"Idiot!" she said. "Honestly, darling, you're the strangest sort of man to be a World Chancellor."
"These are strange times," he told her, smiling without mirth, though with genuine affection.
"Suppose—just suppose," she said, turning the pages slowly, "biology should be successful in stabilizing the species again. Would they have to set it back that far? I mean, either we or they would feel awfully out of style."
"What would you suggest?" he asked her solemnly.
"Don't be nasty," she said loftily. Then she giggled again and ruffled his hair. "I wish you'd have it dyed one color," she told him. "Either black or gray—or why not a bright puce?"
"What's for dinner?" he asked, adding, "If I can still eat after that."
The regional vice-chancellors were awaiting him in the next-to-the-innermost office when Bliss arrived at World Capital the next morning. Australia, Antarctica, Patagonia, Gobi, Sahara-Arabia—they followed him inside like so many penguins in the black-and-white official robes. All were deathly serious as they stated their problems.
Gobi wanted annual rainfall cut from 60 to 45 centimeters.
Sahara-Arabia was not receiving satisfactory food synthetics—there had been Moslem riots because of pork flavor in the meat.