“They have a new Tyrant every five years and they do something to him first.” He hesitated. “I think they ee-lect him.”
“Is that something like they do to tomcats and bulls and things?”
"Er.”
“You know. To make them stop fighting and be more peaceful.”
Teppic winced. “To be honest, I’m not sure,” he said. “But I don’t think so. They’ve got something they do it with, I think it’s called a mocracy, and it means everyone in the whole country can say who the new Tyrant is." [...]
"They’re very proud of it. Everyone has—” he hesitated again, certain now that things were amiss—“the vet. Except for women, of course. And children. And criminals. And slaves. And stupid people. And people of foreign extraction. And people disapproved of for, er, various reasons. And lots of other people. But everyone apart from them. It’s a very enlightened civilization.”
Ptraci gave this some consideration. “And that’s a mocracy, is it?”
“They invented it in Ephebe, you know,” said Teppic, feeling obscurely that he ought to defend it.
“I bet they had trouble exporting it,” said Ptraci firmly.