to see whether Bertha was smiling behind her back. She hoped not, but she didn't really want to know.

Dakota, a solidly Socialist state, had been returning Hosea Blackford to the House since Flora was a girl. He was about twice her age now, a senior figure in the Party, even if on the soft side ideologically as far as she was concerned. And he was a widower whose Philadelphia apartment lay right across the hall from hers. He had left no doubt he was interested in her, though he'd never done anything to tempt her into defending herself with a hatpin. To her own surprise, she found herself interested in return, even if he was both a moderate and a gentile.

"Now," she muttered as she picked up the telephone and waited for the operator to come on the line, "is he calling about Party business or… something else?"

"Hello, Flora," Blackford said when the call went through. "I just wanted to know if you had seen the newspaper stories about strikes in Ohio and Indiana and Illinois."

Party business, then. "I'm afraid I haven't," Flora said. "I just got back from visiting David."

"How is he?" Blackford asked.

"They've fitted the artificial leg, and he was up on it." Flora shook her head, though Blackford couldn't see that. "Even with one leg gone, he talks like a Democrat." She inked a pen and slid a piece of paper in front of her so she could take notes. "Now tell me about these strikes."

"From what I've read, factory owners are trying to hold down wages by pitting workers against each other," he said. "With soldiers starting to come home from the war, they have more people wanting jobs than there are jobs to give, so they're seeing who will work for the lowest pay."