"Button-down lingo," sneered Ev.
"What is that miniature monster in your pocket ... Marmoset? Mutated rat?"
"Super-mongoose. The result of certain esoteric nuclear experiments off Madagascar."
They hove to at "MAB"—the Merchandising Arts Building, West Coast hub of influence on the docile consumer.
They floated up the exterior tube to the 39th Floor (Socio-Economic) which was actually the hotbed of the political efforts of Cam and his associates. Entry through the wall-port brought them face-to-fang with Father Sowles ("Save Your Souls With Sowles"). The lank, fiery pulpit-pounder had been tabbed as a political natural by certain elders whose money was known as wise; and in consequence, his campaign for the Directorship of North America's Western Zone was being master-minded by Pacific Persuaders, Inc., a pseudopod of the MAB complex.
The crusader struck a Charlton Heston pose and snarled: "In the name of Christendom, what peculiar intruder bring you before me?"
Everett meticulously assayed the gaunt, fanatic figure before him, clad in apostolic robes. "I'll do a lot for a dollar, as the girl said to the soldier, but this is ludicrous. Who needs Telempathy? This cat is so phony, any gossoon can peg him."
Sowles motioned to a monkish aide at a desk, who scribbled furiously in a drab notebook. Cam walked to the aide's side and read: "Gossoons."
"I don't have to look, Cam," said Everett. "I have just issued the death warrant for gossoons, if this vampire ever comes to power, and if he ever finds out what they are."