Visions of Liberty by Martin H. Greenberg, Mark Tier

apologizing and offering restitution, the father amazingly turned the matter over to his defense agency. The other fellow's defense agency didn't agree that their client had overreacted. Then the God-given natural right everyone has to own plasma bombs came into it and the continent went poof."
    "You were planet-side during this?" asked Astaroth.
    "Safe behind a force field on the other side of the planet. Admittedly the anarchists over there seemed a little more inclined to take things to arbitration."
    "Whew," said the professor. "I did a paper about Lysander, but I'm a few years out of date."
    "Palmer is always on top of things," Bretygne grinned, her arm around his waist.
    The professor nodded and then did them the favor of lowering his voice. "You're both spies, of course, and lovers as well. There's not much point to the former unless it adds spice to the latter, or do I have it turned around?"
    Color drained out of the lady's face, again at the flick of a switch.
    Astaroth finally continued: "There's no need to dissemble. Tonight we'll be dealing with an anarchist who has less regard for our rituals than even I! We must be frank."
    He gestured to a servo-mech and the machine dutifully floated over. Palmer and Lamarr quickly ordered strong heroin and tonics. The professor settled for a vodka martini.
    A few sips of Smirnoff later, he was still causing trouble. "I think we should put up a sign that reads All Diplomats Are Spies. Or how about this one—Military Attachés Have No Case?"
    Palmer wasn't amused. "If we're going to be frank, perhaps you'll answer a personal question. Why do you appear in public with those?" He gestured at the older man's wrinkles. He was just as disturbed by Astaroth's white hair.
    No one pinches harder than a well-bred lady, but Bretygne was too late to stop her lover's indiscretion.
    "A fair question. But tell me, both lady and field agent, what you see in this room. Look around!"
    They were under the largest dome on the moon in a building that made maximum use of its location. Ambassador Konski had purchased this location with a small amount of the material that suddenly made his world of interest to the United States. He'd been offered prime real estate on Earth but this was as close as he wished to be to the Terran capital—Berlin.
    Underneath the giant pressure dome, the Aristarchus embassy stood in solitary splendor. The Grand Ballroom had ceiling strips revealing the stars through a double layer of protective plastiglass. Gigantic chandeliers vied with the stars to hold the eye. But the effect was purely decorative as lighting for the room was a constant emanation from the walls.
    Palmer sipped his drink and looked around, taking in the beautiful people. Hairstyles varied wildly. As for bald heads, no two carried the same design. The attire was scanty. Everywhere was an expanse of smooth, healthy skin. Fresh as cream and peaches. No blemishes. No wrinkles. And there was a scent of flowers.
    The professor held his old hand in front of Palmer. "You want to know why I choose to have wrinkles and warts?"
    Palmer shrugged. "Bretygne said you were a conservative. But to do this strikes me as genuinely reactionary, even perverse. You're still healthy and it's a crime to deactivate the anti-aging elements. You must have had the imperfections added surgically." He gave an involuntary shudder.
    The professor smiled over his martini. "May I ask another personal question?"
    "What now?" she blurted out.
    "How old are the two of you?"
    "I'm seventy," said Palmer.
    "Forty-six," added Bretygne.
    "I see," the old head nodded. "You will both appear youthful and vigorous for at least another two centuries even if we make no further progress in longevity. But we know that medical science marches on, ever relentless, ever vigilant."
    Fishing the olive out of the bottom of his glass, the professor held it up to his forehead before popping it into his mouth. Was he making fun of Lamarr's third eye?
    "I'm