Robert Silverberg - The World Inside

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.”