One of these days Goulart may come up with a book. In the meanwhile, his sf performances suffer all the more became of the occasional adroit phrase or mordant gag tossed in among the monomolecular transistor components that make up his plots and people. The scene as always is a manic masscult America ruled by red tape, euphoria, and a horde of robots with the souls of Avis switchboard personnel. Crackpot, a paraplegic saboteur, has invented an illegal robot-controlling device that has the chairman of National Robot & Android blowing his aged synapses. Of course NRA is also up to its eyebrows in helping the Republic of Southern California help itself to a generous slice of Mexico; Goulart gets off about three topical salvos per page before truth and freedom rout the mediacracy. The makings of a nimble satire, reduced to throwaway shtick.