PROLUGE - THE INVADERS

The only thing necessary for the triumph of eviI is for good men to do nothing.

-Edmund Burke

Elsewhere in Los Angeles it was late afternoon, but here was only twilight. The three invaders peering out of the orange grove were deep in shadow. The sky blazed behind them and sent chinks of blue-white light through the trees to make the shadows darker.

There was a fresh smell of fertilizers and crushed orange peel carried on the warm Santa Mia wind.

Close ahead the eastern face of Todos Santos was a black wall across the world. Thousands of balconies and windows in neat array showed in this light as no more than a faceless void seen through gray leaves, a sharp-edged black rectangle blotting Out the sky.

The invaders blinked as they searched through uncertain light, and froze at the thunder of wings above. Nobody was about. They had watched the grounds tenders leave. They had seen no guards.

"There." The girl pointed. Her voice was no louder than the leaves' rustle in the wind. "There."

The two boys stared until they made out a square outline, barely visible, at the base of the towering wail. It seemed about man-sized. "The big door," she said. "We're still a good way away. It doesn't look it, but that door is thirty feet high. The little one is to the left of it."

"I can't find it," said one of the boys. He giggled suddenly, and stopped as suddenly. He said, "Nervous? Me?"

The other boy was lean and sketchily bearded, and he carried a black case on a strap. He stared at tiny lights set on its top, then said, "Run for the big door until you see the little one. On the count. Three, two, one, go."

He ran holding the case in front of himself to cushion against shock. The others lagged behind. They were carrying a much larger box between them. The leader was already taking things Out of the case when they came puffing up.

"This lousy light," he panted.

"Bad for the guards, too," said the girl. "It's late afternoon everywhere but here. At night they'd know they couldn't see. They'd be watching harder."

The other boy grinned. "We'll give 'em a hell of a shock." There was a sign on the door. Below a large death's head it said:

IF YOU GO THROUGH THIS DOOR, YOU WILL BE KILLED.

It was repeated in Spanish, Japanese, Chinese, and Korean. "Subtle, aren't they?" the girl said. She stiffened as the bearded boy pushed the door open. There was no sudden wail of alarms and they grinned at each other for a moment of triumph.

They dodged through fast. The bearded boy closed the door behind them.

I - THE WATCHERS

Life in the state of nature is solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short.

-Thomas Hobbes, Leviathan

Joe Dunhill polished his badge on his sleeve and plucked imaginary lint from the crisp blue of his uniform. The door was still there, still marked CENTRAL SECURITY: Authorized Personnel Only. He took a deep breath and reached for the small button at one side. Before his finger could touch it, there was a faint buzzing sound and the door opened.

The room inside gleamed with steel and chrome and Formica. A policeman with metal sergeant's chevrons on his collar sat at a desk facing the door. There was nothing on the desk but a small TV screen. "Yeah?"

"Officer Dunhill, reporting for duty."

The older man raised an eyebrow. "Bit early for the evening shift."

"Yes, sir. I thought there might be paper work, my first day and all."

The sergeant smiled faintly. "Computers take care of that. Dunhill?" He frowned. "Oh, yeah, you're the new man from Seattle PD. Guess you had a pretty good record up there. Want some coffee?" He turned to a machine on one side of the room.

"Uh, guess so. Light and sweet, please."

The sergeant pushed buttons. The machine thought for a moment, then whined faintly. The sergeant held out a molded plastic mug. "Here you go."

Joe tasted experimentally. "Hey. That's good." The surprise was obvious in his voice.

"Well of course it's-Oh. You're new here. Look, all the coffee machines in Todos Santos make good coffee. We wouldn't have 'em here if they didn't. Boss lady bought a thousand of these."

Even clichés die, Joe Dunhill thought.

"Why'd you leave Seattle?"

The question sounded casual, and maybe, Joe thought, maybe it is. And maybe not. "Todos Santos made me an offer I couldn't refuse."

The sergeant's smile was friendly, but knowing. "Dunhill, I wasn't on the board that decided to hire you, but I've heard the story. I think you got a raw deal."

"Thanks."

"Yeah. But I wouldn't have hired you if it was left up to me."

"Oh." Joe didn't know what to say to that.

"Not because you shot that punk. I'd have done the same thing myself."

"Then why not?"

"Because I don't think you can do the job."

"I was a damned good policeman," Joe said.

"I know you were. And probably still are. And that's the trouble. We don't have police here." The sergeant laughed at Joe's blank stare. "We look like police, right? Badges. Uniforms. Guns, some of us. But we aren't police, Dunhill. We're security people, and there's a lot of difference." He came over to put his hand on Joe's shoulder. "Look, I hope you work out. Let's go."

He led Joe out of the reception room and down a long hail to a closed door.

"Did they tell you about the locking system we use here?" the sergeant asked.

"Not really."

"Well, everybody in Todos Santos has an ID badge. There's some kind of electronic magic-well, hell, it might as well be magic for all I know! It opens locks if you've got the right badge for it. Residents' badges open their own doors, that kind of thing.

Security badges open a lot of doors." He waved his own badge at the door in front of them. Nothing happened. "But not this one. Security Central's kind of special. What happens is we alert the inside duty officer."

They waited for a few moments, then the door opened into a small, dimly lit room the size of a closet. The door behind them closed, then another door in front of them opened onto a much larger and even more dimly lit room.

There were TV screens around all four walls, banks of them, with uniformed men seated in front of each bank. In the center of the room was a huge circular console with dozens of dials and buttons. More TV screens were built into the console. A uniformed captain wearing a tiny telephone headset-microphone sprawled in a comfortable chair in the middle of the center console.

"Dunhill, Captain," the sergeant said. "First day. Assigned to Blake."

The captain nodded. "Thanks, Adler. Welcome aboard, Dunhill."

Isaac Blake had a square face with roundness shaping under the square chin, a square body also turning round, black-and white hair with the white winning. He lolled at ease before the bank of TV screens and sipped coffee. Every twenty seconds or so he touched a knob and the pictures shifted.

There seemed no order to the flow of pictures. Now the camera looked down on the heads of hundreds of shoppers strolling along a Mall, bright-colored clothing that looked strange because the light was artificial but the scene was so large that you expected it to be sunlight. Now a view of a big dining hall. Now a view through the orange groves, looking up at Todos Santos standing a thousand feet tall.

"Whew-this is one big city. Even on a TV screen."

Blake nodded. "Yeah, it still gets to me, sometimes." His fingers moved, and the view shifted to look along one side wall. Seen from that angle, the two-mile length seemed to stretch on forever.

The kaleidoscope continued. Sparse traffic in a subway. Interior halls, stretching far away; people on moving belts, people on escalators, people in elevators. A dizzying view down onto a balcony, where a nude hairy man sprawled in obscene comfort on an air mattress. Thirty men and women seated at a long bench soldering tiny electronic parts onto circuit boards, chatting gaily and working almost without looking at what they were doing.

The camera switched to the greensward beyond Todos Santos's perimeter, where a dozen pickets lethargically marched about with signs. "END THE NEST BEFORE IT ENDS HUMAN1TY," said one. Blake sniffed and touched buttons. The scene jumped to a pretty girl in a miniskirt carrying a bag of groceries; the camera followed her down a long hall from an escalator, zooming along to keep her in close up as she walked into a small alcove. When she took her badge out of her purse, the door opened, and she went inside, leaving the door standing open while she set the bag down on an Eames chair. For a moment the screen showed an expensive apartment, meticulously clean, thick rugs, paintings on the walls. The girl was unbuttoning her blouse as she came to the door and closed it.

"Like to watch the rest of that show," Blake muttered. He turned a lazy smile toward Joe Dunhill.

"Of course we aren't supposed to do that," Dunhill said.

"Nope. Can't, either."

"Oh. I've noticed you haven't shown up the inside of any apartment. I guess I wouldn't want cameras in my bathroom either."

"Oh, we've got them there," Blake said. "But they don't go on without authorization-there's one now." He touched his headset. "Captain, I'll take that interior call."

"Right."

The TV screen flicked to show a kitchen. A small boy was pulling things out of cabinets, scattering flour on the floor and carefully mixing in salt preparatory to pouring a bottle of sherry across the mess. Blake reached forward to a button under the screen. He waited a moment, then said into the tiny headset microphone, "Ma'am, this is Central Security. Somebody pushed the panic button in the kitchen, and I think you'd better have a look out there. Yes, Ma'am, it's safe but you ought to hurry."

He waited. On the screen above, a woman, mid-thirties, not very attractive at the moment because her hair was partly in curlers and partly in wet strings, came into the kitchen, looked down in horror, and shouted, "Peter!"

Then she looked up with a smile and moved closer to the camera. "Thank you, Officer," she said. Blake smiled back, for no sane reason, and touched a dial. The picture faded.

Joe Dunhill watched in concentration. Sergeant Adler had been right, this was no kind of police work he'd ever seen. He turned to Blake. "I don't get it. You just skip around."

"Sort of. Of course there are exceptions, like when somebody asks us to keep an eye on things. But mostly we watch what we feel like. After a while you get some judgment about the feels."

"But wouldn't it be better to have assigned places? Instead of jumping around-"

"Bosses don't think so. They want us alert. Who can be alert just staring at one scene all the time? The math boys worked it out, how many of us, how many TV screens each, probability of trouble-over my head, but it seems to work."

Joe digested that. "Uh-seems to me I'd be more valuable out on the streets. Responding to calls-"

Blake laughed. "After you've been here a year maybe they'll put you where you interact with stockholders. If you work out." The kaleidoscope above continued. A moving beltway, with some kids walking on a balcony above it. Blake touched controls, and the camera zoomed in on the kids. After a moment the kaleidoscope started up again. "Think about it," Blake said. "In Seattle, you were a cop, and out among the civilians. You worried about making good arrests, right? Best way to get promoted."

"Sure-"

"Well, in here it's different." Blake suddenly frowned and set down his cup.

It took Joe Dunhill a moment to realize that Blake was no longer interested in the conversation, and another to see why he was staring. It wasn't the screen at all. A blue light to the side had lit up.

"On the roof," he said, with a question in his voice. Then, with more confidence, "Visitor. How did he get up there?"

Blake played with the controls. The screen jumped with disconnected pictures, flashing views of four square miles of roof: the curtained windows of the Sky Room night club; golfers on the golf course; a view down onto one of the inverted-pyramid shapes of an air well, plunging down in narrowing steps each one story high and lined with windows. Then a forest of skeletal structures:

a children's playground, empty at the moment, then another jungle gym with a dozen kids hanging like bats. The Olympic swimming pool, with a wide, shallow children's wading pool just beyond. Baseball diamond. Football field. On the Todos Santos roof was every kind of playground for child or adult.

