The World Inside

FIVE

In Louisville, Siegmund Kluver still feels like a very small boy. He cannot persuade himself that he has any rightful business up there. A prowling stranger. An illicit intruder. When he goes up to the city of the urbmon’s masters a strange boyish shyness settles over him that he must consciously strive to hide. He finds himself forever wanting to peer nervously over his shoulder. Looking for the patrols that he fears will intercept him. The stern brawny figure blocking the wide corridor. What are you doing here, son? You shouldn’t be wandering around on these floors. Louisville is for the administrators, don’t you know that? And Siegmund will babble excuses, his face blazing. And rush for the dropshaft.

He tries to keep this silly sense of embarrassment a secret. He knows it doesn’t fit with the image of himself that everyone else sees. Siegmund the cool customer. Siegmund the man of destiny. Siegmund who was obviously Louisville-bound from childhood. Siegmund the swaggering cocksman, plowing his way lustily through the finest womanhood Urban Monad 116 has to offer.

If they only knew. Underneath it all a vulnerable boy. Underneath it a shy, insecure Siegmund. Worried that he’s climbing too fast. Apologizing to himself for his success. Siegmund the humble, Siegmund the uncertain.

Or is that just an image too? Sometimes he thinks that this hidden Siegmund, this private Siegmund, is merely a facade that he has erected so that he can go on liking himself, and that beneath this subterranean veneer of shyness, somewhere beyond the range of his insight, lies the real Siegmund, every bit as ruthless and cocky and rung-grabbing as the Siegmund that the outer world sees.

He goes up to Louisville nearly every morning, now. They requisition him as a consultant. Some of the top men there have made a pet of him — Lewis Holston, Nissim Shawke, Kipling Freehouse, men at the very highest levels of authority. He knows they are exploiting him, dumping on him all the dreary, tedious jobs they don’t feel like handling themselves. Taking advantage of his ambitions. Siegmund, prepare a report on working-class mobility patterns. Siegmund, run a tabulation of adrenal balances in the middle cities. Siegmund, what’s the waste-recycling ratio this month? Siegmund. Siegmund. Siegmund. But he exploits them too. He is rapidly making himself indispensable, as they slide into the habit of using him to do their thinking. In another year or two, beyond much doubt, they will have to ask him to move up in the building. Perhaps they’ll jump him from Shanghai to Toledo or Paris; more likely they’ll take him right into Louisville at the next vacancy. Louisville before he’s twenty! Has anyone ever done that before?

By that time, maybe, he’ll feel comfortable among the members of the ruling class.

He can see them laughing at him behind their eyes. They made it to the top so long ago that they’ve forgotten that others still have to strive. To them, Siegmund knows, he must seem comical — an earnest, pushy little rung-grabber, his gut afire with the upward urge. They tolerate him because he’s capable-more capable, maybe, than most of them. But they don’t respect him. They think he’s a fool for wanting so badly something that they’ve had time to grow bored with.

Nissim Shawke, for instance. Possibly one of the two or three most important men of the urbmon. (Who is the most important? Not even Siegmund knows. At the top level, power becomes a blurry abstraction; in one sense everybody in Louisville has absolute authority over the entire building, and in another sense no one has.) Shawke is about sixty, Siegmund supposes. Looks much younger. A lean, athletic, olive-skinned man, cool-eyed, physically powerful. Alert, wary, a man of great tensile strength. He gives the illusion of being enormously dynamic. A teeming reservoir of potential. Yet so far as Siegmund can see, Shawke does nothing at all. He refers all governmental matters to his subordinates; he glides through his offices at the crest of the urbmon as though the building’s problems are mere phantoms. Why should Shawke strive? He’s at the summit. He has everybody fooled, everyone but Siegmund, perhaps. Shawke need not do but only be. Now he marks time and enjoys the comforts of his position. Sitting there like a Renaissance prince. One word from Nissim Shawke could send almost anybody down the chute. A single memorandum from him might be able to reverse some of the urbmon’s most deeply cherished policies. Yet he originates no programs, he vetoes no proposals, he ducks all challenges. To have such power, and to refuse to exercise it, strikes Siegmund as making a joke out of the whole idea of power. Shawke’s passivity carries implied contempt for Siegmund’s values. His sardonic smile mocks all ambition. It denies that there is merit in serving society. I am here, Shawke says with every gesture, and that is sufficient for me; let the urbmon look after itself; anyone who voluntarily assumes its burdens is an idiot. Siegmund, who yearns to govern, finds that Shawke blights his soul with doubt. What if Shawke is right? What if I get to his place fifteen years from now and discover that it’s all meaningless? But no. Shawke is sick, that’s all. His soul is empty. Life does have a purpose, and service to the community fulfills that purpose. I am well qualified to govern my fellow man; therefore I betray mankind and myself as well if I refuse to do my duty. Nissim Shawke is wrong. I pity him.

