the cameras once again scan the crowd. There’s an irregularity in the sameness, and I’m just now seeing the problem. Every cheering person is like the next—clean-cut, dressed in that fresh-from-the-ironing-board urban casual look, mostly white, slim, and attractive—the utter antithesis of what populated the cafeteria only an hour ago. Madeleine Sinclair’s idea of the new upper class. And Malcolm’s idea. Even my idea, once.
