"Spies?"
"The Party," she said, drawing him to one side.
"But—but—you mean the Party just lets people talk like this?"
"Whatever harm does it do?" she asked. "Everybody benefits from talking out their aggressions. Now, have another drink and relax, and Shamar, be careful! Nobody minds local crackpots, but nobody wants foreign crackpots!"
She led him to another drink and left him standing with the host.
"Nice party," Shamar said.
"Thank you," the host said. "I find it very invigorating. As long as there's still people that think and that criticize on this planet, I feel there's hope, don't you? This is your first time? I don't recall your face. I have a study group that meets Wednesday nights. You're welcome to come. We have very stimulating discussions about government and politics. Please do come, any time you can. Just drop in any time after eight. What was your name again?"
"Shamar the Worker."
"Interesting name," the host said. "Another drink?"
Later, Shamar found himself in an intense conversation with a bearded youth of perhaps seventeen.