Carpenter drew himself away slightly, as if to avoid contamination.
"This is un-Universal. Young man, if I didn't have a kind heart, I
would report you."
Michael was too preoccupied to be disturbed by this threat. "You mean
if I bring my girl here, I'd have to share her?"
"Certainly. And she'd have to share you. If somebody wanted you, that
is."
"Then I'm not staying here," Michael declared firmly, ashamed to admit
even to himself how much relief his decision was bringing him. "I don't
think I like it, anyhow. I'm going back to the Brotherhood."
There was a short cold silence.
"You know, son," Carpenter finally said, "I think you might be right.
I don't want to hurt your feelings--you _promise_ I won't hurt your
feelings?" he asked anxiously, afraid, Michael realized, that he might
call a policeman for ego injury.
"You won't hurt my feelings, Mr. Carpenter."
"Well, I believe that there are certain individuals who just cannot
adapt themselves to civilized behavior patterns. It's much better for
them to belong to a Brotherhood such as yours than to be placed in one
of the government incarceratoriums, comfortable and commodious though
they are."
"Much better," Michael agreed.
"By the way," Carpenter went on, "I realize this is just vulgar
curiosity on my part and you have a right to refuse an answer without
fear of hurting my feelings, but how do you happen to have a--er--girl
when you belong to a Brotherhood?"
Michael laughed. "Oh, 'Brotherhood' is merely a generic term. Both
sexes are represented in our society."
"On Talitha--" Carpenter began.
"I know," Michael interrupted him, like the crude primitive he was and
always would be. "But our females don't mind being generic."
* * * * *
A group of Sirians was traveling on the shelf above him on the slow,
very slow jet bus that was flying Michael back to Angeles, back to the
Lodge, back to the Brotherhood, back to her. Their melancholy howling
was getting on his nerves, but in a little while, he told himself, it
would be all over. He would be back home, safe with his own kind.
"When our minds have grown tired, when our lives have expired, when our
sorrows no longer can weary us, let our ashes return, neatly packed in
an urn, to the bright purple swamps of our Sirius."
The advideo crackled: "The gown her fairy godmother once gave to
Cinderella was created by the haute couture of fashion-wise Capella."
The ancient taxi was there, the one that Michael had taken from the
Lodge, early that morning, to the little Angeleno landing field, as if
it had been waiting for his return.
"I see you're back, son," the driver said without surprise. He set the
noisy old rockets blasting. "I been to Portyork once. It's not a bad
place to live in, but I hate to visit it."
"I'm back!" Michael sank into the motheaten sable cushions and gazed
with pleasure at the familiar landmarks half seen in the darkness. "I'm
back! And a loud sneer to civilization!"
"Better be careful, son," the driver warned. "I know this is a rural
area, but civilization is spreading. There are secret police all over.
How do you know I ain't a government spy? I could pull you in for
insulting civilization."
The elderly black and white advideo flickered, broke into purring
sound: "Do you find life continues to daze you? Do you find for a quick
death you hanker? Why not try the new style euthanasia, performed by
skilled workmen from Ancha?"
Not any more, Michael thought contentedly. He was going home.