"You are very perceptive," Ogle said.

"How about response?"

"How about it?"

"I understand the instantaneous processing and evaluation. But how can you respond to a poll instantaneously?"

"As I said," Ogle said, "your device will be only a small part of a large system."

"I understand that. But I'm asking-"

"Similarly, you, Aaron, will be only a small part of a large organization. Not the leading man anymore. A small price to pay for financial security, wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes, I'm just wondering-"

"One of your responsibilities, as a part of this large team, will be to use your head a little bit and not try to delve into matters that are remote from your own little sphere. You can't understand everything."

"Oh."

"Only I, Cyrus Rutherford Ogle, can understand everything."

"I was just asking out of pure curiosity."

"What it this the Age of, Aaron?"

"Scrutiny."

"Guess what is going to happen to you and your company when you become part of the PIPER project?"

"We will get scrutinized."

"Guess what is going to happen, then, if you insist on asking infelicitous questions, out of pure curiosity?"

"I will get roasted alive on hot coals."

"Along with me and everyone else involved in PIPER, including my clients."

"Say no more, I will be discreet."

"Good."

"I'm just trying to figure out what my responsibilities will be in PIPER."

"To work with our chip people and miniaturize your device. I have already made an appointment with some clever fellows at Pacific Netware, up in Marin County. We will go up there tomorrow and meet with them, like medieval monks gathering in a remote orchard, and we will build high the flame of, quote, rationality, unquote."

Tuscola in late morning was silent except for the whistles of hundred-car freight trains thundering north-south along the Illinois Central or east-west on the B&O, and the occasional distant blatting noise of a truck downshifting on the highway. Cold winter sunlight was slanting in through the beveled-glass windows surrounding the front door, forming a spray of little rainbows on the aging shag carpet that covered the living room floor. Cozzanos had always placed a premium on warmth over exquisite taste and so they had shag carpet. William A. Cozzano had known for a long time that there was good oak flooring under there and had been resolving, for the last twenty years, to peel up the carpet and sand it and refinish it. It was one of those things that would wait until his retirement.

But he wouldn't be able to do it now. There was no way he could handle a big floor sander. He would have to pay someone to do the work for him. He had always done his own work on his own house, even when it meant waiting until he had a free weekend.

The street was made of red brick. So was the sidewalk. The bricks were heaved up from place to place by the roots of the big oak trees in the front yard. In other spots they were gradually sinking into the lawn. Kids from the afternoon kindergarten class were ambling down the sidewalk on their way to the Everett Dirksen Elementary School two blocks away, which had been retrofitted into a former hospital. They took no notice of the house. Older kids, who could read the words THE CozzanoS on the little sign hanging on the lamppost in the front yard, always stared and pointed, but the kindergartners didn't. Cozzano recognized a grandnephew twice removed and tried to wave, but his arm didn't work.

"Goddamn it," he said.

When he moved his tongue, a wave of drool crested over his lower lip and ran out the left side of his mouth. He felt it running in a thin stream down on to his chin.

Patricia came back into the room, of course, just in time to get a good look at this. She was a local girl, former babysitter to James and Mary Catherine, had worked in Peoria as a nurse for some years, and was now back home in Tuscola, working as a babysitter again. This time for William. Before the stroke, she had treated William Cozzano with awe and deference.

"Whoops, did we have a little accident there?" she said. "Let's just wipe that right up." She took a diaper out of her pocket and ran it up Cozzano's chin, a brisk uppercut. "Now, here's your coffee - decaf, of course, and pills. Lots of little pills."

"What are those pickles?" Cozzano said.

"I'm sorry, William, what did you say?"

He pointed to the little plastic cup that Patricia had set down next to him, filled with colourful circles and oblongs.

Patricia heaved a big sigh, letting him know that she'd rather he didn't ask such questions. "Blood pressure, anticlotting, heart stimulation, elimination, breathing, and then of course some vitamins."

Cozzano closed his eyes and shook his head. Until two weeks ago he had never taken anything other than vitamin C and aspirin.

"I put some skim milk in your coffee," Patricia said.

"I take it purple," Cozzano said.

Patricia beamed. "You mean you take it black?"

"Yes, goddamn it."

"It's just a little hot, William, so I wanted to cool it down a bit so you wouldn't burn your mouth when you took your medicine."

"Don't call me that. I'm the coach," Cozzano said. Then he closed his eyes and shook his head in frustration.

"Of course you are, William," she said in a buttery voice, and put the little cup of pills into his right hand. "Now, down the hatch!"

Cozzano did not want to take the pills, merely because he did not want to give Patricia satisfaction in any way. But at some level he knew that was puerile. So he tossed the pills into his mouth. Patricia took the cup from his hand and gave him the coffee, which was tepid and beige. Cozzano had gotten in the habit of drinking black full-roast coffee, and the only kind available around here was the sour greenish grocery-store variety. He lifted the mug to his lips and forced down a couple of big, awful swallows, feeling the pills crowd together in his throat and stick halfway down his esophagus. He would rather leave them stuck there than drink any more of that small-town coffee.

"Very good!" Patricia said, "I can see you have a knack for this." Cozzano was accustomed to being a superman and now he was being praised by a Big Hair Girl for his ability to take pills. "Would you like to watch a little TV?" Patricia said. "Yes," he said. Anything to get her out of the room. "What channel?" Why didn't she just give him the remote control? Cozzano heaved a big sigh. He wanted to watch channel 10, CNBC. In his condition, one of the few things Cozzano could do was manage the family's investments. And in the economic chaos that had been unleashed by the President's State of the Union address, they needed a lot of management.

"Five million," he said. "No, goddamn it!" "Well, sometimes it seems like this cable TV has about five million channels, but I don't think I can do that!" Patricia said in a high, inflated tone, her I'm-making-a-joke voice. "Did you mean to say channel five?"

"No!" he said. "Twice that." "Two?"

"No! Three squared plus one. Six plus four. The square root of one hundred," he said. Why didn't she just give him the remote control?

"Oh, here's a news program. How's that?" Patricia said. She had hit one of the network stations. It was a little one-minute news break at the top of the hour, between soap operas.

"Yes," he said.

"Here's the remote control in case you change your mind," she aid, and left it on the table next to him.

Cozzano sat and watched the little news break. It was totally inconsequential: presidential candidates cavorting around Iowa in a series of staged media events. The caucuses were in a week and a half.