That was alarming. "Do you fear an epidemic, then?"

"I've seen Pox sweep through this city half a dozen times in my career. I fear an outbreak of it every day of my life, Mr. Hazzard. We don't know where epidemics come from and we don't know how to stop them. If it were up to me-"

But I never learned what the doctor would do, if it were up to him, for Calyxa called out anxiously from upstairs. Her labor had begun, and Polk dashed off to attend her.

I didn't follow him. He had told me to keep clear during the delivery. It wasn't a difficult promise to make. All I knew of the act of birth was what I had learned as a stable-boy in Williams Ford. I understood, abstractly, that Calyxa would be enduring the same trials the brood mares in the Duncan-Crowley barns suffered when they foaled; but I could not juxtapose those memories with my intimate knowledge of Calyxa-the resulting image was distasteful, at best.

The sound of Calyxa's cries came down from the bedroom at increasingly frequent intervals. Dr. Polk had sent for a female accoucheur (as the Eupatridians called their midwives) as soon as the labor began, and when this nurse arrived she took note of my anxiety and tried to ameliorate it by giving me a tincture of hemp oil and opium in a glass of water.

I wasn't accustomed to the medication. It took effect within the hour, and the result was not altogether calming. I lost direction of my thoughts; and before long I had invested all my attention in a survey of the doors of the kitchen cupboards. The oiled oaken doors became a kind of Movie Screen, to my eyes, on which the grain of the wood evolved into images of animals, steam engines, tropical forests, scenes of war, etc. These impressions were elastic, and each one flowed into the next like water in a rocky stream. I laughed at some of the visions, and recoiled at others-an observer might have mistaken me for feeble-minded. And while the effect was distracting, it was less than reassuring.

Dr. Polk and his nurse passed in and out of the kitchen like wraiths during this interval, drawing pans of water or rinsing out towels. Hours passed, though they might have been minutes or months, in so far as I could calculate time in my intoxicated state. I did not entirely wake from my reveries until I heard a prodigious scream from the upstairs bedroom-a deep, masculinescream, in the voice of Dr. Polk.

I stood up shakily. I hadn't forgotten my promise to keep out of the doctor's way. But this seemed like an exceptional circumstance. Had Dr. Polk really cried out in terror, or had I imagined it? Uncertainty retarded my step. Then there was another cry, neither Calyxa's nor the doctor's-the nurse had joined the chorus. A cold dread came over me, and I rushed to the stairs.

Dire fantasies played about my imagination. Monstrous births and miscarriages had been common during the Plague of Infertility, and they still occurred from time to time, even in the second half of the twenty-second century. I refused to permit myself the thought that Calyxa might have given birth to some creature so unusual that even a hardened physician would cry out and recoil from it. But the possibility haunted me. The stairs seemed absurdly steep, and I was breathless by the time I reached the landing. I found the bedroom ajar. Unsteadily, I lunged for it.

The cause of the excitement was immediately obvious, though at first I doubted what I was seeing.

Dr. Polk and his nurse stood with their backs to the wall, expressions of stark terror distorting their faces. They were staring at the bedroom's large double window. Earlier in the day Dr. Polk had thrown open the shutters, as he often did, in the belief that fresh air is an invalid's best friend. Just now that same window was filled with an enormous, foul-smelling, bestial Head.

I was not so intoxicated that I didn't grasp what had happened. The Head belonged to Otis. Otis, being a bachelor Giraffe, must have been attracted by the unusual sounds and smells of childbirth. Wandering close to the house, he had put his head inside the open window as a natural means of satisfying his curiosity. But Dr. Polk didn't know that an adult Giraffe was allowed to roam the Palace grounds, and he was understandably startled by such a development. His nurse shared his astonishment and terror.

Calyxa was well enough acquainted with Otis not to be frightened, but his arrival had unfortunately coincided with the penultimate moments of her labor. Her face was red and dewed with perspiration, and she shouted "Virez-moi cette girafe d'ici!" in a fierce and desperate voice.

