“That Pope. He’s off his melon.” Mr. Drop.

Sposh came to the local stimulatory and looked up at the shingle. It read, “Ye olde Muck and Brew. Last Drop, Proprietor.” Last came to the door pushing a small mound of dust with a broom that looked like it had been in his family for generations.

Sposh greeted him. “All day, Mr. Drop.”

Drop looked up. “Oh, hi.”

“How are you doing this morning?” asked Sposh.

“Frankly, frazzled.” Drop scratched in the fur by his right ear, waiting for new thoughts to form. “My help quit.”

Sposh stood patiently, maintaining the currency of a polite smile. Last Drop was a Dalop of the same general lineage as Sposh. He was tall, thin, and often ill-dressed. Drop was always at a loss, and slow to speak. His gray fur never lay all in the same direction. It had been whispered about that Mr. Drop was absent-minded. Suddenly, the shadow of a thought crossed Mr. Drop’s face, and from all indications, it was a doozy.

Laying a hand on Sposh’s shoulder, Drop looked, with conspiratorial verve, to left and right before he spoke. He bent close and said in a hushed voice, “That Pope. He’s off his melon.” Then Drop screwed a finger into his temple for emphasis.

Sposh restrained his urge to nod in absolute agreement. He simply said, “Yes, Mr. Drop.”

Drop said, “You didn’t hear that from me.”

“No sir,” said Sposh.

Drop continued. “This plan of his, to put the women in their place,” Drop looked left and right. “It’s doomed to fail. Did you hear the speech?” asked Drop.

“Must have missed it,” said Sposh patiently.

Drop reared back. “Got the little lady all fired.”

Sposh crossed his spear behind his head and draped his arms over it. In long conversations, it was wise to get comfortable. The floodgate had opened; he would hear it all, now.

Drop opened up. “Women always have been a might uppity. They got the edge. But, this will send them into a right heat.”

“Yes sir,” said Sposh.

Drop leaned in and said emphatically, “There’ll be war. Not between the kingdoms, between the sexes. And you know who'll lose? Us. We’re cursed, young Sposh. The craving.”

Sposh shifted his weight; Mr. Drop was far from through.

“They’ll never have to throw a spear. All they have to do is stand at a distance. Our lives will be hell.”

Sposh was not late, not yet. He had blundered into his present conversation and now must bear the brunt. He sighed a resigned, “Yes sir.”

“Now, this Pope,” said Drop squinting his beady eyes over his spectacles. “He’s smart, but he don’t know how to manage his power.” Drop cast a treasonous eye at passersby, and lowered his voice. “These ain’t the old days. You can’t count on a good row because your neighbor’s a Widgin.”

“No sir,” said Sposh.

“Power ain’t in the arm no more,” said Drop. “It’s in the heart. You got to give as well as take. Patience is a Dalop’s hold card. The old tricks no longer work. You got to get out and take a chance. You got to do what’s different, just because you can.”

Mr. Drop was rambling. “Yes sir,” said Sposh.

“How you think I came to be the proprietor of the Muck and Brew?” asked Drop. “If I had not taken a chance, I’d still be sweeping floors.”

Sposh took down his spear and said politely, “I have to go, Mr. Drop.”

“Well,” said drop looking belatedly at the broom in his hand. “Stop by any time; we’ll talk some more. You got a good head on your shoulders.”

Sposh walked along Lackey Boulevard, a street that housed the extended offices of the Pope. Sergeants hustled sleepy troops at double time to the outer ramparts of Canivat City. The Guild of Messengers loaded carts with reams of the Pope’s written material. No doubt, the outer cities would want to buy copies of the Pope’s speech. Sposh smiled bitterly.

The new technology was too much too soon. Terrytech was the bane of Tappish custom. It spoiled the soul. Sposh figured it was only a matter of time before the sheer weight of Papal pamphlets pressed the continent beneath the sea. At the high point of the Boulevard, Sposh could see over the outer wall into the western field. A ring of the Pope’s soldiers guarded the Terry spacecraft that had landed the evening before last.

