win the election, tomorrow, but don't antagonize them. But if any of
those Ku Kluxers tries to pull a gun, don't waste time trying to wing
him. Just hold on to that fiery something-or-other on his chest and
let him have it, and let the coroner worry about him."

"Yeah. With pleasure," Goodkin replied. "You know, that nightshirt
thing they wear is about the stupidest idea for a storm-troop uniform
I ever saw. Natural target in a gunfight, and in a rough-and-tumble it
gets them all tangled up. Ah, there go a couple of coppers to talk to
them; that's what they've been waiting on. Now they can beat it
without looking like they been run out by our gang."

Cardon nodded. "Tell your boys to stay around for a while; they may
expect you to leave right after they do, and then they'll try to slip
back. You did a good job; got here promptly. Be seeing you, Goodkin."

He climbed into his own 'copter and started the motor.

"_Put the Literates in their place!_" the tri-dimensional colossus
roared triumphantly after the retreating Independents. "_Our servants,
not our masters!_"

* * * * *

At eight thousand, he got the 'copter onto the lower Manhattan beam
and relaxed. First of all, he'd have to do something about answering
Slade Gardner's telecast propaganda. That stuff was dangerous. The
answer ought to go on the air by noon, and should be stepped up
through the afternoon. First as a straight news story; Elliot Mongery
had fifteen minutes, beginning at 1215--no, that wouldn't do.