Then beyond a low fence, an empty area, bags of concrete and piles of wood for forms, cement mixer idle at the moment. The camera zoomed to the mixer. "ID badge," Blake muttered. "Visitor badge, must be stuffed into the cement mixer. What the hell for? And what's he doing up there?" The TV screen flowed across the roof again, searching- "There," cried Joe Dunhill.

"Yeah. I see him. Doesn't seem to be carrying anything. Might have been, though. We'll have to search the roof. Detectors would have picked up anything metal, and there's not a lot worth bombing up there, but we'll have to look anyway."

The figure moved rapidly along the twelve-foot fence between him and the edge. He was hunched over, a caricature of a man sneaking. He found a gap in the fence, hesitated, and moved into it.

Blake grinned. "Hah! Maybe we won't have to send anyone up after all He's found the diving board."

"That's not the pool area."

"I know. Sometimes I wonder about Rand. You know about Tony Rand? He's the chief architect for this place. Rand's high board isn't in the pool area."

"Eh?"

"Watch. If he's really a leaper, we won't have to call anyone." Blake touched another button. "Captain, I have the bandit on the roof area. Looks like he's going to dive." Blake fiddled with the knobs. The picture sharpened.

He had been following the fence for thirty minutes, looking for a way to reach the edge. The fence seemed endless, and he wondered if he could climb it, and if there were alarms. Todos Santos was said to be very Big Brother. .

Then he saw the opening. There was a cement mixer nearby and he pushed the visitor badge into it. The badge wasn't his, and told nothing about him, but it was the last possible clue. Maybe they'd find it and maybe not. He moved on, to the gap in the fence.

There was a big sign: WATCH YOUR STEP. He did not smile. His long, unhandsome face was dead calm, as if he had never smiled and never would. He turned into the channel of fencing. It was just wider than his shoulders.

The channel ended in a steel ladder. Through the steps he could see the orange groves and parks far below, then beyond them the tiny shapes of city houses, some with the blue splash of a swimming pool, all looking like miniatures. He pressed his forehead against the cold metal and looked down . . . a fifth of a mile down to the green landscape around Todos Santos. A thousand feet to oblivion.

He climbed the steps. The situation was strange. The steps ended in a long, narrow rectangle. He tested it with his foot. Wood padded with burlap. . . and it shook slightly.

A high-diving board.

He walked out on the board and looked down.

The balconies receded in perspective until they merged with blank wall. The parkland below was a green blur. A view more mathematical than real, parallel lines meeting at infinity. So here was the end of a dull and thwarted life. He was carrying no identification. After a fall like that they would never know who he was. Let them wonder.

The board bounced as he shifted his weight.

"But-but suppose he jumps?" Joe Dunhill asked.

"Well, we don't advertise it, but there's a net that comes out when he passes the spy-eyes. Then we just collect him and eject him. Let him give his bad publicity to someone else," Blake told him.

"Does this happen all the time? You don't look particularly interested."

"Oh, I'm interested. I've got five bucks in the pool. See that chart?" Blake waved at the far wall, where chalk marks said:

LAUGHING 3

BACKED OUT JUMPED 8

TERRIFIED 7

"That's this quarter's tally. Work it out," said Blake. "The roof of this place is eight miles of sheer cliff. We get every would be suicide west of the Rockies and some from New England and Japan. But the high-diving board is the only access to the edge, and it does have a funny effect on people." Blake frowned and scratched his neck. "He sure looks like a jumper. If he backs out I stand a fair chance to win."

The man stood straddle-legged at the end of the board, brooding above a thousand-foot drop. The picture of melancholy, until a gust of wind slapped across him, and suddenly he was dancing on one leg and waving his arms.

"Maybe not," Blake said. The jumper was reflexively fighting for his life. The gust died suddenly, and he almost went off the other side of the board. He wound up on hands and knees. He stayed there, gripping the board. Presently he began backing toward the ladder. When he reached the steps he stayed stooped and backed down, placing his feet very carefully.

"Leaper's off, Captain," Blake called.

"Right. Got a detail going after him."

Joe asked, "Some of them laugh?"

"Yeah. It's a funny picture, isn't it? You're going to kill yourself. It's the most powerful statement you can make about the way the world has treated you. That's what Rand says, anyway. And when you finally get there, there's a high-diving board to add ten feet to the drop!"

Joe shook his head, grinning.

"They don't all back out. Once I watched a woman stand up there, take off her overcoat-she wasn't wearing anything under it -bounce once, and take off in a really gorgeous swan dive." He smiled, then shook himself. "But the board turns off a lot of them. Rand isn't any dummy. He built Todos Santos, and he's still building it, if you know what I mean. He's always tinkering around."

"I'd like to meet him."

"You will."

Fat chance, Joe thought. "What happens to the leaper?"

"One of the bosses will talk to him. Standing orders. Rand wants to know what makes them tick. Maybe to think of ways to discourage them." Blake looked at his watch. "This one may have a wait. There's a bigwig from Canada coming in for a visit and all the brass will be busy."

"Can we hold him?" Joe asked. "I mean, civil rights and all-"

"Sure. Some of us are real live cops," Blake said. "It's a legal thing. Todos Santos is legally a city. Sort of. But the insurance is cheaper if most of us are security officers rather than peace officers. But we are a city. We even have a jail. Judges, too, but they don't get much work. Corporation people take care of civil matters, and felonies go to the LA County District Attorney."

"It sure is different here-" Joe blinked and leaned closer to the screen. "Hey-"

"What?"

"I saw a light flash. That one."

"Urn. Tunnel area. We better check, that's critical territory-" He did things to the console, and a row of lights flashed green. "Nobody there who doesn't belong there. You sure you saw something?"

"Almost sure."

"Probably some maintenance troop had his badge inside a tool box." Blake yawned. "Get me another coffee?"

"Sure."

Preston Sanders ranked high in the Todos Santos hierarchy; high enough to rate the enormous office furnished as he liked it, with abstract paintings and maps of ski slopes. A teak-bordered TV screen nearly covering one wall showed motion pictures of ski events. The flickering motions, shifting from third-person to over-the-shoulder views of an expert taking the world's steepest slopes and jumps, generally drove his visitors to ask for something else, but Preston loved them.

The furniture was mahogany and teak; even the panels of the desk console were covered with teak, and there were dark wood borders on the TV screens on the desk and on the walls. When Sanders had explained the decor he wanted, Tony Rand had characteristically remarked, "Matched set, eh?"

Sanders thought of that sometimes. It was true enough. Sanders was the color of oiled teak. And Tony Rand had meant the remark exactly as it sounded. Sanders looked up at Rand, who was doing his best to ignore the gut-wrenching view of the Olympic jump. "I used to wonder about you," Preston said. "You don't have any racial prejudice."

Raised that suddenly by a black man, the subject would have jarred some whites. Rand said, "Should I?" and still not looking at the TV screen with its instant vertigo finished pouring coffee from the silver samovar. He tipped a dollop of Sanders's brandy

-Carlos Primero, and far too good to be put into coffee-into the coffee.

"Certainly. It's normal. So I wondered, and I finally got the answer. You still think of Todos Santos as practice for building a starship, don't you?"

"Sure, Pres. I built Todos Santos. Who should know better than me? We could start building the ships right now. The design is straightforward. What we can't do is build a technological society that's self-sufficient with only a few thousand members."

"Did the Directors know you thought that way? I'm surprised they even let you work on this place. They could have picked someone who thought it was an end in itself."

"It isn't. I don't think the Directors think so. They think it's practice for better arcologies. It is, too. We're too dependent on Los Angeles, but we'll learn what we didn't put in the design and the next one will have it. Brandy?"

"Not just now. I've got to see Art before he gets tied up with a visiting fireman-surprised you don't know about him." Sanders reached to the teak panel and turned a dial. The Olympic scene vanished, to be replaced with a view of Los Angeles as seen from the top of Todos Santos.

"I know about him. I convinced Bonner I'd be busy all day. What was your great contribution to race relations?"

"Well, one day I said to myself, here I am, one of a couple of hundred black people in a building the size of a city, and I'm Art Bonner's deputy. And here's Tony Rand, flying a starship in his head, with a single black man in the bridge crew. Then it came to me. I'm the token alien, and you're studying me."

Rand grinned slowly. "Token alien. On the bridge. Interesting listen, if you'll tell me your token skin color, I'll tell you the shape of your token ears."

"Green."

"Pointed."

They grinned at each other. 'Rand said, "Tell you something. There are aliens on the bridge, and you aren't either of them. And yes, I'm studying them. Will you grant me that Art Bonner is a genius?"

"Sure," Preston said without hesitation. "I know what the top job in this place involves. Nobody else could do it."

"Think you'd catch me trying? All right, is Barbara Churchward a genius?"

Sanders frowned for a moment. "I don't work the Economics department much. Art thinks so." He frowned again. "Aha. I think I see what you're driving at."

"Right," Tony Rand said. "Now, they've both got those implants." Rand's face took on a strange look; almost, Sanders thought, one of intense longing, like an exile looking across the sea toward home. "Wonder what it's like to know anything you want to, just by asking? Anyway. We can think of both of them as man-computer interfaces. What I have to decide is, just how important is the computer link? They were both geniuses before the implant link went in."

The TV screen showed the phallic shape of the Los Angeles City Hall jutting up through the smog. Sanders tuned the picture more sharply. "And the implants are hideously expensive," Preston said. "I see. You have to decide if the officers of your starship need them anyway."

"Or of my next arcology. So you tell me: are those two just geniuses, or are they now something more?"

"How the devil would I know?"

"Just on the odds, I thought you might be a genius yourself. I mean, the only black man in the command staff of Todos Santos must have had something more than the usual going for him."

"Oh, you idiot."

"Query?"

"It doesn't take that. It takes a certain amount of intelligence, plus being willing to take the responsibilities for the orders you give, and-" He stopped, flinching at the word he had been about to use; and he looked to see if Rand had guessed.

But his problem was just the opposite. Rand, without the faintest idea of what he was talking about, was waiting for him too.

"All right," Preston said. "We play the politics game here. It means a lot of interpersonal friction, a lot of compromises, between one guy who thinks he's got the right answer and another guy who thinks he does. I get caught in the middle a lot, maybe more than anyone, because I'm more noticeable." Sanders shrugged. "So I put up with it. I give in a lot, even when I know I'm right. There are people who would call that tomming."