But why do I shrivel when I look into his eyes?

Then there is Shawke’s daughter, Rhea. She lives in Toledo, on the 900th floor, and is married to Kipling Freehouse’s son Paolo. There is a great deal of intermarriage among the families of Louisville. The children of the administrators do not generally get to live in Louisville themselves; Louisville is reserved for those who actually govern. Their children, unless they happen to find places of their own in the ranks of the administrators, live mostly in Paris and Toledo, the cities immediately below Louisville. They form a privileged enclave there, the offspring of the great. Siegmund does much of his nightwalking in Paris and Toledo. And Rhea Shawke Freehouse is one of his favorites.

She is ten years older than Siegmund. She has her father’s wiry, supple form: a lean, somewhat masculine body, with small breasts and flat buttocks and long solid muscles. Dark complexion; eyes that glitter with private amusement; a sharp elegant nose. She has only three Tittles. Siegmund does not know why her family is so small. She is quick-wilted, knowing, well-informed. She is more nearly bisexual than anyone Siegmund knows; he finds her tigerishly passionate, but she has told him also of the joy she takes in loving other women. Among her conquests has been Siegmund’s wife Mamelon, who, he thinks, is in many ways a younger version of Rhea. Perhaps that’s why he finds Rhea so attractive: she combines all that he finds most interesting about Mamelon and Nissim Shawke.

Siegmund was sexually precocious. He made his first erotic experiments in his seventh year, two years ahead of the urbmon norm. By the time he was nine he was familiar with the mechanics of intercourse, and consistently drew the highest marks in his physical relations class, doing so well that he was allowed to enroll with the eleven-year-olds. Puberty began for him at ten; at twelve he married Mamelon, who was more than a year his senior; shortly he had her pregnant and the Kluvers were on their way out of the Chicago newlywed dorm and off to an apartment of their own in Shanghai. Sex always has seemed agreeable to him for its own sake, but lately he has come to realize its value in building character.

He nightwalks assiduously. Young women bore him; he prefers those who are past twenty, like Principessa Mattern and Micaela Quevedo of Shanghai. Or Rhea Freehouse. Women of their experience tend to be better in bed than most adolescents, of course. Not that that is his prime concern. One slot isn’t ever that much better than another, and the pursuit of slot for its own sake is no longer very important to him; Mamelon can give him all the physical pleasure he needs. But he feels that these older women teach him a great deal about the world, sharing their experience with him in an implicit way. From them he draws subtle insights into the dynamics of adult life, the crises, conflicts, rewards, depths of character. He loves to learn. His own maturity, he is convinced, stems from his extensive sexual encounters with women of the older generation.

Mamelon tells him that he is generally believed to nightwalk even in Louisville. This is in fact not so. He had never dared. There are women up there who tempt him, women in their thirties and forties, even some younger ones, such as Nissim Shawke’s second wife, who is hardly older than Rhea. But the self-confidence that makes him seem so awesome to his peers vanishes at the thought of topping the wives of the administrators. It is bold enough for him to venture out of Shanghai to use women of Toledo or Paris. But Louisville? To slip into bed with Shawke’s wife, and then have Shawke himself arrive, smiling coldly, saluting, offering him a bowl of tingle-hello, Siegmund, are you having a good time? No. Maybe five years from now, when he’s living in Louisville himself. Not yet. But he does have Rhea Shawke Freehouse and some others of her stature. Not bad for a start.

