Politician by Piers Anthony Read Free Book Online Page B

as the day-night cycle and standard gee, for the tides of man's chemistry could not be changed in mere centuries; but much of it was simple nostalgia for the old planet. I could not deride this; I felt it myself.
    Then we came to the parade area. Crowds of people lined the road, waving and cheering as we came among them. Confetti flew up as they threw handfuls toward us.
    “Wave, sir, wave!” the mayor muttered tersely.
    I raised my right arm somewhat awkwardly and essayed a motion, not sure it was really me the crowd watched.
    The noise jumped in magnitude. The crowd became frenzied. Then a chant began: "Hubris! Hubris!
    Hubris!"
    I felt an odd surge in my chest, as if falling suddenly in love. They really were cheering me! I waved more vigorously, and the noise increased as if I were orchestrating it.
    We continued along the winding road, passing a golf course and a small lake and a series of statues, and everywhere the people were crowded close and cheering. To my amazement the throng seemed to be getting thicker. But I realized that this probably represented a change of pace for the average citizen, a chance to go to the park and relax; I was merely the pretext. Any other man in my position would have received the same reception; it was really an impersonal thing.
    Yet it certainly didn't seem impersonal! As I looked I could see men smiling at me, and women blowing kisses. All the time the beat of “Hubris, Hubris!” continued: It was intoxicating.
    The mayor turned to speak to us again, his voice barely audible above the noise of the crowd. “Hang on to your hat, Captain! We're coming to the Hispanic district.”
    Sure enough, the complexion of the crowd changed, the paleness of Saxon visages giving way to the more swarthy Hispanics. The mass of people was thicker yet; now a cordon of helmeted policemen held it back, and even so it surged close to the car. The chant became monstrous. “ Hubris! Hubris! ” The car was pelted by flowers. I was impressed; decorative plants were expensive, even if they were imitation.
    Spirit picked up several that fell inside the car and made a bouquet that she set in her hair, and there was a deafening roar of approval. She made another, her nine fingers nimble enough, and put it in my hair, and the response was a storm tide that swept the policemen back until they collided with the car itself. Hands reached through the cordon, trying to touch the car or us. The mayor was beaming, but he looked nervous. I could appreciate why; it would be easy for people to be crushed by the moving car.
    There was a siren. More police were coming, reinforcements. But the throng was so thick that the new police could not get through. Slowly we forged on—as it were, alone—plowing through a mass of humanity as if it were indeed a viscous pool.
    A body hurtled over the cordon and fell onto the car. It was a woman, a girl—a teenage Hispanic maiden in a pretty summer dress. I tried to help her get upright, taking hold of her shoulders, fearing she had been injured, but she rolled right into me. “Hubris, I love you,” she cried in Spanish, and flung her arms about me.
    A Saxon policeman climbed onto the car, and it shifted with his weight. “Shit,” he exclaimed, grabbing at the maid. “Get out of there, girl!” He hauled at her sleeve, but it tore, leaving her arm and part of her torso bare. He repeated his expletive, which happens to be a Saxon term for excrement, and grabbed again, tearing away more.
    “Why don't you take it all, gringo!” the girl cried, and began snatching off her clothing and throwing it at him. I think she was wearing one of those paper garments that are intended for single use before disposal.
    Spirit interceded. “Let her stay, officer,” she urged the policeman. “She will be no trouble, I'm sure.” She put her arms around the girl protectively.
    Sweating, the mayor grunted acquiescence, and the policeman got off the car, disgruntled. The girl took her seat