"Tomming? Uncle Tom? But you give more orders than you take."

Rand would never understand. It was the trait that kept him out of Todos Santos's micropolitics: you tried to manipulate him, and suddenly he was somewhere else, redesigning your closet space while you were trying to get someone fired.

Which was why Sanders generally felt comfortable with Rand. Tony Rand was no threat. Like Art Bonner, he was someone you could trust all the way.

But if he ever does get involved, Sanders thought. If he ever does, he's going to be a dangerous man. True, Maintenance was part of Operations-but the Maintenance supervisors would probably side with the Chief Engineer if it came to a choice. Maybe not openly, but-. Sanders had a mental image of someone trying to lever Rand and ending up with his sink connected to his toilet while his air conditioning poured out eau d' skunk. His face split into a wide grin.

Rand said, "Something?"

"Do the name Sir George Reedy mean anything to you?""He's the chap you ducked out of meeting, the Canadian who's come to study Todos Santos. I've been watching for his helicopter."

"I thought you'd changed the scene to be polite."

"And, Tony-Sir George has an implant."

"Uh. I guess he's worth talking to, then." Rand looked thoughtful.

"More than you know. He got the implant as a favor someone owed his family. I doubt that he was a genius before the implant went in."

"Oh ho." Rand glanced at his new toy, a Bulova Dali watch, as thin and flexible as the sleeve of his shirt. "Uh-I think I ought to see about some details," he said. "Maybe I can get free for the afternoon. Pres? Thanks." Rand left hurrying, followed by that white grin.

The grin slipped away as Sanders followed private thoughts.

His family had never been enslaved. Undoubtedly someone had been, somewhere; but from as early as 1806, the furthest back anyone could trace, the Sanderses had been free Negroes working for the United States government in Washington. His father had been a Public Health Service physician. Sanders himself had gone to the best private schools.

where they were so liberal they wouldn't even think the word nigger. And how I hated those snotty bastards, Sanders remembered. He looked down at his dark hands and wondered at himself. So why don't I hate Mead and Letterman and the others, the ones who get nervous talking to me?

He straightened, remembering, and used the console controls to change the view on the TV from eastward toward LA to westward toward the ocean. A joystick control moved the camera until he saw a brightly colored shape in the afternoon sky, and he zoomed in on it. Frank Mead, shouting happily as he hung from the double-winged hang glider. Mead wasn't overweight, he was just big, and it took a specially designed glider to carry him. Mead was one of them; one who made no secret that he thought Preston Sanders was going to blow it one day.

So why don't I hate him? Preston wondered. He makes me nervous, but I don't hate him. Why?

Because I don't share the black experience? That's what my roommate at Howard would have said.

Or because we're all doing something we believe in? We're running a civilization, something new in this world, and don't bother to tell me how small it is. It's a civilization. The first one in a long time where people can feel safe.

If only they believed in me.

He got up from his desk. It was time for his interview with Art Bonner.

II - THE MANAGERS

Management has been the success story of a century which has not been one of the most successful centuries in human history.

In the society which our history books describe, everybody worried constantly about rank and precedence. Nobody today worries about precedence. What all these managers worry about is talking to each other.

-Peter F. Drucker, "Management's New Role" in The Future of the Corporation, Herman Kahn (Ed.)

Preston Sanders walked briskly along the corridor called Executive Row, not really noticing the thick carpets and the paneled walls dotted with paintings. He considered what he had to cover, rank ordering priorities for Bonner-who had a million demands to fill, and couldn't possibly give Sanders everything he wanted.

The anteroom to Bonner's office was a study in comfort, designed by psychologists to make waiting to see Bonner, if not pleasant, at least as minimally unpleasant as possible. Delores Martine certainly contributed to that feeling. Sanders knew she was at least as busy as Bonner-possibly even more so-but she always had time to chat with anyone waiting.

"Get your work done, Dee," Preston said. "I've got a couple of things to sort out anyway."

"All right. Mr. Bonner will be free in just a moment. He got a satellite call from Zurich-"

From the big bosses, the money people who owned Todos Santos. "It's all right," Pres assured her. "Really."

She nodded and began shuffling through papers, leaving Sanders to his reverie. He wanted to think about the labor problem in Air Shaft 4, but his thoughts strayed to Delores-and Art Banner. Wonder what happened to those two? They were obviously having an affair the year after Art's wife left him. Who'd want a casual visitor for a husband and father of her children? But Dee sees him all day. They were at it hot and heavy for a while, and then nothing. Wonder why?

"He's off the phone now," Delores said.

"Thanks." Sanders went into the inner office.

Art Banner leaned back in the black leather chair and put his heels on the walnut desk. Despite the expensive furniture there was a junkyard look to the office: model sailboats; shelves full of bric-a-brac including the truly horrid souvenirs sold in stalls near the boat landings of a dozen tourist-trap cities; a couple of yachting trophies; and mixed with all the nautical stuff were expensive "executive toys" of every conceivable variety, most of them ridiculous. There were also books opened and left on the credenza, some piled two deep. No one would accuse Art Banner of compulsive neatness.

The TV screen on the wall showed a holographic view of Todos Santos in all its complexity.

"Zurich problems again?" Sanders asked.

"A few. OPEC's raising prices next month. Thank God we've got our own power sources," Bonner said.

"If we can keep them. That's my top problem," Sanders said.

Bonner sighed. "Yeah. Okay, unload the bag, Pres. But you'll have to make it fast. My visiting fireman is early for the cocktail hour." He frowned slightly, and the hologram faded from the TV screen, replaced by a view from the roof looking toward the Los Angeles City Hall. A dark speck came toward them.

The building was a thousand feet in height rising starkly from a square base two miles on a side. It rested among green parklands and orange groves and low concrete structures so that it stood in total isolation, a glittering block of whites and flashing windows dotted with colors. The sheer bulk dwarfed everything else in view.

"Magnificent!" Sir George Reedy crowded against the window of the Los Angeles Fire Department helicopter, then turned in wonder to his host. He had to shout above the thrum of the motor. "Mister Stevens, I've seen it on TV, of course, but I had no idea-"

MacLean Stevens nodded. Todos Santos Independency affected everyone that way, and Stevens was long accustomed to the reaction. That didn't make him feel any better about it. Los Angeles was a great city too. "If you'll look out there beyond it, Sir George, you can see the Catalina Island development. Closer, on the mainland, the city marina is just off to our right. We think Del Rey and Catalina are significant developments in their own way."

Sir George Reedy dutifully looked off toward the sea. "Ah, I was going to ask about that. I saw it when we flew in. The great white mass-"

"The iceberg." I might have known, Stevens thought. Five hundred billion gallons worth of Antarctic iceberg had been towed into Santa Monica Bay. Los Angeles water had never tasted better; Arizona, San Francisco, and the sea gulls of Mono Lake had never been happier. The berg sat out there in a kind of tub. There were teams of climbers going up two faces, and a dozen Boy Scouts glissading down snow near the bottom. "Romulus Corporation tows the icebergs here. They're the ones who built Todos Santos, too."There was no way to get off the subject of Todos Santos. Stevens gave in gracefully and called the pilot. "Captain, if you'll just circle Todos Santos for Sir George-"

The whine of the turbines changed subtly as the big red chopper curled in a tight circle. It traced the perimeter of the parks surrounding the huge building. To their left was Todos Santos and its outlying moat of orange groves and green parklands. Reedy peered down, then exclaimed, "Did I see deer?"

"Likely enough," Stevens said.

Directly below them, where they couldn't see, was a ring of shabby houses and decaying apartments.

MacLean Stevens did not look down but he was acutely aware of what was below. Block after block, a mockery to city government and all of Stevens's hopes, houses filled with families without hope living on welfare-and on the leavings from Todos Santos.

The turbine whines continually changed pitch as the pilot varied the speed, and Stevens hoped his visitor wouldn't notice. Eaters didn't usually shoot at the Fire Department anyway. Not anymore.

"But what is that made of?" Sir George asked. "This is an earthquake area."

"Yes. They tell me it's perfectly safe," Stevens answered. "The contracts require that the architect, contractors, and a lot of the work force have to live inside. They put a lot of design sweat into it.""As to what it's made of, just about everything. The supporting towers are steel trusses, mostly. The walls don't carry gravity loads, and they can be anything that resists the wind stress. Composites like fiberglass reinforced with carbon filaments. Some of the more advanced compote tuffies. Lot of concrete on the lower levels. See the gaps there? The apartment complexes are assembled down below and hoisted into place as units-"

Sir George wasn't listening. He had lifted his binoculars and was busily staring at the monstrous building. Fifty levels rose out of the parklands and orange groves below. Balconies jutted at each level. At seemingly random intervals, yet with an overall pleasing pattern he couldn't have explained, extra-large balconies protruded, and these were covered with tables and chairs where groups of people in brightly colored clothing ate, or played cards, or did other things not noticeable even with binoculars from a mile away.

"I say, some of those people are naked!"

Stevens nodded. Not the diners and card players, of course. Sir George must be spying on individual apartment balconies. The inhabitants of Todos Santos were fond of sunbathing, and the balconies were completely private from one another. Only airborne peeping toms could watch them-as if anyone cared all that much in Southern California. Evidently, high-ranking Canadians had different standards.

"And what are all those below?" Sir George asked. He pointed to a series of low mounds, obviously the roofs of underground buildings; the mounds were covered with trees and shrubs, but concrete driveways led downward to doors at each one.

Stevens shrugged. "Food factories, mostly. Dairies. Chicken ranches. Processing sheds for the citrus groves. Sir George, I'm not really an expert on Todos Santos. You'll get better information inside."

"Yes, of course." Reedy turned away from his binoculared rubbernecking and looked at Stevens with sympathy. "I forgot, it's not really part of your city at all, is it? Aren't you a bit jealous?"

Stevens controlled his face and the grimace he felt. The question reminded him of the ever-present sour pain he felt in his guts recently. "Of the wealth, yes. Of the money that flows into it and goes out of the country. Of the taxes it evades. I resent those, Sir George, but I am not jealous of the people who live in that termite hill."

"I see."

"No, sir, I doubt if you do." The bitterness was open now and Stevens rushed on, heedless of the consequences. "Termites. When you're inside, notice the similarities. Caste system remarkably well developed. Warriors, Kings, Queens, Workers, Drones, all represented. And a strong tendency toward identical units within each caste."