In Nissim Shawke’s lavishly furnished office. There’s space to waste in Louisville. Shawke has no desk; he conducts his business, such that it is, from a gravity-web slung hammock fashion near the broad gleaming window. It is midmorning. The sun is high. From here one has a stunning view of the neighboring urbmons. Siegmund enters, having received a summons from Shawke five minutes before. Uneasily he meets Shawke’s cold gaze. Trying not to look too humble, too obsequious, too defensive, too hostile. “Closer,” Shawke orders. Playing his usual game. Siegmund crosses the immense room. He must stand virtually nose- to-nose with Shawke. A mockery of intimacy; instead of forcing Siegmund to remain at a distance, as one usually requires of subordinates, he brings him so close that it is impossible for Siegmund to keep his eyes locked on both of Shawke’s. The image wanders; the strain is painful. Sharp focus is lost and the features of the older man seem distorted. In a casual, barely audible voice, Shawke says, “Will you take care of this?” and flips a message cube to Siegmund. It is, Shawke explains, a petition from the civic council of Chicago requesting a liberalization of the urbmon’s sex-ratio restrictions. “They want more freedom to pick the sex of their children,” Shawke says. “Claiming that the present rules unnecessarily violate individual liberties and are generally unblessworthy. You can play it later for the details. What do you think, Siegmund?”

Siegmund examines his mind for whatever theoretical information it may contain on sex- ratio questions. Not much there. Work intuitively. What kind of advice does Shawke want? He usually wants to be told to leave things just as they are. All right. How, now, to justify the sex-ratio rules without seeming intellectually lazy? Siegmund improvises swiftly. His gift is an easy penetration into the logic of administration.

He says, “My impulse is to tell you to refuse the request.”

“Good. Why?”

“The basic dynamic thrust of an urban monad has to be toward stability and predictability, and away from randomness. The urbmon can’t expand physically, and our facilities for offloading surplus population aren’t all that flexible. So we need to program orderly growth, above all else.”

Shawke squints at him chillingly and says, “If you don’t mind the obscenity, let me tell you that you sound exactly like a propagandist for limiting births.”

“No!” Siegmund blurts. “God bless, no! Of course there’s got to be universal fertility!” Shawke is silently laughing at him again. Goading, baiting. A streak of sadism his main diversion in life. “What I was getting at,” Siegmund continues doggedly, “is that within the framework of a society that encourages unlimited reproduction, we’ve got to impose certain checks and balances to prevent disruptive destabilizing processes. If we allow people to pick the sex of their children themselves, we could very possibly get a generation that’s 65 percent male and 35 percent female. Or vice versa, depending on whims and fads of the moment. If that happened, how would we deal with the uncoupled surplus? Where would the extras go? Say, 15,000 males of the same age, all with no available mates. Not only would we have extraordinarily unblessworthy social tensions — imagine an epidemic of rape! — but those bachelors would be lost to the genetic pool. An unhealthy competitive aspect would establish itself. And such ancient customs as prostitution might have to be revived to meet the sexual needs of the unmated. The obvious consequences of an unbalanced sex ratio among a newborn generation are so serious that—”

“Obviously,” Shawke drawls, not hiding his boredom.

But Siegmund, wound up in an exposition of theory, cannot easily stop. “Freedom to choose your child’s sex would therefore be worse than having no sex-determination processes at all. In medieval times the ratios were governed by random biological events, and naturally tended to gravitate toward a 50-50 split, not taking into account such special factors as war or emigration, which of course would not concern us. But since we are able to control our society’s sex ratio, we must be careful not to allow the citizens to bring about an arbitrarily gross imbalance. We cannot afford the risk that in a given year an entire city may opt for female children, let’s say — and stranger phenomena of mass fancy than that have been known. On compassionate grounds we may allow a particular couple to request and receive permission for, say, a daughter as their next little, but such requests must be compensated for elsewhere in the city in order to ensure the desired overall 50-50 division, even if this causes some distress or inconvenience to certain citizens. Therefore I would recommend a continuation of our present policy of loose control over sex ratios, maintaining the established parameters for free choice but always working within an understood assumption that the good of the urbmon as a whole must be—”

“God bless, Siegmund, that’s enough.”