I went as close to the window as I dared and made remonstrances with Otis by shouting and waving my arms. This annoyed him enough that he eventually obliged me by withdrawing. I quickly closed the windows and latched the shutters. Otis bumped his nose against these barriers once or twice, then abandoned his inquiries in disgust.

"Only a Giraffe," I said to Dr. Polk-apologetically, though I was not responsible for Otis.

"Keep it away, please," he said, struggling to recover his dignity.

"Otis is his name. He won't bother you any more, if you keep the window shut."

"I wasn't warned about Giraffes," the doctor growled. Then he regained a degree of composure, and told me I was the father of a baby girl.

* The glances she returned were not always equally warm, for carrying a child to term is a cumbersome job, which can wear down a person's good spirits.

4.

Readers hoping for a political chronology of Julian's career as President of the United States, with all the minutiae and details of his legislation, will be disappointed by my narrative.* The weeks between Easter and Independence Day of 2174-as important as they were in the evolution of the Executive Power-were consumed, for me, by the considerable work and fuss attendant on fatherhood.

Authors who discuss the period generally portray Julian as a haughty and implacable enemy of religion, or as a broad-minded and indulgent friend of liberty, as their convictions dictate. Perhaps both characterizations contain some element of truth, for Julian-especially in the Presidency-was more than one man.

It's true that during this time his hostile relations with the Dominion reached the boiling point, with consequences familiar to historians. It's also true that his relations with the Unaffiliated Churches were warm and generous, uncharacteristically so for one who has been labeled "the Agnostic" or "the Atheist." These were not contradictions of policy so much as contradictions of character. Julian loathed Power, but couldn't resist the urge to use it for what he considered benevolent ends. He had disdained the scepter; but now it was in his hands, and he made a tool of it. His vision expanded, and his perspective narrowed.

I saw him often during these months, though not in any official capacity. He stopped by the guest-house often, and he was always delighted to see and handle Flaxie. Flaxie, a good-natured baby, enjoyed his attentions, and it pleased me to watch them together. He was equally attentive to Calyxa, and made sure she had all she wanted of luxuries and kindnesses during her recovery. "The only thing he hasn't given me," Calyxa remarked at one point, "is an exemption from that damned Ecclesiastical Writ"-but he would have done so, had it been in his power; and he continued to vex Deacon Hollingshead about it, among other weighty issues.

Sam was equally absorbed in the domestic business of his marriage to Emily Baines Comstock (now Godwin), and I was afraid that Julian would grow lonely without the kind of close companionship Sam and I had formerly offered him. For that reason I was glad of his burgeoning friendship with Pastor Magnus Stepney of the Church of the Apostles Etc. The two of them had lately become inseparable, and their amiable arguments over God and Destiny and such topics were, for Julian, a welcome relief, and a distraction from the burdens of the Presidency.

In the military realm Julian won accolades for consolidating the few gains his uncle had made, for withholding further ground initiatives until the Army of the Laurentians had been restored in strength and spirit, and for pursuing the battle with the Dutch at sea rather than on land. Admiral Fairfield conducted several successful naval maneuvers during this time, and the strategic Mitteleuropan coaling station at Iqaluit was shelled into submission. If it wasn't "the final crushing blow to European aggression" so many had expected of Julian Conqueror, it was at least enough to satisfy patriotic sentiment.

In truth, that spring and summer season, I gave little thought to the future, except on those nights when Flaxie slept soundly in her crib, and Calyxa and I lay in bed together, talking.

"We'll have to leave, you know," Calyxa said on one such night in June. A warm breeze came through the bedroom window, which we had equipped with sturdy screens to discourage insects and Giraffes. "We can't stay here."

"I know," I said, "though it's been pleasant enough." I would miss the Preserve, the Statuary Lawn, the respite from urban noise and clutter; but we couldn't make the Palace grounds a permanent home. "We can find a place in the city as soon as Julian has that Writ annulled."