He checked himself before saying more. It would be better to let this visiting dignitary see for himself. Sir George looked an overweight fool and might be one, but Stevens thought he probably was not. He ranked as a Deputy Minister, and Stevens had noticed that many English-Canadian officials feigned careless buffoonery.

"I saw demonstrators," Reedy said.

"Yeah," Stevens answered. "Several varieties, too. Todos Santos is not exactly popular with the younger generation."

"Why not?"

"Maybe you'll see for yourself." And maybe you won't, Stevens thought. Maybe-ah, to hell with it.

The helicopter had turned again and now cruised above a well marked flight path across the orange groves toward the building. As the chopper rose, the roof came into view.

The enormous surface was cluttered. It was cut into areas by four huge light wells, each step-shaped with interior balconies.

"They look like the box the Great Pyramid came in," Sir George quipped.

Stevens laughed. "Actually, they're bigger."

Even with the light wells, the remaining area was huge. There were parks, swimming pools, miniature golf and a driving range; heliports, playgrounds with running children; corner towers for penthouse residents, the highest caste of all.

"What powers it all?" Reedy asked.

"Hydrogen," Stevens said. "They've got a complex of nuclear breeder plants in Mexico, with pipelines running up to Todos Santos."

Reedy nodded approval. "Hydrogen. Todos Santos doesn't add much to your LA smog, then."

"No. That was part of their contract with the federal government." Stevens paused. "Some environmentalists are still unhappy, though. They say Todos Santos is simply exporting its pollution-"

He was interrupted by the roar of the helicopter as the pilot let the bright red machine settle gently onto a painted circle at one corner of the massive building. The roof was so large that it was difficult to realize they were hundreds of feet above ground level.

Men waited for them. A brisk wind whipped across the building. The wind was cold in the late afternoon, and they were glad to get inside one of the low rooftop structures.

The heliport reception area was not large. Most of the men in it wore uniforms and carried weapons. The guards very politely photographed them.

"If you'll just put your hands on this identiplate, please, sir," a guard lieutenant prompted. The readout screen was hidden from view of visitors, making it impossible to know what the guard found out.

Machinery hummed and spat out two thick plastic badges. MacLean Stevens, Executive Assistant to the Mayor of the City of Los Angeles; and Sir George Reedy, Deputy Minister for Internal Development and Urban Affairs, Dominion of Canada. Their photographs filled half the badges' faces, and VISITOR was printed in letters of fire across them.

"Please wear these at all times while in the Independency," the lieutenant said. "That's very important."

"What would happen if I lost the badge?" Sir George asked.

His voice was very precise and clipped, perfect Oxbridge accent.

It held just the right note of incredulity and contempt, and MacLean Stevens envied it.

The guard didn't seem to notice that he had been insulted. "Sir, it would be very serious. Our detectors would indicate someone without identification in the Independency, and officers would be sent. It might be embarrassing to you."

"Might be dangerous, too," Stevens said. "Lieutenant, how many people come in here and never come out?"

"Sir?" The guard was frowning now.

"Skip it." No point in harassing a rent-a-cop. The man might not know. Or, Stevens thought, I might be wrong. "Shall I take Sir George, or do we need an escort?"

"As you choose, sir. Mister Bonner-" the lieutenant lowered his voice, as if in fear, or reverence, or both--"will be expecting you shortly. If you're planning any delay en route, please tell us so that we can notify him."

"We'll probably take a quick tour through the Mall, thank you."

"Very good, sir. I take it you will not need a routing slip."

"No. I've been there before."

"I know you have, Mr. Stevens." The guard glanced down at the invisible screen. "Have a pleasant stay in Todos Santos."

The holographic view of Todos Santos blinked a blue light, and two small blue dots appeared in the heliport reception area. "My visitors will be here pretty quick, Pres," Art Banner said. "Anything you can't handle for me?"

"No. But I want to say it again. That hydrogen delivery schedule is very tricky, Art. If the FROMATES manage to zap an input line this month, we're hip deep in trouble."

"All right, already. You can have the overtime authorization for your cops." Bonner frowned.

Bonner's pause was momentary, almost imperceptible, and Sanders wondered what his boss was listening to. Only it wouldn't exactly be listening, either. What would it be like to have data fed directly into your mind?

"The comptroller won't like you much for it," Bonner said.

"Mead was screaming about budget overruns just yesterday. But it's your decision."

"He'll scream louder if those. yippies shut down our power," Sanders said.

"Right. Have no pity on me. I have to account to Zurich. You don't."

Banner's contract gave him complete authority within Todos Santos. He was responsible to the money people who'd built the city, but they had no right to interfere with how he ran it. Of course they could always fire him.

"Take it as easy as you can," Banner said. His voice became serious. "It isn't just Frank Mead. Zurich's going through cashflow problems just now. The orbital construction shack eats money like mad. But damn it, do what you have to do. It's my problem, and Barbara's. Maybe she can pass a money miracle." He turned to the TV screen and pointed. The blue dots were moving rapidly downward. "Here they come. Look, we've settled the labor situation in central air control. We've promoted three policemen. We've got your memo blowing smoke up that vendor's arse. You're authorized overtime for your patrolmen, which is what you came in here for in the first place. Enough, already. Back to the cotton mines, Rastus."

"Yes, baas." It was easy to talk that way to Bonner. It hadn't always been-which was probably why Banner did it, Pres thought. Art Bonner was damned if he'd have a thin-skinned deputy.

"You know how to sort the crap," Banner said. "Well, my people will be here shortly. Drinking and carousing at all hours, no doubt. The wild and happy life. So, guess who'll be on duty tonight?"

"Yes, sir," Sanders said.

Bonner eyed him critically. Then he thumbed a button in the arm of the big chair. "Delores."

"Yes, sir," the intercom responded.

"Dee, if Mac Stevens and that Canadian get here before I'm ready, give them the Number 2 Stall, will you?"

"Yes, Mister Bonner."

"Thanks." He cut the intercom. "Okay, Pres, what's eating you?"

"Nothing-"

"The hell there isn't. Talk."

"All right. I don't like being in the worry seat, Chief." If you've got to know, he thought. "I like my job. It isn't the work, and it isn't the responsibility. You've never given me anything I can't handle-"

"Precisely. So what's the problem?"

"The people out there don't like me as Number One. Number Two to you, sure. I'm their black man because I'm your deputy. But not in that seat."

Bonner frowned. "You been getting static? Who from? I'll-"

"No." Sanders spread his hands hopelessly. "Don't you understand, Art, you'll only make it worse if you have one of your famous talks with-with anybody, about this. It's nobody in particular anyway. They all resent having me in tap charge. A lot of them may not even know they resent it. The ones that do work like hell at hiding it. But I can't make a mistake! Not even one."

"Neither can I-"

"Bull puckey. You can't make a big one. I can't make one at all."

"You're telling me to replace you because you can't handle the job?"

"If you think that, do it."

"I do not think that. If I thought it, I'd have replaced you a long time ago." Banner sighed and shook his head. "Okay. You know how to find me. But for God's sake, see if you can't buy me a couple of hours, anyway."

"Sure. I can always do that," Sanders said. "And if the big one comes up and I can't reach you-"

"Yeah?"

"I'm in charge, Art. I know that."

"Good. Now can I see my visiting Canadian? We finished?"

"Sure."

"For now. We'll have lunch on this," Banner said. "See Delores about when." He looked at the array of screens around him. They were all bordered nicely in green. "I'm giving you a clean board. Call me when you reach your office. As of then, you're in charge."

As Sanders left, he noticed that the blue dots had moved to a level far below Executive Row.

"We can talk here if we keep it down." The bearded boy sounded uncertain, but there were no alarms, and he grinned.

The others nodded and opened one of the boxes. The girl took out a gas mask. It was warm in the tunnel, and she wiped sweat from above her eyes before she put it on.

III - A TOUR OF TERMITE HILL

Custom reconciles us to everything.

-Edmund BurkeThe reception lobby opened onto a roomful of elevators.

"The Executive Suites are below," Stevens told Sir George. "We can go straight down, or we can take a quick look at this anthill before they assign you a guide."

"But I thought we were expected."

"Don't worry about it. Banner has plenty to keep him busy, and he knows exactly where we are."

"Really? Then there is some means of tracking these badges." Stevens nodded. "We'll take a quick swing past some of the outside corridors. It wouldn't be fair to take you to the Mall first thing."

"Why ever not?"

"Too much to see. There's every kind of store in the world, and it's pretty crowded."

Reedy frowned. "If it's so big, why is it crowded? Surely there aren't enough people living here to-"

"Not the residents," Stevens said. His face held a sour expression. "Angelinos. A lot of them come here to shop. Hell, I can't really blame them. It's convenient. All the stores in one place, and the subway system to get them here. But the money comes in, and it never goes back out, not back to LA anyway."

"But-" Reedy gasped as the floor dropped from under him. "I say, that was abrupt." He watched the floor indicator blink rapidly. "I don't suppose you can restrict your people? Keep them from coming here?"

"How?" Stevens asked. "We tried that once. Courts threw out the ordinance-and the voters wouldn't have put up with it anyway. Didn't matter, though. Todos Santos owns the subway system. This place is the hub-and it's easier to get from San Pedro to the San Fernando Valley by coming through here than it is to drive. A lot easier than riding the bus."

The elevator door opened onto a broad corridor. "We're on Level 15," Stevens said. "Mostly small industry. Electronics assembly, waldo operators-"

"Waldo operators?"

"Yeah." Stevens looked as if he were swallowing a live mouse. "It's the latest way Todos Santos drains off money from LA. Skilled machine operators are scarce. A lot of them want to live in Todos Santos, but there aren't enough jobs for them here. So they live here, and work here-the lathes and milling machines are out in LA, and controlled by TV and a telephone-computer hookup. The technical name is 'teleoperated systems.'"

Stevens led the way to a moving pedway. "Watch your step." They walked onto the moving black slideway. "This one's slower than some. If you want to get to the other side of the building, you go to another floor and catch a fast strip."

The ceiling was high, and the entrances to the chambers off the corridor were no more than a series of closed doors; at infrequent intervals there was a split-second view of the outside. Tubs of growing plants stood along some of the walls, but there was never any illusion of being anywhere but in a building.

"Todos Santos built the Los Angeles subway?" Reedy asked.

"Sure. They have the capital. Middle East oil money funneled through Zurich. Also the equipment, big semiautomatic tunneling machines. Matter of fact, they're digging a new one right under my office in City Hall. With their stuff they can dig for about 10 percent of what it would cost us."