“Sir?”

“You’ve made your point. Over and over. I wasn’t asking for a dissertation, just an opinion.” Siegmund feels mashed. He steps back, unable to face Shawke’s stony, contemptuous eyes at such close range. “Yes, sir,” he murmurs. “What shall I do about this cube, then?”

“Prepare a reply to go out in my name. Covering basically what you’ve told me, only embellishing it a little, dragging in some scholarly authority. Talk to a sociocomputator and get him to give you a dozen impressive-sounding reasons why free choice of sex would probably lead to an imbalance. Get hold of some historian and ask for figures on what actually happened to society the last time sex-ratio freedom was allowed. Wrap it all up with an appeal to their loyalty to the larger community. Clear?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And tell them, without quite putting it in those words, that the request is refused.”

“I’ll say we’re referring it to the high council for further study.”

“Exactly,” Shawke says. “How much time will you need for all this?”

“I could have it done by tomorrow afternoon.”

“Take three days. Don’t hurry it.” Shawke makes a gesture of dismissal. As Siegmund leaves, Shawke winks cruelly and says, “Rhea sends her love.”

“I don’t understand why he has to treat me that way,” Siegmund says, fighting to keep the whine out of his voice. “Is he like that with everyone?”

He lies beside Rhea Freehouse. Both of them naked; they have not yet made love tonight. Above them a pattern of lights twines and shifts. Rhea’s new sculpture, purchased during the day from one of the San Francisco artists. Siegmund’s hand on her left breast. Hard little lump of flesh, all pectoral muscle and mammary tissue, practically no fat in it. His thumb to her nipple.

She says, “Father has a very high regard for you.”

“He shows it in a strange way. Toying with me, almost sneering at me. He finds me very funny.”

“You’re imagining it, Siegmund.”

“No. Not really. Well, I suppose I can’t blame him. I must seem ridiculous to him. Taking the problems of urbmon life so seriously. Spouting long theoretical lectures. Those things don’t matter to him any more, and I can’t expect a man to remain as committed to his career at the age of sixty as he was at thirty, but he makes me feel like such an idiot for being committed myself. As if there’s something inherently stupid about anyone who’s involved with administrative challenges.”

“I never realized you thought so little of him,” Rhea says.

“Only because he falls so far short of realizing his abilities. He could be such a great leader. And instead he sits up there and laughs at everything.”

Rhea turns toward him. Her expression is grave. “You’re misjudging him, Siegmund. He’s as committed to the community welfare as you are. You’re so put off by his manner that you don’t see what a dedicated administrator he is.”

“Can you give me one example of—”

“Very often,” she continues, “we project onto other people our own secret, repressed attitudes. If we think, down deep, that something is trivial or worthless, we indignantly accuse other people of thinking so. If we wonder privately if we’re as conscientious and devoted to duty as we say we are, we complain that others are slackers. It might just happen that your passionate involvement with administrative affairs, Siegmund, represents more of a desire for mere rung-grabbing than it does a strong humanitarian concern, and you feel so guilty about your intense ambitions that you believe others are thinking about you in the same terms that yourself—”

“Wait! I absolutely deny—”

“Stop it, Siegmund. I’m not trying to pull you down. I’m just offering some possible explanations of your troubles in Louisville. If you’d rather I kept quiet—”

“Go on.”

