I went back into my office and did as much as I could till half past nine, which was meeting time. Just to make sure we couldn't pretend to forget and so accomplish something worth doing before lunch, Rose called everyone to remind us all to come on up to Bea's office. Even Michael Manstein was there, looking out of place in his white lab robe among all the business domes and Martin's casual getup (since he doesn't go out in the field, he can dress as he pleases, the lucky so and so).

"Good morning, everyone," Bea said when we'd all assembled, bright and not too eager, before her. "I think we'll begin with David this morning. By all accounts, he's had the most exciting week of any of us."

I flashed the little tin badge and growled, "Now listen up, everybody, or else."

Actually, my report went pretty well. Michael backed me up on the sorcerous details of the potion I'd found at Lupe Cordero's, and everyone looked suitably grim on hearing them. I told about the arrest of the curandero who'd sold Lupe the stuff, and about being lucky enough to come across Jose and Carios on Sunday.

"Your diligence does you and the EPA credit, David," Bea said, which was enough of a brownie point to make me want to set out a bowl of milk.

The other nice thing about having been so busy with all that stuff was that I didn't get in trouble for the too numerous tilings I hadn't managed to accomplish during the week.

The toxic spell dump investigation perse was stalled; I hadn't managed to get out to Bakhtiars Precision Burins, let alone Chocolate Weasel or the light-and-magic outfits. I still didn't know whether the Chumash Powers were coming or going.

And as for the leprechauns, well, the environmental impact survey hadn't started going anywhere, either.

All of which meant, of course, that for the next several days I'd be running around like acephalous poultry, trying to catch up on those projects and whatever else landed on me in the interim. Not a pleasant prospect to contemplate of a Monday morning.

Bea said, "Jose, you and Martin are going to report together, am I right?"

They did. Martn produced the mockup for a poster of an ugly little green fellow sinking his fangs into an orange. The text said, HE'S NOT YOUR FRIEND - DONT GIVE HIM A RIDE in English and Spainish.

That's very good," Bea said, "very good indeed. It ought to make a lot of people who have been raising the roof about gariic spraying see Medvamps in a whole new light You can start reproducing it right away, as far as I'm concerned.

Comments, anyone? Am I missing something?"

With a lot of bosses, you'd better not dislike something after they said they loved it. Bea, bless her, isn't like that.

Michael Manstein stuck up his hand and said, "The poster does not accurately reflect the appearance of the Mediterranean fruit vampire."

He was right, of course. Medvamps (not that Michael would use such a colloquialism) are as pale as any other undead creatures, and the sap they suck from fruits and vegetables is commonly clear, too. But Bea said patiently,

"We don't need to be precisely accurate here, Michael. We want to get across the notion that the Medvamp is a dangerous pest, not something that ought to survive and flourish in Angels City. Does the poster meet that objective?"

Manstein shrugged. "It should be obvious in any case."

And it would be obvious, too, if everyone were as rational as Michael. The general run of people being what they are, though, rationality needs all me help it can get The poster was passed by acclamation and we went on to Phyllis. By then it was getting close to eleven o'clock, and my stomach was starting to rumble. But Phyuis had landed a project even uglier than my intertwined investigations of the Chumash Powers and the wisdom of naturalizing leprechauns: she'd started doing a study on the pros and cons of changing the way Angels City handles its sewage.

Not to put too fine a point on it. Angels City produces a whole lot of shit. For tile last many years - Phyllis, who is a very thorough person, said how many, but I forget - we've used the demon Vepar to process all this waste. Vepars provinces are the sea and putrefaction, so the arrangement has always seemed logical enough.

The trouble is, members of the Descending Hierarchy just aren't reliable. Lately, as the population of Angeles City has grown, so have the number of sewage spills and the number of days the water in St. Monica's Bay is too foul for swimming or fishing or anything else.

And so there's been some serious discussion of transferring the job to Poseidon. If anyone on the Other Side has a vested interest in keeping the ocean clean, he's the One. Not only that, he also has power over earthquakes. In Angels City, that matters. Having one Power in charge of both those aspects of local life might well save the taxpayer some crowns.

Or it might not Poseidon's cult, like that of Hermes, is artificially maintained these days. Angels City would have to pay into the fund that municipalities and organizations which use the sea god's services have set up to provide for his worship. That wouldn't be cheap. Vepar, like any Judeo-Christian demon, has enough genuine believers to keep him active without any expense the city would have to assume.

Bea asked, "What communities are currently using Poseidon to handle their sewage, and what sort of results have they gotten?"

"There are several," Phyllis said. "The first one that occurs to me is Athenaiy'Piraievs over in Ellas-"

"Not a fair comparison," Michael Manstein put in. "In Ellas the god comes much closer to having a continuous tradition of worship than he would in Angels City, and is likely to be significantly more efficacious. I will be happy to provide documentation to support this assertion."

Phyllis glared at him; no doubt he'd just undercut the example she was going to use. But when Michael says a comparison isn't appropriate, he wSi have evidence to back him up. Fumbling a little, Phyllis talked about Carthage instead (I watched Michael stir in his seat, but he kept quiet).

The real trick, I gathered from what she had to say, was keeping Poseidon happy about getting his hands dirty, so to speak. Some Powers with artificially maintained cults are pathetically eager to do anything at all, as long as they keep their last handful of worshipers. Others have more pride.

Poseidon seemed to be part of the second group.

"But he does do a satisfactory job when properly incentivized?" Bea persisted. Michael visibly flinched when he heard that, but again held his tongue. Bea was a bureaucrat, after all; every so often, she went and talked like one.

That is my impression," Phyllis answered. "Let me remind you: if Vepar were perfectly reliable, we'd have no reason for contemplating a change. And there's the added benefit of increased earthquake protection."

"Or increased earthquake risk, if the deity is angered,"

Michael said. Phyllis glared at him again, but I think he was right to point out the problem. Environmental issues are the most complicated ones this side of theology, and reading the text of the world is often (though not always) more prone to ambiguity than interpreting a sacred scripture.

Bea said. Thank you for the presentation, Phyllis. Do you think you'll be able to give a preliminary recommendation on whether to pursue making this change in, hmm, two weeks' time?"

"May I have three?" Phyllis asked.

Bea scribbled something on her calendar. "Three weeks it is." She looked around at the rest of us. "Does anyone have anything more?" I sat very still, willing silence on everybody around me. Sometimes that works and sometimes it doesn't Today, to my vast relief, it did; nobody said anything. Bea looked around again, just in case she'd missed someone on her first check. Then she shrugged. Thank you all." That was the signal for us to get up and head for the door as fast as we could without being out-and-out rude. "Oh, and David-" Bea called after me.