These days, Sherlock would willingly, maybe even gladly, admit to the fact that he had no in-depth knowledge of American politics, nor did he want any. They clearly hadn't done much for him. Because of this, or maybe in spite of it, Mitch's ideas only sounded delusional.

"You're willing to gamble like that?" he asked with a shade of incredulity. They both understood there was far more at stake if he didn't make it anywhere than if it were under normal circumstances. "A few bestsellers are hardly a guarantee of office." He put his unopened beer aside with a pointed clank and began to pace the length of the meeting table.

"People don't want us to be human. Even if they're in favor of us, they want a bloody spectacle, not our rights. You saw it downstairs. It's like a colonial trading post; next they'll have our shrunken heads for sale. That old fool loves imports, he says. We're profit, not people." Sherlock paused in his walk, drumming his fingers on the table top.

"And if you get anywhere, and they find you out? What then?" He sighed. "Government officials certainly aren't as sharp as me, but give them a few more years of having you under a microscope. Even the best disguise doesn't last forever."