"Terry? Thought you two were Kurt and Ronal Blair? Washington, western hemisphere north?"
"We live in Washington, that's for sure," Terry said. "But I'm—"
"Hey I know, Terry. It's all like we said, and here that's us. You can be Kurt. I'm Ronal. But don't get mixed up."
"Your father's Senior Quadrate Douglas Blair, isn't he?" the tall boy said.
"He's the Douglas Blair part, anyway," Mike said. "Makes I guess over thirteen thousand dollars a year, too."
"Say, you sure you're all right? I didn't think you were hit very hard in practice yesterday, but you talk as if you were. Thirteen thousand dollars is just about enough to buy a loaf of bread. Your father makes what mine does and what every other adult does—thirty billion dollars a year. Then after he contributes his dutiful share to the Prelatinate, he has a billion dollars left. Didn't you know that?"
"Gosh no. Not exactly, I mean."
"What's Prelatinate?" Terry asked.
"What's—listen, fellows—any one of us, even a Quadrate's son, can be turned into the Director for saying a thing like that, even as a joke. Better watch it. If there's one thing you learn here, it's praise and respect for your government. They're pretty rough on sacrilege, I should think your father would have told you. My training was started when I was four, but you sound almost as though you haven't had any yet."
"I don't even remember when I was four," Mike said.