Robert Silverberg - The World Inside

“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.