No World of Their Own by Poul Anderson Page B

must admit he keeps a good chef.”
    The guards did not eat; they were trained to a sparse diet and an untiring watchfulness.
    â€œThere’s a lot to see, here in the upper levels,” said Chanthavar. He nodded at the discreet glow-sign of an amusement house. “But it’s more of the same. Come on downside for a change.”
    A gravity shaft dropped them two thousand feet, and they stepped into another world.
    Here there was no sun, no sky. Walls and ceiling were metal; floors were soft and springy, and a ruler-straight drabness filled Langley’s vision. The air was fresh enough, but it throbbed and rang with a noise that never ended: pumping, hammering, vibrating—the deep steady heartbeat of that great machine which was the city. The corridors—streets—were crowded, restless, alive with motion and shrill talking.
    So these were the commoners. Langley stood for a moment in the shaft entrance, watching them. He didn’t know what he had expected—gray-clad zombies, perhaps—but he was surprised. The disorderly mass reminded him of cities he had seen in Asia.
    Dress was a cheap version of that of the Ministerial: tunics for men, long dresses for women; it seemed to fall into a number of uniforms, green and blue and red, but was sloppily worn. The men’s heads were shaven; the faces reflected that mixture of races which man on Earth had become. There were incredible numbers of naked children playing under the very feet of the mob; there was not that segregation of the sexes which the upper levels enforced.
    Chanthavar offered cigarettes, struck one for himself, and led the way behind a couple of guards. People fell aside, bowing respectfully and then resuming their affairs. “We’ll have to walk,” said the agent. “No slideways down here.”
    â€œWhat are the uniforms?” asked Blaustein.
    â€œDifferent trades: metalworker, food producer, and so on. They have a guild system, highly organized, several years’ apprenticeship, and there’s a lot of rivalry between the guilds. As long as the commons do their work and behave themselves, we leave them pretty much alone. The police—city-owned slaves—keep them in line if real trouble ever starts.” Chanthavar pointed to a burly black-clad man in a steel helmet. “It doesn’t matter much what goes on here. They haven’t the weapons or the education to threaten anything. Such schooling as they get emphasizes how they must fit themselves to the basic system.”
    â€œWho’s that?” Matsumoto gestured to a man in form-fitting scarlet, his face masked, a knife in his belt, who slipped quietly between people indisposed to hinder him.
    â€œAssassins’ guild, though mostly they hire out to do burglaries and beatings. The commons aren’t robots—we encourage free enterprise. They’re not allowed firearms, so it’s safe enough and keeps the others amused.”
    After dinner, which was at a spot patronized by the wealthier merchants, Chanthavar smiled. “Near walked my legs off today,” he said. “Now how about some fun? A city is known by its vices.”
    â€œWell, okay,” said Langley. He was a little drunk; the sharp pungent beer of the lower levels buzzed in his head. He didn’t want women, not with memory still a bright pain in him. But there ought to be games and … His purse was full of bills and coins. “Where to?”
    â€œDreamhouse, I think,” said Chanthavar, leading them out. “It’s a favorite resort for all levels.”
    The entrance was a cloudy blueness opening into many small rooms. They took one, slipping life-masks over their faces: living synthetic flesh which stung briefly as it connected to nerve endings in the skin and then was part of you. “Everybody’s equal here, everybody anonymous,” said Chanthavar. “Refreshing.”
    â€œWhat is your wish, sirs?” The