The inward side of the corridor was another jumble: neat signs on the doors announcing electronic shops, repair services, light industries of one kind or another, interspersed with small convenience shops. Sometimes there was a long series of doors blocked off, each with a single sign: Westinghouse, Teledyne, International Security Systems, Oerlikon, Barclay-Yamashito Ltd., stood out as some of the largest.

They ended at an elevator bank. "Well, now that you've seen the drab parts, you're ready for the Mail," Stevens said. "That's a sight not to miss."

The elevator dropped like a falling safe. Stevens watched Reedy's face as the doors opened.

Reedy knew what to expect, of course. Most visitors did. And they still took several seconds to make sense of what they were seeing.

They were looking down a broad corridor that stretched diagonally through the ground floor of Todos Santos. It was almost three miles long. Moving pedways in the center were a blur of human figures approaching and receding, though they stood motionless. Lines met at infinity. The pedways were flanked on both sides by walks, and people strolled along these, looking into shop windows, going in and out of stores, clumping to hold animated discussions where they would block the passage of others. Tiers of balconies rose high above them. Residents strolled along the balconies or idly leaned over to look down. Glass-sided elevators clung to walls and moved at impossibly high speeds. Gigantic spaces, and wails and a roof enclosing all; that was what confused the mind; but the real shock was to see all these shoppers taking it so lightly.

Stevens chuckled. "Tell yourself you can get used to anything." He led the way out onto the floor.

They passed under an enormous sign: PRIVATE PROPERTY. PERMISSION TO PASS REVOCABLE AT ANY TIME.

"Which means?" Sir George asked.

"Exactly what it says," Stevens answered. They stood looking for another moment, then Mac escorted his visitor onto the pedway strip. Sir George seemed accustomed to them. Most new shopping centers and airports had them, although not as elaborate as these.

The outer strip was broad and had seats. A series of much narrower strips separated it from another broad seat-laden belt in the center. Each strip moved faster and faster until the inner one flashed past at fifty kilometers an hour. They moved progressively across strips until they reached the fast one, and sat next to the transparent windscreen partition that moved with them.

Parallel lines converged ahead at the vanishing point. There was a medium-sized city poised over their heads. Mac knew it, but he had never been able to sense it, not even here, in this tremendous. . . room.

Through the Plexiglas they could see the flicker of faces and bright clothing of passengers coming in the opposite direction, a blur of humanity. Both sides of the barrier were lined with shops, all doing a brisk business. Reedy noticed a branch of Dream Masters, the chain of fantasy art galleries. They swept past a side corridor that led upward to another level with more walkways and conversation areas. More changes of level; balconies overhanging the pedway itself, with more shops.

There was no special order to the shops, but the signs .

Reedy frowned, puzzled. What was it about the signs on the shops?

"See it? The Corporation permits advertising," Mac Stevens said, "but they regulate the size of the signs, and they've got an aesthetics committee that sets up standards. If Art Banner doesn't like something, it'll probably be found to be unaesthetic."

Sporting-goods shops, stationery, clothing, bicycles, restaurants, banks, electronics, music, bookstores. People moved in and out in random patterns. The buildings had a fragile look: not made to withstand weather. Sir George grinned at the sudden incongruous sight of a tobacconist's shop, built apparently of brick, and as solid-looking as a Mayan pyramid.

"Does anyone buy?" Reedy asked. "No one seems to carry packages."

"Security," Stevens said. "Visitors have their purchases delivered. Either to the exit plaza, or directly to their homes. Residents don't usually carry much around either. The guards don't like it."

"I should think Americans have a long tradition of telling the police off," Reedy said.

"Sure. But the residents of Todos Santos are different. I didn't say the guards won't put up with residents carrying packages. They just don't like it. And the residents don't deliberately annoy the guards. They'd rather cooperate." They had reached the opposite corner of the building, and Stevens led the way across the slow strips and finally to the corridor.

"I don't see badges on everyone," Reedy said. "In fact, not more than half."

Stevens nodded and led the Canadian to the end of the diagonal. A series of exits funneled the traffic and they went through. "If we hadn't had unrestricted visiting badges, we'd have been stopped back there," he said. "The Mall is an open area. They let in nearly anyone. They only watch for known criminals and terrorists." His lips tightened. "With their fast transportation system they siphon off a lot of business from the city."

He pointed down a long corridor. "East perimeter, Mall level. Mostly apartments, of course. The outside view is a first choice f or living quarters."

"Totally? That seems a poor design-"

"No, not totally. There's a mix here, as everywhere. Night clubs, restaurants, private clubs, even some exclusive shops. Of course any business out here draws only customers from inside, except for favorite customers with permanent Visitor badges."

"Strange," said Reedy. "I'd think they'd want visitors. Why all the restrictions?"

"Oh, there're reasons." Stevens indicated a door. As they approached it, it slid open. A red-and-blue-uniformed guard stood inside. The rent-a-cop smiled pleasantly as they passed and headed for another bank of elevators.

About fifty people were waiting for elevators with them. All had badges, and very few bore the bright VISITOR label. Reedy looked at the badges and people, saying nothing.

There was no way to characterize them. Pick fifty random citizens from any major city and you would find as much variety. What was it about them that made them seem like a gathering of distant cousins? Reedy couldn't put his finger on it.

The elevator rose swiftly and deposited them at another moving pedway. They were on the outside periphery, and they passed apartments, open areas leading to outside enclosed decks; it was obvious that this was an affluent area.

"All right," Sir George said. "I've been unable to work it out. What is it about the people-the sameness? They don't dress as flashily as one expects of Southern Californians, but it can't be merely that."

Stevens grinned. "Termites. Np? Well, I admit I don't know either, not completely. But did you notice how quiet it was, even in the Mall, among those people?"

"Why-yes. Not at all the noise level I'd have expected. Is it some regulation?"

"Custom. Customs are very powerful here. By the way, I wouldn't be surprised if some Company policeman were listening to us through those badges."

Sir George looked at his badge as if he had discovered a poisonous spider on it. "Do the residents put up with this?"

Stevens shrugged. "Resident badges are different. Or so they're told. But, Sir George, the residents want surveillance. It's another custom. The Law and Order tradition is very strong in here. A kind of siege mentality-"

"Paranoia?"

"Oh, they've got their reasons. Paranoids have enemies too," Stevens said. "Here, that's where we're going, the exit up ahead. Have you been following the news? The FROMATES, the Friends of Man and The Earth Society, keep trying to sabotage Todos Santos. Not to mention various other hate groups. And just plain gangsters out to extort money. Stink bombs. Hornet nests. That kind of thing, mostly, but sometimes the terrorists come up with something really nasty, like the grenade that killed a dozen people in the Crown Center Arcology in Kansas." He shrugged helplessly. "My police haven't had much luck at catching them outside, so the Company has its own police."

"But doesn't that play into the terrorists' hands?" Reedy asked. "One purpose of terror is to provoke a reaction. Make things so bad that people welcome any change-"

"Any change that will protect them," Stevens said.

The journey ended at another elevator plaza, and they took an Up car to the Executive Suite. They emerged into thick carpets and walnut paneling. It came to Sir George that he was lost.

Every resident of Todos Santos had known that moment of shock, save only the children and Tony Rand. One can lose one's way among city streets, but being lost in Todos Santos was like being last in Carlsbad Caverns. Lost in three dimensions, in a maze almost a cubic mile in extent!

The moment passed. It didn't matter that Sir George had followed an impossibly twisted path. He had guides; he wasn't trapped. But there was always that moment.

MacLean Stevens was in his mid-thirties, and very athletic, while Art Bonner was ten years older and walked with a limp he'd picked up in the Army. Stevens's hair was light tan, Bonner's dark and thinning on top, with a bare spot his hair stylist had more and more trouble covering. Both were tall men, over six feet, Banner perhaps an inch higher and twenty pounds heavier than Stevens.

Put that way the two men didn't look alike at all; yet those who knew them, and sometimes even visitors who met both casually, were more impressed with their similarities than their differences. It wasn't anything you could put your finger on. Certainly you would never mistake one man for the other. But both looked at people in the same way, and both spoke in the same tone: the tone of command, of a man so thoroughly accustomed to being obeyed that he did not have to raise his voice or resort to threats.

"Good to see you again, Mac," Banner was saying.

"Been a while," Stevens responded automatically. "Art, this is the Honorable Sir George Reedy, Deputy Minister for Development and Urban Affairs for the Canadian government. Sorry we're a touch late, but I took the liberty of showing Sir George the shopping mall-"

"Sure, I know," Bonner said. "Come in, please, have a seat. Drink? We've got nearly anything you could possibly want, and a lot you wouldn't."

"You sound as if you're showing off," Reedy said. He smiled broadly. "Pimm's Cup, if you please."

"Certainly. Mac? The usual?"

"Yes, please."

Bonner waved them to leather chairs and took another in the conversation group with them, leaving his desk in the background. The office lighting adjusted subtly so that only the conference area stood out.

There was a low hum in the background. Otherwise the office was silent. "Quite a place you have here," the Canadian said. "I'm very impressed." But he looked uneasy. Too much of the touch of strange . . . and the moment of being lost was still with him.

"Thank you," Bonner said. "Would you like to see more of it? Let me show you around." He gestured toward the wall and the decorative art works vanished to be replaced by an enormous cutaway view of Todos Santos in three dimensions. Colored dots seemed to crawl through the holographic presentation; it was all diagrammatic, with the too-realistic lines of an architect's drawing. That vanished to show a montage of color pictures, each a blur of motion: shops, people getting onto a moving pedway, a riot of color.

Sir George frowned. "Why, that's the route we came here by-"

Banner smiled. "That's right." The diagram reappeared. "You see the moving dots? Those are members of my staff that we want to keep track of. Your badges are tagged VIP so I was able to see where you went. Not that I paid a lot of attention, but the route is recorded anyway-"

There was a slightly louder hum. "Here we are," said Banner. He was having fun. The solid black rectangle of a coffee table in the conversation group opened to reveal three glasses. Banner reached down and lifted the tray. "Pimm's Cup. Talisker. And Mac's Royal Gin Fizz. Don't know how he can drink that mess. Cheers."

Sir George laughed, and was joined by the others. "Well done. I will admit I thought you had forgotten-" The smile faded into something else. "Just whom do you have listening to us?" he demanded.