She shook her head. "The Dominion won't annul it, Adam. It's time we admitted the truth of the thing. The Writ is a point of honor with Deacon Hollingshead. He won't relinquish it until he's in his grave, and he has the whole weight of the Dominion behind him. Institutions like the Dominion of Jesus Christ on Earth don't surrender power willingly."

"That's pessimistic. Unless the Writ is annulled, we can't leave the Palace grounds."

Calyxa turned her head away, and the moonlight made a reflection in her pensive eyes. "How long do you think Julian will keep the Executive, if he insists on picking fights with Senators and Deacons?"

"He's only just become President."

"What guarantee is that? Presidents have had shorter terms."

It was true that, in the course of history, certain Presidents had been removed or murdered after a brief term of office. But only under unusual circumstances. Most famously, young Varnum Bayard had been deposed after less than a week when he inherited the Executive in 2106; but that was because he was twelve years old, and not experienced enough to defend himself against a coup. I said that Julian seemed safe enough for now.

"That's an illusion. Sooner or later, Adam, we'll have to leave, if we want to live out our lives in safety. Six months from now-a year, maybe-almost certainly not more than that."

"Well, but where would we go? We would hardly be more anonymous in the city, with my career as a book-writer. And the city isn't a safe place either, given the new Pox that's going around."

"In the worst case, Adam, we might have to leave the city altogether. Maybe even the country."

"The country!"

"To keep Flaxie away from harm, wouldn't it be worthwhile?"

"Of course it would, if that was the only practical way to protect her, but I hardly think it is-certainly not yet!"

"Not yet," Calyxa agreed; but her mouth was pursed in a frown, and her eyes seemed focused on some point well beyond the encompassing walls of the Guest House. "No, not yet; but time passes, Adam. Things change. Julian is on a dangerous path. I don't mind him tackling the Dominion-he's brave to do it-but I don't mean to let anything happen to Flaxie, no matter the politics of it."

"Of course we won't let anything happen to Flaxie."

"Tell me again. Say it again, Adam, and then I might be able to sleep."

"Nothing will happen to Flaxie," I promised her.

"Thank you," she said, sighing.

She did sleep then. I couldn't; for the same conversation that settled her fears had aggravated mine. After an hour of restlessness I put on a robe and went to sit on the porch of the guest-house. The broad swathes of lawn and forest that comprised the Palace grounds lay dark under a clear and moonless sky. The appointed hours of the Illumination of Manhattan had passed, and the city cast no special glow. Summer constellations performed their calendrical marches overhead, and I reminded myself that the same stars had shone indifferently over this island back when it was inhabited by Secular Businessmen, or Unchurched Aborigines before that, or even Mammoths and Giant Sloths (if Julian's evolutionary narratives were to be believed). Because my wife and child were sleeping in the house behind me, away from immediate danger, I prayed that this particular moment of time would linger indefinitely, and that nothing would happen to change it.

But the world would change, one way or another-it couldn't be stopped from changing. Julian had preached that homily to me in Williams Ford, long ago; and events since then had only driven home the truth of it.

The stars set, the stars rose. I went back to my summer bed.

Mr. Hungerford had wanted A Western Boy at Sea published by the Fourth of July, in the belief that the patriotic emotions of that Universal Holiday might boost its sales. His printers achieved the goal he set for them: the book was impressed and available for purchase by the first of that month. I attended a small event at the offices of the Spark to celebrate the release.

Apart from Mr. Hungerford, I hardly knew any of the persons present in the room. Some were authors of other books in Hungerford's line-generally a seedy bunch (the authors, I mean, not necessarily their novels), many displaying the visible effects of dissipative living. Present as well were certain Manhattan businessmen who distributed books, or shopkeepers who sold them-also a roguish crew, but less hopelessly inebriated than the writers, and more genuinely enthusiastic about my work. I said polite things to all these people, and reminded myself to smile whenever I detected a witticism.

