Robert Silverberg: The World Inside

Mattern smiles. “Not in the usual sense. But we allow certain conflicts to exist. Man wouldn’t be man without conflicts, eh? Even here. Eh?”

They are walking down the eastbound corridor toward Mattern’s home. It is now 0710, and children are streaming from their apartments in groups of three and four, rushing to get to school. Mattern waves to them. They sing as they run along. Mattern says, “We average 6.2 children per family on this floor. It’s one of the lowest figures in the building, I have to admit. High-status people don’t seem to breed well. They’ve got a floor in Prague — I think it’s 117 — that averages 9.9 per family! Isn’t that glorious?”

“You are speaking with irony?” Gortman asks.

“Not at all.” Mattern feels an uptake of tension. “We like children. We approve of breeding. Surely you realized that before you set out on this tour of—”

“Yes, yes,” says Gortman, hastily. “I was aware of the general cultural dynamic. But I thought perhaps your own attitude—”

“Ran counter to norm? Just because I have a scholar’s detachment. You shouldn’t assume that I disapprove in any way of my cultural matrix. Perhaps you’re guilty of projecting your own disapproval, eh?”

“I regret the implication. And please don’t think I feel the slightest negative attitudes in relation to your matrix, although I admit your world seems quite strange to me. Bless god, let us not have strife, Charles.”

“God bless, Nicanor. I didn’t mean to seem touchy.”

They smile. Mattern is dismayed by his show of irritability.

Gortman says, “What is the population of the 799th floor?”

“805, last I heard.”

“And of Shanghai?”

“About 33,000.”

“And of Urbmon 116?”

“881,000.”

“And there are fifty urban monads in this constellation of houses?”

“Yes.”

“Making some 40,000,000 people,” Gortman says. “Or somewhat more than the entire human population of Venus. Remarkable!”

“And this isn’t the biggest constellation, not by any means!” Mattern’s voice rings with pride. “Sansan is bigger, and so is Boshwash! And there are several larger ones in Europe — Berpar, Wienbud, I think two others. With more being planned!”

“A global population of—”

“—75,000,000,000,” Mattern cries. “God bless! There’s never been anything like it! No one goes hungry! Everybody happy! Plenty of open space! God’s been good to us, Nicanor!” He pauses before a door libeled 79915. “Here’s my home. What I have is yours, dear guest.” They go in.

Mattern’s home is quite adequate. We has nearly ninety square meters of floor space. The sleeping platform deflates; the children cots retracts; the furniture can easily be moved to provide play area. Most of the room, in fact, is empty. The screen and the data terminal occupy two-dimensional areas of wall that in an earlier era had to be taken up by bulky television sets, bookcases, desks, file drawers, and other encumbrances. It is an airy, spacious environment, particularly for a family of just six.

The children have not yet left for school; Principessa has held them back, to meet the guest, and so they are restless. As Mattern enters, Sandor and Indra are struggling over a cherished toy, the dream-stirrer. Mattern is astounded. Conflict in the home? Silently, so their mother will not notice, they fight. Sandor hammers his shoes into his sister’s shins. Indra, wincing, claws her brother’s cheek. “God bless,” Mattern says sharply. “Somebody wants to go down the chute, eh?” The children gasp. The toy drops. Everyone stands at attention. Principessa looks up, brushing a lock of dark hair from her eyes; six has been busy with the youngest child and has not even heard them come in.

Mattern says, “Conflict sterilizes. Apologize to each other.”

Indra and Sandor kiss and smile. Meekly Indra picks up the toy and hands it to Mattern, who gives it to his younger son, Marx. They are all staring now at the guest. Mattern says to Gortman, “What I have is yours, friend,.” He makes introductions. Wife, children. The scene of conflict has unnerved him a little, but he is relieved when Gortman produce four small boxes and distributes them to the children. Toys. A blessful gesture. Mattern points to the deflated platform. “This is where we sleep,” he explains. “There’s ample room for three. We wash at the cleanser, here. Do you like privacy when voiding waste matter?”

“Please, yes.”

“You press this button for the privacy shield. We excrete in this. Urine here, feces there. Everything is reprocessed, you understand. We’re a thrifty folk in the urbmons.”

“Of course,” Gortman says.

Principessa says, “Do you prefer that we use the shield when we excrete? I understand some outbuilding people do.”

“I would not want to impose my customs on you,” says Gortman.

Smiling, Mattern says, “We’re a post-privacy culture, naturally. But it wouldn’t be any trouble for us to press the button, if—” He falters. A troublesome new thought. “There’s no general nudity taboo on Venus, is there? I mean, we have only this one room, and—”

“I am adaptable,” Gortman insists. “A trained sociocomputator must be a cultural relativist, of course!”

“Of course,” Mattern agrees, and he laughs nervously.

Principessa excuses herself from the conversation and sends the children, still clutching their new toys, off to school.

Mattern says, “Forgive me for being overobvious, but I must bring up the matter of your sexual prerogatives. We three will share a single platform. My wife is available to you, as am I. Within the urbmon it is improper to refuse any reasonable request, so long as no injury is involved. Avoidance of frustration, you see, is the primary rule of a society such as ours, where even minor frictions could lead to uncontrollable oscillations of disharmony. And do you know our custom of nightwalking?”

“I’m afraid I—”

“Doors are not locked in Urbmon 116. We have no personal property worth guarding, and we all are socially adjusted. At night it is quite proper to enter other homes. We exchange partners in this way all the time; usually wives stay home and husbands migrate, though not necessarily. Each of us has access at any time to any other adult member of our community.”

“Strange,” says Gortman. “I’d think that is a society where there are so many people living so close together; an exaggerated respect for privacy would develop; rather than a communal freedom.

“In the beginning we had many notions of privacy. God bless, they were allowed to erode! Avoidance of frustration must be our goal, otherwise impossible tensions develop. And privacy is frustration.”

“So you can go into any room in this whole gigantic building and sleep with—”

“Not the whole building,” Mattern says, interrupting. “Only Shanghai. We frown on nightwalking beyond one’s own city.” He chuckles. “We do impose a few little restrictions on ourselves, you see, so that our freedoms don’t pall.”

Gortman turns toward Principessa. She wears a loinband and metallic cup over her left breast. She is slender but voluptuously constructed, and even though her childbearing days are over she has not lost the sensual glow of young womanhood. Mattern is proud of her, despite everything.

Mattern says, “Shall we begin our tour of the building?”

They go toward the door. Gortman bows gracefully to Principessa as he and Mattern leave. In the corridor, the visitor says, “Your family is smaller than the norm, I see.”

It is an excruciatingly impolite statement, but Mattern is able to be tolerant of his guest’s faux pas. Mildly he replies, “We would have had more children, but my wife’s fertility had to be terminated surgically. It was a great tragedy for us.”