Everything was in type, even the identifying name at the end of a personal letter, the autograph ("Signature," Sara snigged) ... signature, then. For a long time businessmen's letters had been signed by their stenographers anyway. ("Secretaries, blockhead," Sara muttered, and she sighed.) The point is, I continued, that except for a few cases of eccentricity--I glanced at her belt pouch, with the pencil in it--handwriting had disappeared. The written word--the reader's distant experience--was in type: dictatype, teletype, phototype, printer's type ... newspapers, books, advertising, business letters, memoranda, personal letters, everything. Before, people had tended to believe most of what was handwritten, and almost nothing that was in type. With everything in type, they got tired of deciding which to believe and began to believe either every word, or none. It wasn't good. It led to the Edict, and of course to the World Press Association and its relentless search for truth. "Gah," said Sara. "Truth is an overrated commodity. Let's go upstairs and get ourselves something to eat." II Her voice was muffled coming from the jon. But I knew she was reading from a document she kept framed there, and I knew well what it said. The Edict Be it enacted by the unanimous voice of these United Nations of America, Europe, Africa and Free Asia, in congress this 14th day of April, 1997 that, henceforth: No person, group of persons, organization, or governing body of any town, city, state or nation existing under the articles of this federation, shall print, or cause to be printed, or knowingly permit to be printed, or disseminate or knowingly permit to be disseminated any word, phrase or work, excepting only certain scientific treaties of explicit speculative nature as hereinafter defined by statute, that is not both wholly and in part demonstrably true. "Great Judah," I heard Sara say. "What a disaster!" "Stop muttering and come out here," I shouted. "You said food." "I'll be with you in a minute. I'm almost finished undressing." Since we weren't expecting company I had already hung up my coverall--a new though serviceable one of diaphragm-weave thermoplast, bought especially for Vermont and warranted for 30 degrees below. With or without the chiton and hose she favored over coveralls, Sara was a handsome woman. Strong, straight and, I knew, a fit mother for our children. But right at the moment, she was angry at me all over again. She strode to the foodbar. "You!" she said, chucking a handful of steakpaks into the infra, twisting the dial. "You and your Edict!" she said, hurling potatopaks into a pan of hot water and yelping when the water splashed on her thigh. "You and your stupid, buzzing, clicking, inhuman WPA!" she said, filling milkpaks with water, cramming them into holders and slapping them sloshing down on the table.