"Nobody," Art said. "Oh-my apologies, Sir George. I like doing this with drinks and food orders, but believe me, nobody is listening to us. I used my implant to tell MILLIE what we wanted and she took care of it."

"I see." Sir George's eyes focused on nothing for a moment.

Bonner grinned. "Try again. Use your last name for the key."

"Ah. Thank you."

"You're welcome. I've given you a visiting VIP access clearance. Mac, have they made any progress on swinging an implant for you?"

"Think the city's got an extra million bucks?" Stevens asked. "Hell, we haven't got an extra five hours' overtime for a sanitary engineer." Stevens eyed Sir George warily. "I hadn't known you were one of the elite."

Reedy looked sympathetically at Stevens. "Don't rate it, actually. Family helped PSYCHIC LTD. once and they paid off with this." He paused, searching for words. "Very useful gadget, but you know, you can communicate with a computer about as well with a good briefcase console."

Reedy and Bonner looked knowingly at each other. It was a look that left MacLean Stevens out. It was the look that sighted men might give each other in the presence of the blind.

"Well, what would you like to see, Sir George?" Banner asked. "As you've gathered, we're rather proud of Todos Santos. I have us scheduled for dinner a bit early, 1900, but we've plenty of time before then. Oh, and Mr. Rand, our Chief Engineer, will be joining us."

"Will we be eating in the Commons?" Stevens asked.

"I thought Schramm's. Best Hungarian food in the country.""Hell, Mac, I'm not trying to hide anything," Bonner said. He grinned. "There's nothing alcoholic to drink there, and the food's nothing special in Commons, but there's plenty of it. Shall I cancel out Schramm's?"

"Commons by all means," Reedy said. It was obvious to him that Stevens thought he had scored a point in some complex game.

There was an awkward silence, and Sir George said into it, "As you know, we're thinking of building units like this one. We must construct the housing at any event, and the Government is wondering if we should not do it rationally as you have. There are a quarter of a million people here, as I understand."

"About that," Banner said. "MILLIE could tell you. But we ought to let Mac listen in, and we can't." He looked thoughtful for an instant, and words flowed on the wall screen.

Total Present:243,782

Unrestricted Visitors in Mall:31,293

Visitors with Special Passes:18,811

Non-resident Workers:114

Unauthorized Visitors:7

Detained Prisoners:1

"Who's the prisoner?" Stevens demanded.

Bonner looked thoughtful, then said, "A leaper. They've got him in Central Security. He's been under arrest for three hours. They'll let him go by midnight if nobody's free to interview him before that. Afraid we're holding one of your people in durance vile, Mac?"Words crawled on the screen again. How many residents are accommodated here?

Design Goal:275,000

Now Resident:247,453

Resident in Outbuildings:976"Roughly a quarter of a million, then," Sir George said.

Bonner nodded. "In four square miles of building, or about ten square miles of buildings and grounds. That's about the highest population density ever achieved on Earth anywhere. Remember the studies a few years ago that proved that if you pack a lot of people into a small area they'd all go insane? Doesn't seem to have happened."

MacLean Stevens chuckled. Banner threw him a threatening look, then grinned.

"Where did you have in mind building, Sir George?" Banner asked.

Reedy shrugged. "There are a number of possible sites. We have so much undeveloped land-"

"Won't work," Stevens muttered. Banner said nothing, and the two executives exchanged significant glances.

Bonner is laughing about this, Reedy thought. Why? I'd expect Stevens to be negative about the whole idea, Lord knows he hates this whole complex-do all Angelinos think that way? But what is this joke they share?

And why, when three of these arcologies have been more or less failures, is Todos Santos apparently so successful despite being packed in among ten million enemies in Greater Los Angeles?

IV - KINGS AND WIZARDS

Where is the man who owes nothing to the land in which he lives? Whatever that land may be, he owes to it the most precious thing possessed by man, the morality of his actions and the love of virtue.

-Jean Jacques Rousseau The guard turned with a puzzled expression. "Seems to be a glitch in Tunnel 0-8, Captain."

"What kind of glitch?"

"No visual."

The duty captain frowned. "In 8? That's a critical area. Don't need intruders in 8 . . ." He typed furiously on his console, then looked relieved. "MILLIE shows maintenance in that," he said.

"With overtime authorized yet, the lucky beggars. Punch in an immediate repair request for the visuals."

"Hell, it's near dinner time. They'll never get it fixed tonight." The captain shrugged. "If they don't, we'll send in a patrolman. Give 'em a chance, though. They're in there already, maybe they can take care of it." He looked at his readout screen again and nodded. "Looks all right. Nobody's opened any doors to the outside. Let me know when the visual comes on again."

"Sure." The guard settled back and sipped coffee as the kaleidoscope began again.

***

Anthony Rand put down the, telephone with a grimace. It was always an unpleasant experience when Genevieve called, and he wasn't sure whether it was worse when they fought or when she tried to make up. Why the hell didn't she marry and get out of his life? She was no bloody use when he was trying to make a career; and when he hadn't risen fast enough to suit her, she'd walked out taking Zachary and two-thirds of his inadequate income with her. Now, of course, she wanted to come back.

She doesn't want to live with me, she wants to live in Tados Santos, Tony thought. And I will be damned if she's going to come here and live like a goddam princess off my status.

Of course she had a bribe to offer: Zach, aged eleven. And she had same good arguments. The boy needed his father, but Tony Rand didn't have time to raise a son-he barely had time to have the boy in for visits-and someone should take care of Zach, why not his mother? And maybe their breakup hadn't been quite so simple and one sided. She did have her side to the story- He squirmed a bit as his body remembered Genevieve, suddenly, against his will. Djinn had been wonderful in bed. It had been too long since he'd had a satisfying affair. No time for that; no time to make friends. Too bad you couldn't rent mistresses. He'd heard that was possible: that there were women who'd gladly pretend affection, be attentive when you wanted them to be and self-reliant when you had no time for them. He wished he knew where to find someone like that. It wasn't so much that he was afraid to ask, as that he hadn't any idea of whom to ask.

Why not Genevieve? She was offering almost the same thing- no, I'll be damned first.

His apartment was nothing like the others in Todos Santos. It was large, because his status rated a large place; but much of the space was concentrated in one enormous room. There was a small bedroom, but he seldom used it because it was too far from the drafting table; he'd forgotten a good idea once while stumbling from bedroom to drafting table, and that wasn't ever going to happen again.

The drafting table dominated a whole side of the big room: a vast expanse of metal surface littered with drafting instruments and bordered by switches and buttons; when he drew on it, an image went into his computer files and was accessible in his office, or on a job site. Another wall held awards, framed scrolls and trophies. Books took up another. There wasn't room for all the books he needed-and where should he keep them, here or in his office suite? Better to get them read into the electronic brains of Todos Santos. Somehow, though, storing his books in computer memory hadn't conquered the mess: the room was still littered with letter trays full of papers, magazines (mostly unread but full of important articles he didn't want to miss) in half a dozen mahogany rack tables, unanswered letters spilling out of drawers. He was drowning in paper.

He envied the quiet efficiency of Preston Sanders or Art Bonner or Frank Mead. Their assistants almost invisibly took care of details. Tony had never been able to manage that. It wasn't that he didn't have good people. Alice Strahier was a good engineer and executive assistant, and Tom Golden ran the procurement division, and- But good as his staff people were, it wasn't enough. They might protect him from mere details-but far too often he'd found that details were the key to the problem. He had to follow the minutiae, because he didn't know what would turn out to be vital.

That led to his development of robot probes; small devices with cameras and sound equipment which could move freely through Todos Santos under Rand's direct control. If he sent out two or three of the small tele-operated devices (he called them Arr-twos after the small droid in Star Wars), Rand could effectively be in several places at once, see machinery and construction details in real time from both above and below, and generally explore without leaving his bedroom.

Good as the An-twos were, with their full two-way communications and their TV screen to show Rand's face, he'd found it necessary to get out and talk to the technicians and carpenters and pipe fitters and maintenance people; talk to them himself, because most construction people didn't like talking to an Arr-two even with Rand's TV image.

And he had to go himself. His subordinates, even the best ones, didn't seem able to recognize an important point when they heard it. And getting around Todos Santos took time, which meant that the journals and magazines and letters piled up until he was hopelessly behind-

The phone rang. Genevieve again? he wondered. What in hell does she want this time? "Hello," he barked at the empty room.

"Strahier here, Chief," the phone speaker said.

Uh oh. Alice wouldn't call about something trivial. "Oh, ah, yeah, hello."

"Sorry to bother you at dinner time. We have a problem on that carbon filament reinforcing lattice. Medland can't deliver on time.""Sir?"

"Nothing. We need that stuff." Boy do we ever need it, and it's completely out of our control, damn it all to hell! How would we handle this if we were a space colony? Or a starship? "Alice, the schedule's godawful tricky, and-"

"That's why I called," Strabler said. "I tried alternate sources. Farbenwerke has the best delivery schedule, but it's still a four week delay. But I did find a condominium going up in Diamond Bar that has enough to take care of us for a month, and they've got a strike so they don't need it right now. We can buy theirs and have Farbenwerke ship ours to Diamond Bar-but they'll want a premium."

"Sounds like you've done your homework," Tony said.

"Yeah. But it'll cost us," she said. "Rescheduling around a four-week delay costs one point six million. The Diamond Bar deal costs nine hundred thousand. I can't find any other choices."

"Pretty clear what we have to do," Rand said.

"Yes. Shall I talk to the comptroller?"

"Yeah. Do that. Say, this is Tom's job, not yours."

"Mr. Golden has an anniversary party," Strahler said. "His wife would leave him if he missed it. So I took it."

"Thanks, Alice. Okay, make the deal."

"Sure will. Good night."

"Good night," Rand said. "Finished with phone." An expensive call, he thought. Nine hundred thousand bucks, no small sum. Oh, well. Alice and Tom would take care of it. That was the kind of thing he thought of as a detail, no matter how much money might be involved; somebody else could handle it. But if he hadn't got his hands dirty working on the sewage treatment system, he'd never have found out that the instrumentation pathway wasn't workable until the system was finished. He shuddered at the memory. They'd have had to tear out a concrete wall and delay completion of the new residential wing. .

It was only by accumulating details that you found something like that-and the way the details fit together wasn't at all obvious, which meant there was no rational filing system for them, resulting in the mess in his apartment (his office was kept relatively neat) because you never knew when you'd need an old memo or an article.

Maybe, Rand thought; maybe if I had an implant? Is that how Banner keeps track of everything? But Pres manages without one, and so does Mead.