Sposh wished the Terries had not returned, with their long noses and smooth skin. They were twice the height of the average Dalop and were fearsome, ugly things. The three in holding were nice enough, as aliens went, but they brought with them a blight on simpler times. Not that times had ever really been simple.

Day after day, Sposh stood on tired feet and accepted a barrage of indignities. Day after day, Sposh was beaten down by overwork and underpay. There was no credit at the pubs, and heading home after a difficult day meant cowing to the edge. Being browbeaten by the wife left bile in the throat, but things only changed when they got nasty.

Terrytech was the crowning insult. Great noisy machines! Olfactory assaults! Sposh was trapped between the desires of his wife and the greed of the Pope. Machines! Bah! Sposh did not believe in machines. Sposh believed in a Dalop's need for peace.

Absently, Sposh greeted familiar faces as he made his way to the gate of the Papal compound, and was checked through. The milky white glass of the palatial edifice reared before him. The reflected sunlight burned into his eyes. He paused to take in the big picture. The Palace of glass seemed like a monstrous Queen pismire; her many attendants scampering industriously about. They swarmed, meeting her every demand, bowing and scraping.

Sposh shook his head and took note of his stance. He stood with feet spread and knees bent. He held his spear as if he might charge the beast of glass with a shrill cry. He stood straight and looked about, glad to see that no one had taken notice.

Sposh stood before the timekeeper’s desk and stared through the glass blocks of the throne room wall. Snotis stood to the left of the throne, dancing to the tune of unrelieved ale. How was it that his brother could buy pamphlets and still afford ale? Sposh would have to ask. The timekeeper cleared his throat.

“Well,” prompted the elder Widgin with eyes that turned under bushy brows like sleepy pups.

Sposh fished under his jerkin and pulled out his card. He handed it to the Widgin, whose nose twitched like a Mudder’s tail. The old, bitter-faced Widgin perfunctorily punched the card and handed it back dismissively.

Stepping around the desk and through the door, Sposh took wary note of his cousin’s discomposure. The large, fat-laden frame of the Pope stamped about, waving his arms in an agitated manner. Sposh could hear the exacerbation in the voice of the Tappish spiritual leader. Yes, he thought, as he rounded the corner to the ornate double doors and stepped inside, it’s going to be another one of those days.

Snotis ran to him and leaned close with an angry face. He whispered harshly, “Why do you always make me wait?!”

His brother fled the palace, and Sposh took his position left of the throne. The show was on. Three civvy Polops, two crest-fallen troopers, and a Shahshian Emissary, dressed smartly in the Shahshr royal uniform of red and green, stood in a row before the Pope. Behind them stood burly Dalops. They held their spiked maces in crossed arms against their iron-studded jerkins. The ward on the left shifted his weight and concluded the accusation.

Alabow Fetiboo the First stood before the accused with arms akimbo and glowered intently. “Refusal to buy pamphlets,” said the Pope, “really ticks me off!”

Beginning with the first Polop, the Pope stamped down the line, jabbing a plump finger into the face of each. As he went, he said flatly, “Kill him. Kill him. Kill him.”

The middle Polop fell on his face and begged, “Please, sir. Have mercy.”

When the Pope turned his back, the Polop lurched forward and wrapped his arms around a stump-like silk-clad leg.

“Mercy!” cried the Polop.

The Pope shook free his leg and turned angrily to the ward. “Kill this one twice,” he commanded sternly.

The Pope snapped his fat fingers and the three Polops were dragged bodily from the throne room. That left two troopers and one Emissary. The show was always over the top and left an impression on visiting dignitaries. It was a well-played spectacle, mildly interesting, if not poorly entertaining. Looking straight ahead in throne-guard-deadpan, Sposh took full note of each detail.

Sposh observed the Emissary with amusement; he was new. The Widgin pulled nervously at his tight collar with a slender finger. The narrow eyes bulged; The Pope’s show had been effective. Sposh knew the routine by heart.

The three Polops would be escorted to the rear exit and paid handsomely for their acting. They lived inside the compound proper and were called upon whenever an Emissary came calling. Their jobs were secure, as Emissaries came regularly. Sposh envied the actors for they would never be in want of ale.