Rosie's route was the reverse of Rosil's. Her steps had embarked on their present course at the door to the Party headquarters, turned to the right and continued down the pavement towards Trak Square. Trak was a national hero, but unfortunately he was dead, like most heroes. Not that the thought of crossing a square named after a dead man would have put Rosie off and turned her steps elsewhere - such a thought would not have crossed her mind at all. And why should it? Let us repeat that the heroes of the streets were all pushing up the daisies, and so the inhabitants of the City found it natural and quite normal to be walking the streets as if over the tombs of their ancestors. To judge by the names of its heroes, the whole City is one huge cemetery, but if Rosie remembers one of the heroes when she happens to read his name on a street sign, she doesn't think of his current state - a pile of ash or worm-eaten bones - but thinks of the distant past when the hero was still breathing, his heart was beating and his lungs fulfilling their function, and he was still capable of good deeds. Rosil, however, who is nearing Rosie from the opposite direction, is already recalling our heroes in quite another spirit. He is coming away from Trak Square and his thoughts are tracking into melancholy. „Why Trak, for God's sake?" he says to himself, „he's already six feet under. He doesn't have to rattle around the streets trying to make ends meet. And what use is it to him if a square glories in his name. As far as we're concerned today, Trak's just a pile of bones with no prospects at all, useless and valueless. I can't see why we need a square named after a pile of bones, or why the pile of bones needs a square. If the City Councillors were in possession of all their marbles they would have named the square after someone who could appreciate it properly." "Exactly," Mirin Flirkal says, walking at his side, „It's clear you are a clairvoyant man. We need such people very badly." If Rosie hadn't stopped to look at a shop window display of stockings, she might have met Flirkal and Rosil in the next few minutes. Not that it was important - it would just have meant that later she wouldn't have had to spend a bit of small change calling Flirkal from a phone booth to tell him that the Party statement for tomorrow's press conference was ready. Yes, Rosie has entered public life - evidently captivated by Flirkal's rhetorical gifts, or is it because she likes the company of the young unconventional people who are daily joining the Party in ever greater numbers? She gazed eagerly into the shop window full of stockings. They were all hung on nylon threads fixed in a way that stretched the stockings out on all sides and at every angle - some looked as if paralysed in mid-run, others as if tortured on a rack. One pair particularly caught her eye - dark grey with a silvery glitter, but stretched out on the threads to the very limit - she gave a little gasp at the thought of the same thing happening to her skin. If I didn't know they weren't alive, I would go and buy them just to put an end to their misery, thought Rosie. The question was, however, whether that would really help. After all, there were so many shop windows with so many pairs of stretched stockings in the Town! She would have to buy them all. But then the shop assistants would just stretch others. No, it wouldn't work. I would have to start a law-suit against them. Possible, but we don't have the right law. We don't even have good laws for people and animals, so how on earth can we expect to have good laws for stockings, for example! That's the reason for getting involved in the Party, thinks Rosie. It's only by taking our own initiative that we'll make any improvements If we just stand idly by, nothing changes. She stepped inside the shop. The salesman sitting behind the counter intrigued her. He was slumped back in his chair, head lolling, with his eyes fixed straight ahead. It struck her that he might be dead, almost as dead as Trak. But he still had quite some way to go. Suddenly he blinked, as if waking from a swoon. He brushed away a fly that was crawling on his nose. She noticed a large electric fan, choked with dust, above the salesman's head. It must be sweltering here in summer. "Can I help you?" The fly has landed on his nose again. "I'd like to buy a pair of stockings. The most stretched out ones in the shop window." He nervously brushed away the fly. "Oh yes, that kind always sells best," he sighed. "As if no-one cared about their colour and quality." He fished out a key from under the counter, walked round and opened up the window display. "But I'm afraid they'll be too small for you," he said, " he said. "They're a small size." He held the stockings in his slim, long fingers. He was altogether thin and pale, as if sitting in the twilight of the plain little shop had done him no good. "That's too bad," said Rosie, "Stockings that are too small are no use to me. Do you have something similar but in a larger size?" "Sorry, this is the last pair we have," responded the salesman sadly, as if not having the right size of goods somehow discredited him in Rosie's eyes. He looked guilty. "But if you want my advice, " he said, "there's a shop with a larger assortment in Trak Square. I'm sure you'll find something there." "Thank you," she said. She turned and headed for the door, but then she stopped, perhaps because of the grief in the salesman's voice as he offered her unsuitable goods. She stopped at the door. She wanted to find some parting words, or to cheer him up, or at least to express some interest in him as a human being and not just a salesman. She looked round. "By the way," she smiled at him, "you wouldn't happen to know why that square is called Trak, would you? What did he do that was so important? I have to admit I have no idea at all." "I think he died," the salesman said, „That was his most important act." They laughed in unison. She left him a Flirkal Party prospectus. Yes, he could just be one of our voters, she thought. They said good bye. Outside, the sun had come out again.