The sky was blue, and snow covered the tops of the mountains. Jack Burns hadn't realized until he saw it how much he'd missed snow--real, honest-to-goodness, earth-water snow. Even the cement under his boots felt good. Things had changed however. Houses were creeping up the sides of the Andes. The small launching area had turned into a huge spaceport, complete with enormous corporate buildings and a mammoth city to surround it. "Is this the house that Jack built?" Burns thought but couldn't bring himself to laugh at his own joke.

A rocket flamed and roared into the sky in front of him, drowning his thoughts in its boom.

"Hey spaceboy, nobody's allowed out there," a voice said as the rocket's peal faded.

Burns turned and strode back into the terminal, ignoring the security guard. The terminal was filled with people, thousands of them. Holy Jesus, Burns thought, who made all these people? Why? Their clothes were different; their shapes were different; but they were all the same. Their walks were the same; their expressions were the same. Someone had run them all off on a copy machine, and these thousands were the last of the lot, pale imitations of the originals.

Burns found his way to the offices of General Rocket and punched the elevator's button for the top floor. He found himself in a large room with many doors and a desk that stood clearly in the path of anyone exiting the elevator.

"May I help you?" the young man behind the desk demanded politely. As the man looked Burns over carefully from the fitted collar of Burns' jumper to the metal-free stays of his boots, the pleasant expression became a little strained.

Damn male secretaries, Burns thought, at least in the old days there was something to look at. Are they all fags down here now? Well, that would slow down the copy machine.

"I'm looking for the Board of Directors," Burns said.

"I'm sorry sir, but the board is meeting right now," the secretary replied, letting condescension creep into his voice, "What is it you would like to see them about?"

"Tell them Jack Burns wants to talk to them." Burns put his right hand on the secretary's identification scanner. The secretary glanced at the screen on his desk.

"Well Mr. Burns, if you'll--"

"Get a bio on me," Burns interrupted. As if programmed to respond immediately to all commands given in a peremptory tone, the secretary danced his fingers over the sensors without objecting. He stiffened as he read. He looked down at his desk for a second, then at a door across the room, then quickly back down.

Burns had seen enough.