Copies of A Western Boy had been stacked on a table. They were the first I had seen in finished form. I remember to this day the nervous pleasure of holding one of these specimens in my hand and inspecting the two-color blind-stamped illustration on the front of it. The illustration showed my protagonist, the Western boy Isaiah Compass, with a sword in his right hand and a pistol in his left, battling a Pirate beneath a sketchy Palm Tree, while an Octopus-inexplicably out of his native element-looked on menacingly. I had not included an Octopus in my story, and I hoped the general reader, his interest aroused by this illustration, would not be disappointed by its absence from the text. I mentioned my concern to Mr. Hungerford, who said it didn't matter; there were better things than Octopuses in the novel, he said; the Octopus was only there to snag the attention of potential customers, in which role it admittedly performed a useful service. Still, I wondered if I ought to put an Octopus, or some other exciting and deadly form of oceanic life, into my next book, in order to compensate readers who might feel cheated by this one.

One New York City writer who was not present at the event (nor expected to be, since Hungerford wasn't his publisher) was Mr. Charles Curtis Easton. I asked Mr. Hungerford whether he had ever met that famous author.

"Charles Easton? Met him in passing once or twice. He's a decent enough old man, not at all haughty about his success. He lives in a house off 82nd Street."

"I have always admired his work."

"Why don't you go see him, if you're curious? I hear he's willing to entertain fellow writers if they don't take up too much of his time."

I was intrigued and dismayed by the suggestion. "I'm a complete stranger to him ..."

Hungerford dismissed this objection as trivial. He took out one of his personal cards, and wrote on the back of it an introduction to me and my work. "Take this with you when you visit-it'll get you in the door."

"I wouldn't like to disturb him."

"Do or don't-suit yourself," John Hungerford said.

Of course I wanted to meet Charles Curtis Easton. But I was also afraid that I might embarrass myself by fawning, or exhibit my greenness in some other way. I could not visit him, I decided, without some better pretext than a first novel and a scribbled introduction on a calling card.

As it happened, it was Julian who provided that pretext.

Julian was visiting Calyxa when I arrived back at the guest-house. Flaxie sat in his lap, flailing at his beard with her tiny fist. Flaxie was tremendously interested in Julian's beard, which depended from his chin like a hank of yellow twine. On the occasions when she managed to get hold of it she yanked it as enthusiastically as a boat-captain sounding a steam whistle, and laughed at the screeches Julian inevitably gave out. It was a game they both seemed to enjoy, though it left Julian's eyes watering.

I showed off my new book, and gave copies to Julian and Calyxa. They admired it and praised it, though uncomfortable questions arose about the illustration on the cover. Eventually Flaxie grew restive, and Calyxa carried her off for a feeding.

Julian took advantage of her absence to confide in me that his work on The Life and Adventures of the Great Naturalist Charles Darwin remained stalled and incomplete. "I always meant to make this movie," he said. "Now I have the means within my grasp-who knows for how much longer?-and it still won't settle on the page. I'm serious about this, Adam. I need help-I admit it. And since you're the author of a novel, and have some understanding of these things, I want to beg your assistance."

He had brought the manuscript with him. It was a thin stack of pages, battered and dog-eared from his constant handling of it. He seemed abashed when he handed it to me.

"Will you look at it?" he asked with genuine humility. "And give me any advice that occurs to you?"

"I'm only a novice," I said. "I'm not sure I'll be able to help."

But I could think of someone who might.

I waited until Monday, the third day of July, to ride out to 82nd Street to find the residence of Mr. Charles Curtis Easton. The house where he lived was clearly numbered, and easy enough to identify in the summer sunlight; but I passed it once, and passed it twice, and passed it yet again, working up the courage to knock at the door.

When I finally knocked, however tentatively, the door was opened by a woman with a young child tugging at her skirt. I showed her Hungerford's card with its referral. She looked at it and smiled. "My father generally naps between three and five. But I'll see if he's available. Step in, please, Mr. Hazzard."

Thus I entered the Easton house, that Temple of Story, which enclosed a cheerful din, and where the air was rich with the odors created by good food and perhaps less good children. After a brief interval, during which three of those same children stared at me with relentless interest, Mr. Easton's daughter returned down a flight of stairs, dodging wheeled toys and other impediments, and invited me up to her father's study. "He would be happy to meet you. Go on in, Mr. Hazzard," she said, indicating the open door. "Don't be shy!"