“I’ll say just one more thing, and you can hate me afterward, if you like. You’re terribly young, Siegmund, to be where you are. Everybody knows you have tremendous ability, that you deserve to be on the brink of going to Louisville, but you’re uneasy yourself over how fast you’ve risen. You try to hide it, but you can’t hide it from me. You’re afraid that people resent your climb — even some people who are still above you may resent you, you sometimes think. So you’re self-conscious. You’re extra-sensitive. You read all sorts of terrible things into people’s innocent expressions. If I were you, Siegmund, I’d relax and try to enjoy myself more. Don’t worry about what people think, or seem to think, about you. Don’t fret about grabbing rungs — you’re headed for the top, you can’t miss, you can afford to slack off and not always worry about the theory of urban administration. Try to be cooler. Less businesslike, less obviously dedicated to your career. Cultivate friendships among people your own age — value people for their own sake, not for where they can help you get. Soak up human nature, work at being more human yourself. Go around the building; do some nightwalking in Warsaw or Prague, maybe. It’s irregular, but not illegal, and it’ll knock some of the tightness out of you. See how simpler people live. Does any of this make sense to you?”

Siegmund is silent.

“Some,” he says finally. “More than some.”

“Good.”

“It’s sinking in. Nobody’s ever spoken to me like that before.”

“Are you angry with me?”

“No. Of course not.”

Rhea runs her fingertips lightly along the line of his jaw. “Do you mind topping me now, then? I’d rather not have to be a moral engineer when I have company on my platform.”

His mind is full of her words. He is humiliated but not offended, for much of what she has said rings true. Lost in self-analysis, he turns mechanically to her, caressing her breasts, taking his place between her thighs. His belly against hers. Trying to do combat with a limp sword; he is so preoccupied with the intricacies of her entry into his character that he scarcely notices that he is unable to enter her. She finally makes him aware of the failure of his virility. Playfully dangling him. “Not interested tonight?” she asks.

“Tired,” he lies. “All slot and no sleep makes Siegmund a feeble topper.”

Rhea laughs. She puts her lips to him and he rises; it was lack of attention, not fatigue, that held him down, and the stimulus of her warm wet mouth returns him to the proper business of the moment. He is ready. Her lithe legs encircle him. With a quick eager thrust he plugs her slot. The only coin with which he can repay her for her wisdom. Now she ceases to be the perceptive, mature arbiter of personality; she is just another writhing woman. She snorts. She bucks. She quivers. Siegmund gives value for value, pumping her full of ecstasy. While he waits for her he thinks about how he must reshape his public image. Not to look ridiculous before the men of Louisville. Much he must do. She trembles now at the abyss of completion, and he pushes her over 95 and follows her, and subsides, sweaty, depressed, when the climax has swept by.

Home again, not long after midnight. Two heads on his sleeping platform. Mamelon is entertaining a nightwalker. Nothing unusual about that; Siegmund knows that his wife is one of the most desired women in the urbmon. For good reason. Standing by the door, he idly watches the humping bodies under the sheet. Mamelon is making sounds of passion, but to Siegmund they sound false and forced, as though she is courteously flattering an incompetent partner. The man grunts hoarsely in his final frenzies. Siegmund feels vague resentment. If you’re going to have my wife, man, at least give her a decent time. He strips and cleanses himself, and when he steps out from under the ultrasonic field the pair on the platform lie still, finished. The man gasping. Mamelon barely breathing hard, confirming Siegmund’s suspicion that she was pretending. Politely Siegmund coughs. Mamelon’s visitor looks up, blinking, red-faced, alarmed. He’s Jason Quevedo, the innocuous little historian, Micaela’s man. Mamelon is rather fond of him, though Siegmund can’t see why. Nor does Siegmund understand how Quevedo manages to cope with that tempestuous woman Micaela. Mine not to reason why. The sight of Quevedo reminds him that he must visit Micaela again soon. Also that he has work for Jason. “Hello, Siegmund,” Jason says, not meeting his eyes. Getting off the platform, looking for his scattered clothes. Mamelon winks at her husband. Siegmund blows her a kiss.

He says, “Before you go, Jason. I was going to call you tomorrow, but this’ll do. A project. Historical research.”

Quevedo looks eager to get out of the Kluver apartment.