He put on a clean shirt. It was time to meet Bonner and Stevens and, what was his name? Reedy. Time to meet them for dinner.

The dining hall was large enough for six thousand people and served an entire level. Holographic panels along one entire wall gave the impression that it looked out over the sea; sailboats moved on the Bay, and lights winked as sunset shadowed Catalina Island in the distance. The great bulk of the iceberg in the Santa Monica harbor was outlined against the dying sunlight, a mountainous island that shone too brightly to be stone.

"That's lovely," Sir George said. "And quite realistic."

"It ought to be," MacLean Stevens told him. "They've piped the view inside."

"Yep. Real time," Rand said proudly. "Cost less than moving the dining hall. There's never enough outside view area, and-" He cut himself off. He hadn't come to talk, but to listen. That was going to take careful control; he'd been told he talked too much, and he supposed it was true, although he never said anything he wouldn't have wanted said to him if he didn't know the information.

And certainly he had reason to be pleased at Reedy's response:

appreciative silence, and another close look at the holographs. "Pity the ceiling is so low," Reedy observed finally. "But even so the illusion is nearly perfect."

Art Banner laughed, a short polite sound. Tony Rand had no trouble reading Bonner's mind: the cost of the holographic walls had been high enough without using up valuable space to give high ceilings to the Common rooms. Rand had suggested it and got nowhere.

Art hadn't wanted the holographs, either, but Tony insisted- and brought them in under budget, too. He was proud of that. The Commons wouldn't be nearly so nice without that illusion of looking out- The room was filled with the buzz of conversation and clicking plates. There were the random sounds of people in motion. "A good bit less noise than I'd have imagined for this many diners," Reedy said.

Rand was about to tell him about the acoustic design: wails subtly not parallel, indentations at key places, and the rest, but Reedy wasn't listening.

"Custom again," MacLean Stevens said. "Deeply ingrained custom. Developed pretty rapidly, too."

"Doubtless there is selectivity," Reedy said. "Those who can't adapt won't stay long."

"The idea is to adapt the habitat to the inhabitants' needs," Art Banner said.

"You seem to have done well," Reedy replied.

The tables were long and narrow, with a pair of moving beltways down the center. Dirty dishes came from their right, and a continuous stream of food and beverages and clean utensils poured from some cornucopia to the left. "Take a place," Art Banner said. "You can choose your own company, or wait for someone to choose you."

"No reservations?" Reedy asked.

"No. It's a random proposition." Banner led them to an empty stretch at a long table. "Scheduling's going to catch hell for this if it doesn't fill up." He paused for a moment to stare at nothing.

That's the value of that implant, Rand thought. He's just made a note, with all the details, and tomorrow MILLIE will remind him to think about schedules.

Reedy waited until he saw Banner was attentive again. Then he said, "How can you plan without reservations?"

Bonner shrugged. "We manage."

Stevens's voice was carefully controlled as he said, "Residents must take a certain number of meals in the Commons. They're not only charged for them as part of the services, but they pay extra if they skip out too many times. With that incentive it's a simple matter of queuing theory mathematics."

"Not all that simple," Rand said.

Reedy frowned. "That doesn't seem very pleasant."

They took seats, Reedy and Banner on one side of the table, Rand and Stevens on the other. The moving dishes and foods seemed to distract Reedy and made it hard for him to talk across the table. Bonner didn't seem to notice.

"You'll find clean plates coming along any second," Banner said. "I think you'll like the meal, and certainly it's efficient." Pause. "Tonight's was only seven dollars twenty-eight cents per person that we'll serve, assuming the projection's right. If you see something you like, just take it. When you've served yourself, put the rest back on the conveyor."

"Is that sanitary?" Reedy asked.

"Certainly." Bonner snared a covered dish of chicken fricassee. "There are no more than four portions in a dish to begin with. And we've empirical evidence, too. Check our absenteeism due to minor illness-"

Reedy looked thoughtful. "Quite low," he said.

"Check the LA rate for comparison. Not that they have as good data as we have, but it gives you an idea."

Rand watched them carefully. In his office he could have got the same data just as quickly, but here he would have to take out his pocket communications terminal, type in the question, and read the answer. Reedy and Banner simply thought the question and got the answer piped into their heads without interrupting the conversation.

"There's another reason for no more than four portions to a dish," Rand said. "If the FROMATES do get in and poison some dishes they won't kill many people-"

"Oh dear. Is there much chance of that?" Reedy asked. He seemed to have lost his appetite.

"Almost none," Rand assured him. "The security agents watch all the time." He waved toward the low ceiling.

Reedy glanced around nervously, as if feeling eyes on the back of his neck. Then plates and silver came past and he took them. Bonner handed him Hungarian goulash, and vegetables and bread quickly followed. There was tea and coffee, and milk, and water, and fruit juice. The goulash was hot and smelled deliciously of paprika.

Rand ate eagerly, but Reedy was still hesitant.

"Gets to you, doesn't it?" MacLean Stevens said gently. He began to eat. "Not much you can do about it, so enjoy your meal."

"About what?" Rand asked.

"Being watched all the time."

"But we're not watched all the time," Rand said. "The guards follow a random surveillance pattern."

"What do you do if you catch them?" Reedy asked. "Saboteurs. Or even just pickpockets."

Banner snorted. "That's a sore subject. What happens is, we turn them over to Mac's police, and they let them go."

Sir George lifted an eyebrow. "Really, Mr. Stevens?"

"Not quite-"

"Close enough," Bonner said. "Let's suppose we catch an Angelino with his hand in a stockholder's pocket. Suppose we've got him dead to rights, a dozen witnesses. We call the LA police. They come get him. One of the District Attorney's people comes out and takes statements. So far so good.

"But now the Public Defender gets in the act. It'll be some bright youngster just out of law school, anxious to make a reputation. So we get delays. Continuances. Every time the victim and our witnesses show up, the Public Defender isn't available. Schedule conflict. Something. Until the day the victim isn't available, and wham! That's the day they insist on a speedy trial."

"Now, damn it, that's not fair," Mac Stevens insisted.

"It's close enough, Mac, and you know it. If we want a conviction, we have to spend hours and days in courtrooms, and for what? Even if we do it, the yo-yo gets bail and probation."

"So what do you do, Mr. Banner?" Reedy asked.

"We grit our teeth and play the game," Banner said. "And try to see that no repeat offenders get in here. We do have the right to keep the bums away from our people."

And how would we do that on a starship? Tony Rand wondered. Hmmm. We'd have to have criminal law. Justice, if you will. Which is hard to automate. . . and not my department.

The food was good, and they ate in silence for a few minutes. Most had second helpings. Rand started to tell them about some of the problems he'd had in getting the conveyor belt system working properly, but he saw they weren't interested.

Finally Sir George looked up and said, "Surely there's a lot of wastage? You can't possibly predict how much will be eaten."

"We do better than you think," Banner said.

"Yes, and they sell the leftovers to Las Angeles welfare institutions," Stevens said grimly. "Churches, skid row missions, that sort of thing. There's no waste because the Los Angeles poor live an Todos Santos's garbage."

"Now, that's not true," Rand said. "The garbage goes to the pig farms-"

"He means that only the untouched portions are sold for human consumption," Banner said. "And he's right, the real garbage feeds animals. And, Mac, you may not like feeding your welfare people on our leftovers, but I notice you don't complain about the water we supply."

The sun fell into the sea and the iceberg offshore winked with navigation lights. The darkness of the holograph was lovely, but it made the low ceiling press down even more heavily. Sir George glanced around again. "I shouldn't think Americans would like surveillance while they eat."

"The Corporation doesn't much like the expense of providing it, either," Banner said. "Now tell me what I should do? Despite everything the FROMATES do get into Todos Santos. And they do try to poison people-"

"They don't think it's poison," Stevens said.

"LSD is poison," Bonner said. "If my people want to turn on, they'll do it themselves. They don't need help from eaters. And slipping acid into the food isn't all the honorable Friends of Man and the Earth do. They've also tried blowing up the kitchens, as well as other parts of Todos Santos. They tried-well, their diseased minds come up with pretty ingenious stunts.

"So we have to watch for them, and we can't abandon the Commons. Wouldn't if we could. Most of our residents like the Commons. Some never eat anywhere else. After all, it's our most democratic institution."

"Why do these criminals dislike you so much?" Sir George asked. "Surely they know your people are not unhappy here-"

Banner and Stevens laughed together, a shared joke, which Rand could have joined if he wanted to, but the memory was to painful. Genevieve had lived with an eco-freak after she left Tony's bed. Tony tried to be objective, but he fai.ind it difficult.

"The FROMATES claim to be ecologists," Banner said. "As if I didn't have some of the best ecological talent in the world available to my staff. Only they can save the Earth-"

"Art's not being quite fair," Stevens said. "I've got no use for terrorists, but the FROMATES have a point. They claim that if Todos Santos succeeds, there'll be no barrier to population growth. Not even famine and overcrowding can stop the population bomb, until it's too late for everyone and everything. Actually their best arguments are fiction. They're backing a movie made from an old science fiction novel, The Godwhale, about how the human race crowds itself until no humans are left."

"I take it you agree with them," Sir George asked.

"No. But they do have their share of truth. Todos Santos uses enormous resources to produce an elite that enjoys-" He clamped his lips firmly together. "I'd rather you saw everything for yourself."

Saw what? Rand wondered. Something not working right? Where?

"I saw the demonstrators outside," Sir George said. "Do you often have serious attempts at sabotage? Bombs, that sort of thing?"

"More than I like," Banner said. "But they don't often get past Security. Setting off a bomb's pretty hard when the guards are looking over your shoulder."

"Isn't there anywhere the guards don't watch?"

"Not many places."

A young family came over to their part of the table and sat next to Art Banner. The man was about thirty, and his wife considerably younger. There were two boys with them, about six and eight years old. All wore the neat slacks and wrinkle-free shirts that seemed to be standard dress, and all four wore resident badges. Like most resident badges these were personalized. The parents' had color drawings with their names in stylized calligraphy; the children's had cartoons. The shirts had complementary patterns of wild color, designed so that you could see from a distance that they were a family, although each shirt was different.

The man sat next to Banner and examined Art's badge with care before he spoke. "I thought I recognized you, Mr. Banner."

"Good evening," Banner said pleasantly. He looked at their badges: Cal and Judy Phillips. The color had already told him they were resident stockholders, and the badge identified his business: Executive Row Clothing Rental, 25th Level Mall.

