Overhead, the city was beginning to waken. The volume of sound began to increase.
Police Patrolman John Flanders relieved his fellow officer, Patrolman Fred Pilsudski, at a few minutes of eight in the morning.
It was a beautiful day, even for Miami. In the east, the morning sun shone brightly through the hard, transparent pressure glass that covered the street, making the smooth, resilient surface of the street itself glow with warm light. Overhead, Patrolman Flanders could see the aircars in their incessant motion—apparently random, unless one knew what the traffic pattern was and how to look for it. It was Patrolman Flanders' immediate ambition to be promoted to traffic patrol, so that he could be in an aircar above the city instead of watching pedestrians down here on the streets.
"Morning, Fred," he said to his brother officer. "How'd the night go?"
"Hi, Johnny. Pretty good. Not much excitement." He looked at his wristwatch. "You're a couple minutes early yet."
"Yeah. The baby started singing for his breakfast at a God-awful hour. Harriet woke up to feed him, which woke me up, so here I am. If you want to give me the call button, I'll take over. You can go get yourself a cup of coffee."
"I'm up to here with coffee," Pilsudski said, indicating a point just below his left ear. "I'll have a beer instead."
He touched a switch at his belt and said: "Area 37 HQ, this is 13392 Pilsudski."
A voice in his helmet phones said: "37 HQ, go ahead, Pilsudski."