Charles Curtis Easton was inside. I recognized him instantly from the portrait which was embossed on the backs of all his books. He sat at a crowded desk, under a bright window dappled with ailanthus shade, the very picture of a working writer. He wasn't a young man. His hair was snowy white, and it had retreated from his forehead and taken up a defensive position at the back of his skull. He wore a full beard, also white; and his eyes, which were embedded in networks of amiable wrinkles, gazed out from under ivory brows. He wasn't fat, exactly, but he had the physique of a man who works sitting down and dines to his own satisfaction.

"Come in, Mr. Hazzard," he said, glancing at the card his daughter had given him. "I'm always happy to meet a young writer. The Adventures of Captain Commongold: that was yours, wasn't it?"

"Yes," I said, pleased that he had heard of it.

"A fine book, although the punctuation was somewhat eccentric. And you have a new one?"

It was in my hand. I had brought an inscribed copy as a gift. Stammering out my purpose, I passed it over.

"A Western Boy at Sea," he read, examining the boards. "And it has an Octopus in it!"

"Well, no ... the Octopus was the illustrator's conceit."

"Oh? Too bad. But the sword and the pistol?"

"They make several appearances." My embarrassment was almost painful. Why hadn't I put an Octopus in the story? It wouldn't have been hard to do. I ought to have thought of it in advance.

"That's fine," said Mr. Charles Curtis Easton, concealing any disappointment he might have felt. He put the book aside. "Sit down. You met my daughter? And my grandchildren?"

I fitted myself into an upholstered chair. "We weren't fully introduced, but they seem very nice."

He beamed at this modest compliment. "Tell me about yourself, then, Mr. Hazzard. You don't appear to be one of the high Eupatridians-no insult intended-and yet you're associated with the current President, isn't that right?"

I told him as briefly as possible about my origins in the boreal west and about the unexpected events that had led to my residing on the Palace grounds. I told him how much his work had meant to me when I was a young lease-boy eager for books, and how I remained loyal to his writing and frequently recommended it to others. He accepted the praise gracefully, and asked more questions about the war, and Labrador, and such topics. He seemed genuinely interested in my answers; and by the time half an hour had passed we were "old friends."

But it was not my intention just to flatter him, much as he may have deserved the flattery. Before long I mentioned Julian Comstock's interest in the theater, and his intention of developing a movie script on a subject close to his heart.

"That's an unusual ambition for a President," Mr. Easton observed.

"It is, sir; but Julian is an unusual President. His love of cinema is genuine and earnest. He's hit a snag, though, which his storytelling skills can't surmount." I went on to describe in general The Life and Adventures of the Great Naturalist Charles Darwin.

"Darwin and biological evolution are difficult topics to dramatize," Mr. Easton said, "and isn't he worried that the result won't receive the Dominion's approval? Very religious persons aren't keen on Mr. Charles Darwin, if I remember my lessons."

"You remember them correctly. Julian is no admirer of the worldly power of the Dominion, however, and he intends to overrule their objections in this case."

"Can he do such a thing?"

"He says he can. But the problem is with the script. It won't spring to life the way he wants it to. He asked my advice, but I'm only a beginning writer. I thought-of course I don't mean to presume on your generosity-"

"I wouldn't ordinarily look at a novice's screen-play. A commission from a sitting President of the United States is a different matter, however. I've worked on a few cinematic translations of my own stories in the past. I suppose I could examine President Comstock's material, and offer some advice, if it's wanted."

"It's very much wanted, sir, and I'm sure Julian will be grateful for anything you can tell him, as will I."

"Have you brought the script?"

"Yes," I said, drawing the folded pages out of my vest pocket. "Handwritten, I'm afraid," for I saw that Mr. Easton owned a typewriter even more sleek than the machine I had obtained from Theodore Dornwood, "but Julian's cursive is legible, mostly."

"I'd like to read it. Will you wait downstairs while I do so?"