him, trying to reach his client through a conduit tapped in such a way that no effort, not even the formality, had been made to conceal the introduction of a hostile, self-serving, highly unnatural bit of electronic mechanism. Maren said thoughtfully, "It was put on last week sometime.
Lars said, "I do not object to a monopoly of knowledge by one small class. It doesn't upset me, that there are a few cogs and a lot of pursaps. Every society is really run by an elite."
"So what's the trouble, darling dear?"
"What bothers me," Lars said as the up-elevator came and he and Maren entered it, "is that the elite, in this case, doesn't even bother to guard that knowledge which makes it the elite." There is, he thought, probably a free pamphlet, distributed by UN-West for the asking, filled something like, HOW WE RULE YOU FELLAS AND WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO ABOUT IT?
"You're in authority," Maren reminded him.
Glancing at her he said, "You do keep that telepathic brain-add turned on. Despite Behren's Ordinance."
Maren said, "It cost me fifty mil to get it installed. You think I'm going to set it to the off position, really? Look how it earns its keep. It tells me if you're faithful or off in some conapt with—"
"Read my subconscious, then."
"I have been. Anyhow, why? Who wants to know where you keep the nasty things you don't want to know—"
"Read it anyhow! Read the prognosticating aspects. What I'm going to do, the potential actions still in germinal form."
Maren shook her head. "Such big words and such little ideas."
She giggled at his response. The ship, now on auto-auto, had reached a height above the commute-layer, was on its way out of town. He had reflexively instructed it to vacate Paris... God knew why.
"I'll analyze you, dear duck," she said. "It's really touching, what you're thinking over and over again deep down there in that substandard mind of yours—substandard if you don't count that knob on the frontal lobe that makes you a medium."
He waited to hear only the truth.
Maren said, "Over and over again that little inner voice is squeaking, Why must the pursaps believe what isn't so? Why can't they be told, and being told, accept?" Her tone was compassionate, now. For her, quite unusually so. "You just can't grasp the incredible truth. They can't."
7
After dinner they made for Maren's Paris apartment. He prowled about in the living room, waiting while Maren changed, as Jean Harlow once remarked in an ancient but still potent flick, "into something more comfortable."
Then he happened onto a device resting on a low imitation tarslewood table. It was vaguely familiar and he picked it up, handled it with curiosity. Familiar and yet utterly strange.
The bedroom door was partly open. "What's this?" he called. He could see her dim, underwear-clad form as she traveled back and forth between the bed and closet. "This thing that looks like a human head with no features. The size of a baseball."
Maren called back cheerfully. "That's from 202."
"My sketch?" He stared at the object. Plowshared. This was the product for the retail market derived from the decision of one concomody on the Board. "What's it do?" he asked, finding no switches.
"It amuses."
"How?"
Maren appeared in the doorway briefly, wearing nothing. "Say something to it."
Glancing at her, Lars said, "I'm more amused just looking at you. There's about three pounds you've put on.
"Ask," Maren said, "the Orville a question. Ol' Orville is the rage. People cloister themselves for days with it, doing nothing but asking and getting answers. It replaces religion."
"There is no religion," he said, feeling serious. His experiences with the hyper-dimensional realm had disabused him of any dogmatic or devotional faith. If anyone living was qualified to claim knowledge of the "next world" it was he, and as yet he had discovered no transcendent aspect to it.
Maren said, "Then tell it a joke."
"Can't I just put it back where I found it?"
"You really
Lars said, "I do not object to a monopoly of knowledge by one small class. It doesn't upset me, that there are a few cogs and a lot of pursaps. Every society is really run by an elite."
"So what's the trouble, darling dear?"
"What bothers me," Lars said as the up-elevator came and he and Maren entered it, "is that the elite, in this case, doesn't even bother to guard that knowledge which makes it the elite." There is, he thought, probably a free pamphlet, distributed by UN-West for the asking, filled something like, HOW WE RULE YOU FELLAS AND WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO ABOUT IT?
"You're in authority," Maren reminded him.
Glancing at her he said, "You do keep that telepathic brain-add turned on. Despite Behren's Ordinance."
Maren said, "It cost me fifty mil to get it installed. You think I'm going to set it to the off position, really? Look how it earns its keep. It tells me if you're faithful or off in some conapt with—"
"Read my subconscious, then."
"I have been. Anyhow, why? Who wants to know where you keep the nasty things you don't want to know—"
"Read it anyhow! Read the prognosticating aspects. What I'm going to do, the potential actions still in germinal form."
Maren shook her head. "Such big words and such little ideas."
She giggled at his response. The ship, now on auto-auto, had reached a height above the commute-layer, was on its way out of town. He had reflexively instructed it to vacate Paris... God knew why.
"I'll analyze you, dear duck," she said. "It's really touching, what you're thinking over and over again deep down there in that substandard mind of yours—substandard if you don't count that knob on the frontal lobe that makes you a medium."
He waited to hear only the truth.
Maren said, "Over and over again that little inner voice is squeaking, Why must the pursaps believe what isn't so? Why can't they be told, and being told, accept?" Her tone was compassionate, now. For her, quite unusually so. "You just can't grasp the incredible truth. They can't."
7
After dinner they made for Maren's Paris apartment. He prowled about in the living room, waiting while Maren changed, as Jean Harlow once remarked in an ancient but still potent flick, "into something more comfortable."
Then he happened onto a device resting on a low imitation tarslewood table. It was vaguely familiar and he picked it up, handled it with curiosity. Familiar and yet utterly strange.
The bedroom door was partly open. "What's this?" he called. He could see her dim, underwear-clad form as she traveled back and forth between the bed and closet. "This thing that looks like a human head with no features. The size of a baseball."
Maren called back cheerfully. "That's from 202."
"My sketch?" He stared at the object. Plowshared. This was the product for the retail market derived from the decision of one concomody on the Board. "What's it do?" he asked, finding no switches.
"It amuses."
"How?"
Maren appeared in the doorway briefly, wearing nothing. "Say something to it."
Glancing at her, Lars said, "I'm more amused just looking at you. There's about three pounds you've put on.
"Ask," Maren said, "the Orville a question. Ol' Orville is the rage. People cloister themselves for days with it, doing nothing but asking and getting answers. It replaces religion."
"There is no religion," he said, feeling serious. His experiences with the hyper-dimensional realm had disabused him of any dogmatic or devotional faith. If anyone living was qualified to claim knowledge of the "next world" it was he, and as yet he had discovered no transcendent aspect to it.
Maren said, "Then tell it a joke."
"Can't I just put it back where I found it?"
"You really
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