Siegmund continues, “Nissim Shawke is preparing a response to a petition from Chicago concerning possible abandonment of sex-ratio regulations. He wants me to get together some background on how it was in the early days of ratio determination, when people were picking their children’s sexes without regard to what anyone else was doing. Since your specialty is the twentieth century, I wondered if you could -’

“Yes, certainly. Tomorrow, first thing. Call me.” Quevedo edging doorwards. Eager to flee.

Siegmund says, “What I need is some fairly detailed documentation covering first the medieval period of random births, what the sex distribution was, you see, and then going into the early period of control. While you’re getting that, I’ll talk to Mattern, I guess, get some sociocomputation on the political implications of—”

“It’s so late, Siegmund!” Mamelon complains. “Jason said you can talk to him about it in the morning.” Quevedo nods. Afraid to walk out while Siegmund is speaking, yet obviously unwilling to stay. Siegmund realizes he is being too diligent again. Change the image, change the image; business can wait. ” All right,” he says. “God bless, Jason, I’ll call you tomorrow.” Grateful, Quevedo escapes, and Siegmund lies down beside his wife. She says, “Couldn’t you see he wanted to run? He’s so hideously shy.”

“Poor Jason,” Siegmund says. Stroking Mamelon’s sleek flank.

“Where did you go tonight?”

“Rhea.”

“Interesting?”

“Very. In unexpected ways. She was telling me that I’m too earnest, that I have to try to be more relaxed.”

“She’s wise,” Mamelon says. “Do you agree with her?”

“I suppose so.” He dims the lights. “Meet frivolity with frivolity, that’s the secret. Take my work casually. I’ll try. I’ll try. But I can’t help getting involved in what I do. This petition from Chicago, for example: Of course we can’t allow free choice of children’s sexes! The consequences would be—”

“Siegmund.” She takes his hand and slides it to the base of her belly. “I’d rather not hear all that now. I need you. Rhea didn’t use you all up, did she? Because Jason certainly wasn’t much good tonight.”

“The vigor of youth remains. I hope.” Yes. He can manage it. He kisses Mamelon and slips into her. “I love you,” he whispers. My wife. My only true. I must remember to talk to Mattern in the morning. And Quevedo. Get the report on Shawke’s desk by the afternoon, anyway. If only Shawke had a desk. Statistics, quotations, footnotes. Siegmund visualizes every detail of it. Simultaneously he moves atop Mamelon, carrying her to her quick explosive coming.

Siegmund ascends to the 975th floor. Most of the key administrators have their offices here — Shawke, Freehouse, Holston, Donnelly, Stevis. Siegmund carries the Chicago cube and his draft of Shawke’s reply, loaded with quotes and data supplied by Charles Mattern and Jason Quevedo. He pauses in the hallway. So peaceful here, so opulent; no littles barging past you, no crowds of working folk. Someday mine. He sees a vision of a sumptuous suite on one of Louisville’s residential levels, three or even four rooms, Mamelon reigning like a queen over it all; Kipling Freehouse and Monroe Stevis dropping by with their wives for dinner; an occasional awed visitor coming up from Chicago or Shanghai, an old friend; power and comfort, responsibility and luxury. Yes.

“Siegmund?” A voice from an overhead speaker. “In here. We’re in Kipling’s place.” Shawke’s voice. They have picked him up on the scanners. Instantly he rearranges his face, knowing that it must have worn a vacuous, dreaming look. All business now. Angry with himself for forgetting that they might have been watching. He turns left and presents himself outside the office of Kipling Freehouse. The door slides back.

