"Think of it," she cried. "You could be telling your secrets to Papa. And then, later, Papa would be called in to a police station and his wiretap taken out and everything you said was recorded on a tiny spool inside him."
"Ah," said the children, relishing the shudder of it all. It was like a prehistoric ghost story, possible but weird because it had no connection to known life.
"But the human wiretaps didn't last long," said Miss Hippiness, making a serious-comic face which brought a ripple of laughter to the twelve youngsters. "By early in the 21st Century every part of the world had passed laws so nobody ever again could be wiretapped."
She looked at the clock. In two minutes the pills would wear off.
"Enough for today, children," she announced.
"But how about the gangsters?" Marymarymary asked in a petulant voice. "Please, Miss Hippiness, you said—"
"Enough for today," Miss Hippiness said sternly. "It's time to go home. We'll tell more stories tomorrow."
She said it just in time. The sun blinked out. A bell tinkled, and the school day was over. The children stood up and waited.
"All right," said Miss Hippiness with a smile. "Single file, children. To the transmitter in your right order."
The children walked, like children always have, with spurting giggles and sudden scuffles, toward the gleaming wire cage, festooned with pretty cutouts of colorful animals and buildings and trees.