“Anonymous,” Papadelias invited, “would you like to come inside and address the Senate?”

Vivien swallowed hard. “I can’t be the Anonymous anymore. I already have a successor prepared. The title will pass on to them now.”

Papa nodded his sympathy. “Censor, then.”

Vivien swallowed harder. “I’m also stepping down as Censor.” He raised his eyes to face the crowd again. “I don’t want everyone to think the Censor’s always been the Anonymous. It was coincidence with me; the skills that let me track the previous Anonymous also caught the last Censor’s eye, but that’s the only connection between the two offices, and no previous Anonymous has been Censor or vice versa. Anyway, I filed my resignation as Censor as I left the office. My last act as Censor was to place a twelve-month freeze on the Senatorial proportioning. The number of Senators allotted to each Hive will remain locked as it is now. No matter how many people leave one Hive for another, even if one Hive dissolves, or two merge, or who knows what, the governing body that has safely maintained this utopia longer than any of us has been alive will stay in its present proportion, and stay in control. It’s my hope this will make people wait, and think, and keep the changes slow. All day today my… the Censor’s… office has been flooded with applications to switch Hives, more than we normally get in a year. If you have doubts about your Hive, there’s no reason to switch today, you can switch tomorrow, next week, after six months, after we all know more about everything.” He steeled himself, one last deep breath. “I know nobody trusts the Humanists right now. Nobody can trust Ganymede, and after this nobody can trust the Vice President, either.” He dug his fingers hard into his Graylaw Hiveless sash. “Before I left my office, I filed an application to join the Humanists. It should be processed within a few days. In that time, the Humanist Senators should have no difficulty passing a vote of No Confidence in the current Humanist government. In the emergency election that follows, if I am nominated for office in the Hive, whether Preisdent or any other office, I will accept, and, since all the other Hives still trust me, hopefully I can help oversee the Humanists as we transition to a system without O.S.”

A real cheer rose now, confident, unanimous, and, to not a few of us, frightening.

* * *

«Non, Altesse, les Utopistes et les Brillists sont différents.» (No, Highness, Utopians and Brillists are different.)

“Quomodo?” (How?)

The nurse sighed at her young Charge, eight years old then, too big for her to carry Him as she used to. «‘Quomodo’ n’est pas français, Altesse,» (‘Quomodo’ is not French, Highness,) she corrected gently as she set Him on His feet. «Dirons, ‘Comment.’» (We say, ‘Comment.’)

«Comment?» the Child Jehovah parroted.

Felix Faust turned to watch the pair. Do not ask me how the thirteen years between this scene and now have changed Faust, reader; you may as well ask how they have changed the Sphinx. The master of Brill’s Institute of Psychotaxonomic Science sat as ever by his window in the Salon de Sade, burying his grief over the loss of his prize pupil Mercer Mardi by studying the Flesh Pit where Madame’s clients explored the depths of love. “Language trouble again?”