A grand, curving room lined with windows. The glittering face of Urbmon 117 revealed outside, tapering stunningly to its landing-stage summit. Siegmund is startled by the number of top-rank people gathered here. Their potent faces dazzle him. Kipling Freehouse, the head of the data-projection secretariat, a big plump-cheeked man with shaggy eyebrows. Nissim Shawke. The suave, frosty Lewis Holston, dressed as always in incandescently elegant costume. Wry little Monroe Stevis. Donnelly. Kinsella. Vaughan. A sea of greatness. Everyone who counts is here, except only a few; a flippo with a psych-bomb, loose in this room, could cripple the urbmon’s government. What terrible crisis has brought them together like this? Frozen in awe, Siegmund can barely manage to step forward. A cherub among the archangels. Stumbling into the making of history. Perhaps they want him here, as if unwilling to take whatever step it is that they’re considering without a representative of the coming generation of leaders to give his approval. Siegmund is dizzingly flattered by his own interpretation. I will be part of it. Whatever it is. His self-importance expands and the glare of their aura diminishes, and he moves in something close to a swagger as he approaches them. Then he realizes that there are some others present who might not be thought to belong at any high-powered policy session. Rhea Freehouse? Paolo, her indolent husband? And these girls, no more than fifteen or sixteen, in gossamer webs or even less: mistresses of the great ones, handmaidens. Everyone knows that Louisville administrators keep extra girls. But here? Now? Giggling on the brink of history? Nissim Shawke salutes Siegmund without rising and says, “Join the party. You name the groover, we’ve probably got some. Tingle, mindblot, millispans, multiplexers, anything.”

Party? Party?

“I’ve got the sex-ratio report here. Historical data — the sociocomputator—”

“Crot that, Siegmund. Don’t spoil the fun.”

Fun?

Rhea comes toward him. Lurching, blurred, obviously grooving. Yet her keen intelligence showing through the haze of druggedness. “You forgot what I told you. Loosen up, Siegmund.” Whispering. Kisses the tip of his nose. Takes his report from him, puts it on Freehouse’s desk. Draws her hands across his cheeks; fingers wet. Wouldn’t be surprised if she’s leaving stains on me. Wine. Blood. Anything. Rhea says, “Happy Somatic Fulfillment Day. We’re celebrating. You can have me, if you like, or one of the girls, or Paolo, or anybody else you want.” She giggles. “My father, too. Have you ever dreamed of topping Nissim Shawke? Just don’t be a spoiler.”

“I came up here because I had to give an important document to your father and—”

“Oh, shove it up the access nexus,” Rhea says, and turns away from him, her disgust unhidden.

Somatic Fulfillment Day. He had forgotten. The festival will start in a few hours; he should be with Mamelon. But he is here. Shall he leave? They are looking at him. A place to hide. Sink into the undulating psychosensitive carpet. Don’t spoil the fun. His mind is still full of the business of the morning. Whereas the random, or purely biological, determination of the sex of unborn infants normally results by expectable statistical distribution in a relatively symmetrical division of. Removal of the element of chance introduces the danger that. It was the experience of the former city of Tokyo, between 1987 and 1996, that the incidence of birth of female offspring declined by a factor of almost. Risks are not counterbalanced by. Therefore it is recommended that. The party, he sees, looking more closely, is essentially an orgy. He has been to orgies before, but not with people of this level. Fumes rising. The nakedness of Monroe Stevis. A huddled heap of fleshy girls. “Come on,” Kipling Freehouse bellows, “enjoy yourself, Siegmund! Pick a girl, any girl!” Laughter. A wanton child pushes a capsule into his hand. He is trembling, and it drops. Seized and gobbled by one of the other girls. People are still coming in. Dignified, elegant Lewis Holston has a girl on each knee. And one kneeling before him. “Nothing, Siegmund?” Nissim Shawke asks. “You won’t have a thing? Poor Siegmund. If you’re going to live in Louisville, you’ve got to know how to play as well as work.”

Judging him. Testing his compatibility: will he fit in with the elite, or must he be relegated to the ranks of the drudges, the middle-level bureaucracy? Siegmund sees himself demoted to Rome. His ambitions take over. If knowing how to play is the criterion for admission, he’ll play. Grins. “I’d like some tingle,” he says. Stick to what you know you can handle.

“Tingle, coming up!”

He makes the effort. A golden-hair nymph offers him the tingle bowl; he gulps, pinches her, gulps again. The sparkling fluid popping in his throat. A third gulp. Swill it down; you aren’t paying! They cheer him. Rhea nods approval. Clothes are coming off around the room. The amusements of the masters. There must be fifty people in here now. A clap on the back. Kipling Freehouse. Shouting, deafeningly hearty: “You’re all right, boy! Worried about you, you know! So serious, so dedicated! Not bad virtues to have, eh, but there’s got to be more, you follow? A playful spirit. Eh? Eh?”

