We drove through the town square where I could see the local guillotine. I asked the driver to slow down. It was a standard issue guillotine: thirty feet high, a miniature stainless steel skyscraper with its giant head cocked up waiting for the simple acknowledgement of gravity. The blade was clean and stood in sharp contrast to the glowing, neon score board surrounding it. Its message was still flashing yesterday's execution news:

"THIS TOWN'S EFFICIENCY RATIO IS 64 PERCENT. YOU ARE 12 PERCENT BELOW THE NATIONAL AVERAGE."

Underneath the letters several large video screens rapidly displayed a succession of images: nurses caring for children in clean hospitals, shiny productive factories with rows of smiling workers, couples laughing and drinking. Across the bottom of the screen the words flashed:

"THERE ARE THOSE AMONG YOU WHO CONTINUE TO USE UP SCARCE FEDERAL FUNDS, DRAINING THE RESOURCES OF YOUR PROUD CITY. WE ENCOURAGE YOU TO STOP THE WASTE! DON'T LET THE LEECHES RUIN YOUR CITY. FOR EVERY ONE PERCENT DECREASE IN WASTE, WE WILL INCREASE YOUR FUNDING BY 5,000 PER PERSON! LOOK AT ALL THE POTENTIAL PRIZES YOU MAY GAIN! BEGIN TODAY TO ELIMINATE WASTEFUL SPENDING. DO YOUR PART TO DISCOURAGE FINANCIAL WASTE."

The screen flashed a list of names: individuals on government assistance, retired government workers, mothers on welfare, medicare patients; and of course the usual TEN-PERCENTERS. Beside each name was a summary of their yearly costs to the NATIONSTATES. In addition, their addresses and phone numbers were provided in case anyone wished to "further their patriotic duty by pressuring those on assistance to return to a life of productive activity."

Occasionally strollers would stop and look at the terminals, scrambling to see if their names were on the list of wasteful spenders. Once they saw their names were not listed, they usually left. Those whose names appeared acted surprised and attempted to avoid the glares of those around them. One fellow, whose grandmother had recently gone to the hospital because of pains in her chest, bitterly gave the excuse his grandmother would be back to work any day.

I had seen enough. I could feel the acids in my stomach begin gnawing away at my stomach lining. I pressed the intercom button and told the driver to continue toward the airport. It's hard to believe only a year ago I was living in the village myself, slaving away on my terminal.

Sandoor himself was waiting for me inside the terminal. He was wearing weekend attire: a synthetic tie-die t-shirt, a bead necklace, and skin tight purple pants that flared out toward the ankles. He obviously hadn't shaved this morning and his hair was combed down over his forehead.

"Let me guess...Paul, right?" Sandoor was indulging in the latest fad: weekend impersonation of one of the Beatles.

"FABFOUR is right, man. I look just like him, don't I?" I nodded and forced a smile. Sandoor did not a good Paul McCartney look-a-like make.

"My plane is fueled and ready for take off," he smirked under his faux bangs.

"Your plane? Since when do you have a plane?"

"Since the Phoenix Project. When I started in Phoenix, its shares were selling for nine--can you imagine--nine credits per share. After operations I sold 'em at fifty-nine credits per share. Had over a hundred thousand shares. I did okay."

"I'll say you did okay. Jeeza Louisa, you're not our best investor for nothing!"

"I do my best." Sandoor reached down and rubbed his shoe with a piece of cloth. Even on FABFOUR weekends he had to make sure his shoes shined all day long.

"Let's head out, shall we?" I activated my magnetized luggage so it could obediently follow me, and we started walking through the long corridors toward the landing strip. This had been a huge bustling airport until the invisible fist of the free market came in and completely privatized it. Hell, nowadays if you were important enough to fly anywhere, you were important enough to have your own jet. Folks don't do much flying these days anyway. At one point, MACROHARD was going to buy out most of the airports and reserve the planes for its executives, but then Will came up with a new type of communications software that pretty much eliminated the need for executives to travel. That sure saved him a bundle. Oh sure, some business people still fly around the world, but it's a hell of a luxury. Sure isn't cost effective, that's for sure.

We arrived at the departure gate. Three of Sandoor's staff greeted us and took our luggage.

"Well, what do you think, Kemosabe?" Sandoor said as he raised his arm to display his new toy.

"Looks real nice, Sandy. You've done well." Sandoor always treated me like an older brother. He seemed to need my approval. He winked at one of his female assistants and we climbed on board. Inside we were quickly strapped in and off the ground. All the amenities were here: Acustim, Endostim, Relaxanyl, topical Valium 5, even the rare and famous Prozametaphin.

"Where'd you get the proz? This is hard to get shit, even by INVESTOR standards. Whose chain did you have to pull?"

Sandoor opened a huge wooden box and took out a giant Cuban cigar. "Oh, you know me. Friends in low places, I guess." Sandoor reached into his pharmaceutical bag and pulled out the bottle of Prozaphetamin.

"Let's start with an appetizer," he said as he placed a teaspoonful of the gray powder into a plastic bag. He closed the bag and shook it vigorously. Then, he opened the top of the bag and vigorously inhaled all of the contents. A huge grin appeared on his face as his body fell limp for five seconds. He then sat up, lit his cigar, and stared out the window.

"Ah, the prose of Proz," I said as I reached into the black bag. "Tis truly poetry." I preferred to take my Proz in tablet form.

"How can you inhale this stuff? And that damn cigar, why don't you go modern and use tubes like I do?"

"Because of the fucking spirituality that's involved. That's why." Sandoor's eyes were moving back-and-forth rapidly.

"Spirituality?" I said, wondering where this Proz inspired conversation was leading.

"Of course. When I inhale, I am breathing in the spirit. Don't you read? That's why so many people used to smoke their cigarettes."

"Now, wait a minute, I'm not up on that theory," I said as I reached for one of my tobacco tubes.

"Sure. People smoked, and even smoked themselves to death, because smoking was the last twentieth century ritual. The act of inhaling the white by-product of burning tobacco leaves was an unconscious metaphor for the holy spirit entering the body." Sandoor never talked philosophy, except after taking Proz.

"Let me see if I get this: Smoking cigarettes was a religious act? Cigarettes were some kind of sacrament? Is that what you're fuckin' trying to tell me?"

"I didn't say they actually were a sacrament, ditto head. I only said the act of smoking served as a substitute for ritual in a secular culture that had essentially lost its sense of ritual. Think about it: the act of smoking is the pulling in and physical intermingling of the physical--the body--and the non-physical--the smoke. The unification of matter and spirit. Remember the violent attacks against public institutions by smokers in the last part of the century staged by smokers and tobacco companies fighting against all the anti-smoking regulations? Thousands of people died. It was a religious war, not a drug war. If you watched your fuckin' history you'd know that."