and tamarack, grown in five years. The population was close on two
millions, largely migratory between Florida and California, with a
backbone of small farms (they call a thousand acres a farm in Illinois)
whose owners come into Chicago for amusements and society during the
winter. They were, he said, noticeably kind, quiet folk, but a little
exacting, as all flat countries must be, in their notions of privacy.
There had, for instance, been no printed news-sheet in Illinois for
twenty-seven years. Chicago argued that engines for printed news sooner
or later developed into engines for invasion of privacy, which in turn
might bring the old terror of Crowds and blackmail back to the Planet.
So news-sheets were not.

'And that's Illinois,' De Forest concluded. 'You see, in the Old Days,
she was in the forefront of what they used to call "progress," and
Chicago--'

'Chicago?' said Takahira. 'That's the little place where there is
Salati's Statue of the Nigger in Flames? A fine bit of old work.'

'When did you see it?' asked De Forest quickly. 'They only unveil it
once a year.'

'I know. At Thanksgiving. It was then,' said Takahira, with a shudder.
'And they sang MacDonough's Song, too.'

'Whew!' De Forest whistled. 'I did not know that! I wish you'd told me
before. MacDonough's Song may have had its uses when it was composed,
but it was an infernal legacy for any man to leave behind.'

'It's protective instinct, my dear fellows,' said Pirolo, rolling a