“Yes, sir. I know what you mean, sir.”

Siegmund dives into the heap. Breasts, thighs, buttocks, tongues. Musky womansmells. A fountain of sensation. Someone pops something into his mouth. He swallows, and moments later feels the back of his skull lift. Laughter. He is being kissed. Forced down against the carpet by his assailant. Gropes and feels small hard breasts. Rhea? Yes. And her husband Paolo closing in on the other side of him. Music blaring from above. In the tangle he discovers himself sharing a girl with Nissim Shawke. A cold wink from him; an icy grin. Shawke testing his capacity for pleasure. Everyone watching him, seeing if he’s decadent enough to deserve promotion to their midst. Let yourself go! Let everything go!

Urgently he compels himself to revel. Much depends on this. Below him 974 wondrous floors of urbmon and if he wants to stay up here he must know how to play. Disillusioned that the administrators are like this. So common, so vulgar, the cheap hedonism of a ruling class. They could be Florentine dukes, Parisian grandees, Borgias, drunken boyars. Unable to accept this image of them, Siegmund constructs a fantasy: they have staged this revel solely to test his character, to determine whether he is indeed merely a dreary drudge or if he has the breadth of spirit a Louisville man needs. Folly to think they spend their priceless time swilling and topping like this; but they are flexible, they can enjoy life, they turn from work to play with equal gusto. And if he wants to live among them he must demonstrate equal many-sidedness. He will. He will.

His furry brain swirls with conflicting chemical messages.

“Let’s sing!” he yells desperately. “Everybody sing!” Bellowing:

They sing with him. He cannot hear his own voice. Dark eyes peer into his. “God bless,” a long rippling lass murmurs. “You’re cute. The famous Siegmund Kluver.” She belches tingle- bubbles.

“We’ve met before, haven’t we?”

“Once, I think, in Nissim’s office. Scylla Shawke.”

The great man’s wife. Startling in her beauty. Young. Young. No more than twenty-five. He had heard a rumor that the first Mrs. Shawke, Rhea’s mother, went down the chute, flippo. Someday he must check on the truth of that. Scylla Shawke wriggles close to him. Her soft black hair dangling in his face. He is almost paralyzed with fear. The consequences; can this be going too far? Recklessly he grabs her and plunges his hand into her tunic. She cooperates. Full warm breasts. Soft moist lips. Can he fail this test, by an excess of shamelessness? Never mind. Never mind. Happy Somatic Fulfillment Day! Her body grinds against his, and he realizes, in shock, that it would be no problem to top her right now, here, in this heaving mass of high-level humanity on the floor of Kipling Freehouse’s sprawling office. Too far, too fast. He slides free of her grasp. Catching the single flicker of disappointment and reproach in her eyes at his withdrawal. Rolls over: Rhea. “Why didn’t you?” she whispers. And Siegmund says, “I couldn’t,” just before another girl, straddling him, kneels and pours something sweet and sticky into his mouth. He whirls within his skull. “It was a mistake,” Rhea tells him. “She was being set up for you.” Her words fracture and the pieces rebound, soaring high and drifting about the room. Something strange has happened to the lights; everything has become prismatic, and from all plane surfaces an eerie radiance is streaming. Siegmund crawls through the tumult, searching for Scylla Shawke. Instead he finds Nissim.

“I’d like to discuss the business of the Chicago sex-ratio petition with you now,” the administrator tells him.

When Siegmund returns to his apartment hours later, he finds Mamelon pacing grimly about. “Where have you been?” she demands. “Somatic Fulfillment Day’s almost over. I’ve called the access nexus, I’ve had tracers all over the building, I’ve-”

“I was in Louisville,” Siegmund says. “Kipling Freehouse had a party.” Stumbles past her. Drops face-down on the sleeping platform. First come the dry sobs, then the tears, and by the time they stop flowing Somatic Fulfillment Day might just as well be over.