Bonner gestured to his companions. "Mister Phillips, this is Tony Rand, the Chief Engineer. Our visitors are Mr. Stevens of the Los Angeles Mayor's Office, and Sir George Reedy of the Canadian government."

Phillips's eyes widened slightly. He nodded pleasantly to the others, then began to gather dishes for himself and his family. He spoke in a low voice that they could just make out if they listened hard enough.

The newcomers talked only to each other for a while, but when Cal Phillips was certain that Banner was finished with his meal, he said, "Mister Banner, my shower is not delivering enough water."

Banner frowned. "You've had Maintenance in to check?"

"Yes, sir. They say everything's fine."

"But it isn't," Judy Phillips said. "I used to be able to rinse off completely, and now I can't. And there's been no water allowance reduction in our neighborhood."

"Where?" Rand asked.

"Forty-four, West, R-ring," Judy answered.

"Hmm. Could be the computer. I don't think there's-"

"Leave it to Maintenance, Tony," Banner said. He frowned for a moment. "All right, someone will look into it."

"Thank you," Cal Phillips said. "If you've a few minutes-"

"Not tonight," Bonner said pleasantly. "I have to show my guests around. If you'll excuse us-"

"Certainly," Cal and Judy Phillips chorused.

"We'll have coffee at my place," Bonner said to his guests when they were away from the table. "And we can discuss the economics of the situation, Sir George. Expect that will bore you to tears, Tony-"

Was Banner trying to get rid of him? Rand wandered. Why would he do that? But it had happened before, when there was diplomacy to discuss.

Before they reached the outside of the Common Room, Bonner had heard five mare complaints, been given three separate solutions to problems in garbage disposal-one interesting enough that Rand took out a notebook and wrote it down-and had been encouraged not to give in to outside pressures from the Teamsters.

When they reached the corridor, people obviously recognized Bonner, but they didn't speak to him, except to wish him a pleasant evening.

"We'll head an up to my place," Banner said. "Sure you can't join us, Tony?"

Definitely a hint, Rand decided. "Thanks, Art, but I think I'd better turn in early," Rand said.

He watched them get onto an elevator.

There were other residents in the elevators, and they didn't speak to Banner either as he led his guests to a corner of the 47th floor. An apartment door opened as they approached. He ushered them into a large carpeted room. The view of the city was magnificent on two sides of them.

Long lines of light that were streets overflowing with traffic; dotted lines of empty lighted streets; tall buildings with more patterns of light; a bank of fog rolling in from the bay, shrouding the iceberg, its top far below them; Los Angeles lay in splendor around them.

MacLean Stevens stood at the windows basking in the light. "Now that's a city," he said. "Alive and lovely and free."

"Splendid," Sir George said. "Really lovely."

"Especially from here," Banner added. "Pimm's Cup again, Sir George?"

"Thank you, I'll have brandy-"

."Carlos Primera be all right?"

"Splendid. Thank you."

They took seats. They watched the solid coffee table for a moment, a duplicate of the one in Bonner's office.

"Customs again," Reedy said.

Banner looked puzzled.

"The residents. They are permitted to speak to you in the Commons, but not in the corridors."

"More or less," Banner said. "Not so much permitted as-well, as you say, a custom."

MacLean Stevens started to say something, but caught himself.

"Actually," Banner said, "anyone can speak to anyone in the Commons. If you hadn't been along they'd have talked my arm off. They were being polite to outside visitors."

"And why was everyone so interested in garbage disposal?" Reedy asked.

"It's the 'Problem of the Week'," Banner said. "Every week we have something the residents are asked to think about. If they come up with a good idea, we use it. Works more often than you think."

"I see. And you eat in the Commons regularly?"

"Reasonably so. I'm exempt from the requirement, of course, although I'm not so certain that's wise. Getting out and meeting the residents is just plain good politics. If Nixon had gone drinking in bars once in a while, he'd have served two full terms as President. For that matter, Mac, your Mayor would benefit by getting out and meeting some random citizens."

"Sure. With fifty bodyguards."

"See?" Banner said. "I don't need bodyguards. Not in Todos Santos. I can go meet anyone I like. Ah. Here are our drinks."

The coffee table opened to reveal three large snifters of brandy.

Reedy asked, "Is an automatic bartender standard in all apartments?"

"It's not automated," MacLean Stevens said. "Somewhere in this building a very human bartender poured those drinks."

Bonner nodded agreement. "Most places get deliveries by jitney to their outside door. Executive and luxury suites have direct conveyors."

"A service reserved for the higher castes," Stevens said. "Kings, Queens, and Drones." He lifted his glass. "Cheers."

"That's a very old image, Mac." Banner lifted his own glass in reply. "Cheers. I suppose you could call the executives kings and queens, and the major stockholders drones, but what's the sense of it? Sir George, Mai doesn't like Todos Santos-but his wife wants to live here. Doesn't she, Mac?"

Stevens nodded sourly.

"You'll notice he doesn't say he can't afford to bring her here, either," Banner said. "I've offered him nearly every job in my department."

Stevens fidgeted nervously, then glanced at his watch. "Sir George, I really must be leaving soon."

"Good heavens, yes, of course you'll have to get back to your family. I'm very sorry-"

"You needn't leave," Banner said. "We have guest suites. Please stay on, Sir George. What time is your first appointment in the morning?"

"Well, actually I had expected to return here-"

"That's settled, then. I'll have a guest suite with same toilet articles laid out for you. You've no family with you in Los Angeles."

He didn't say it as a question. Stevens wandered for a moment, then nodded. Banner would have had MILLIE check airline and hotel reservations.

"I would enjoy staying over, if Mr. Stevens doesn't mind," Reedy said.

"No, of course not. I can find my way out, Art. Can you have my chopper meet me?"

"Sure."

Stevens dawned the last of his brandy and stood. "Be seeing you. I'll come by for Sir George in the morning. Call City Hall about an hour before you're ready to leave, if you please."

"We'll get him back to you," Bonner assured him. He walked with Stevens across the thick carpets to the entryway. "Bring Janice with you next time. Sometime when you're not showing the Commons-"

Stevens nodded. "Thanks." The door slid open for him, then closed.

"Poor Mac," Banner said as he came back to his seat. "His wife really enjoys this place, and Mac thinks coming here is a chore. Excuse me a moment, please?" He frowned in concentration.

Reedy could hear the instructions: That is, he could hear MILLIE listening to them. MacLean Stevens leaving 47-001 now. Full Protection. Call LAFD for his helicopter.

ACKNOWLEDGED.

Banner said, "I expect you've got a few more questions."

"Millions," Reedy agreed. "I don't know where to begin. Uh-

I say, Mr. Banner, I can't help noticing that your relationship with Mr. Stevens is rather peculiar."

Banner grinned broadly. "That's not the way I'd put it, but yes. Mac is convinced that this place couldn't exist without Los Angeles. To him we're no more than a vampire sucking up sustenance from his city. And since he's got an ungovernable mess out there, naturally he resents our order and tranquility even mare."

"I see. And yet you're friends."

"I wish we were closer friends. He's a very good man, Sir George. But then you've seen that."

"Yes. Is his theory correct, by the way?"

Banner hesitated for only a second. "Certainly. In a way. There have been several experiments in arcologies, Sir George. This is the only one that has succeeded."

"You're quite the largest and best financed."

Banner nodded. "True. But that isn't all of it, I think. We have had a lot of success. Not just avoiding deterioration, we've had growth and improvement and we make a profit for the stockholders and financiers. The earlier arcologies need massive tax subsidies, Todos Santos pays taxes. As few as possible, but we pay."

Sir George nodded agreement. "I know. It's the purpose of my visit. Why?"

"Our independence and lack of tax strangulation," Bonner said quickly. "We make our own laws, and no one outside bothers us. Dictatorial efficiency. 'The first bloom of fascism.' I make the trains run on time. I even build trains."

"Seriously-"

"I am being serious. We do have efficient administration. Simply getting out from under the dead hand of government, chopping out bureaucratic deadwood-that's worth a lot."

Reedy nodded again. "That's the standard explanation, but I am not at all certain that I accept the standard theories, else I'd not be here. I am looking for what the sociologists and economists may have missed. Most of them hate you from theoretical principles. Or love you from others."

"Something else you've seen," Banner said. "Security. Nobody has to be afraid in Todos Santos. Everyone in this place can talk to everyone else, and not be afraid. I think that's worth something, too."

"But what of Stevens's theory?"

Banner smiled. "I'll jump Mac's gun, since he'll tell you all about it tomorrow anyway. But do keep in mind what I said. Without our communications, upwards and downwards and sideways, the rest wouldn't matter.

"Now, Mac Stevens believes that without the resources of a big city to draw on we'd never make Tados Santos anything like self-sufficient. We'd forget something vital, and it would take time and effort to correct. That's why he said you couldn't build an arcalogy out in your undeveloped lands."

"I see. But there was an experiment like that. In India." Reedy leaned back in the comfortable chair and sniffed brandy. "Back when the United States was sending aid to India. The Rockefeller Foundation tried to build an instant industrial complex in an undeveloped village and farming region."

Banner nodded. "MILLIE has the details, if you're interested. Yes. And the project failed dismally, for precisely the reasons I've mentioned. Sure. Sir George, I won't try to hide from you just how much we depend on Los Angeles. I know, because MILLIE monitors everything coming into this place. I know where every dollar goes out of here, too. I think Mac's absolutely right, you have to be near a big city, near enough to draw on its resources, or your arcology's going to flop. Economically, socially, in every way."

"But certainly that's not enough by itself. It can't explain your economic successes."

"Right," Banner said. "But you saw some of that tonight."

"Did I?"

"The Phillips bay. Clothing rental. Obviously there was a need for that service. We weren't providing it, but our people like to dress up for parties and weddings and such. So we were imparting rental clothing and exporting money. Now Phillips does it, and the money stays right here. Mare than that, he's buying stock with his profits."

"And he brought in the capital to start the business," Reedy mused. "Of course, I can see why people with no capital resent you."

"And you're wrong," Banner said. "I admit I checked on Phillips so I know in advance, but his story's typical. He came in with nothing. We loaned him the money to build up his business."

Reedy thought that over. "Do you do that often? It seems risky."

"Win a few, lose a few. We do pretty well. Our Director for Capital Development is very seldom wrong."

"Ah." Reedy smiled. He wondered if Arthur Banner realized just how much he was revealing. Or cared. "And how would we go about locating such a magician?"

Banner grinned. "That's your problem. We've got Barbara Churchward."