"Why?" Julia asked. "Why, Nat? Why do they do it? They get so far, building it up -- and then they tear it all down again."
Hull leaned back in his chair. "It began," he stated, "when we failed to find life on any of the other planets. When our exploring parties came back empty-handed. Eight dead orbs -- lifeless. Good for nothing. Not even lichen. Rock and sand. Endless deserts. One after the other, all the way out to Pluto."
"It was a hard realization," Bart said. "Of course, that was before our time."
"Not much before. Packman remembers it. A century ago. We waited a long time for rocket travel, flight to other planets. And then to find nothing..."
"Like Columbus finding the world really was flat," Julia said. "With an edge and a void."
"Worse. Columbus was looking for a short route to China. They could have continued the long way. But when we explored the system and found nothing we were in for trouble. People had counted on new worlds, new lands in the sky. Colonization. Contact with a variety of races. Trade. Minerals and cultural products to exchange. But most of all the thrill of landing on planets with amazing life-forms."
"And instead of that..."
"Nothing but dead rock and waste. Nothing that could support life -- our own or any other kind. A vast disappointment set in on all levels of society."
"And then Packman brought out the Worldcraft bubble," Bart murmured. " 'Own Your Own World.' There was no place to go, outside of Terra. No other worlds to visit. You couldn't leave here and go to another world. So instead, you --"
and go to another world. So instead, you --"
"But look, Nat," Bart said. "The bubbles seemed like a good idea, at first. We couldn't leave Terra so we built our own worlds right here. Sub-atomic worlds, in controlled containers. We start life going on a sub-atomic world, feed it problems to make it evolve, try to raise it higher and higher. In theory there's nothing wrong with the idea. It's certainly a creative pastime. Not a merely passive viewing like television. In fact, world-building is the ultimate art form. It takes the place of all entertainments, all the passive sports as well as music and painting --"
"But something went wrong."
"Not at first," Bart objected. "At first it was creative. Everybody bought a Worldcraft bubble and built his own world. Evolved life farther and farther. Molded life. Controlled it. Competed with others to see who could achieve the most advanced world."
"And it solved another problem," Julia added. "The problem of leisure. With robots to work for us and robants to serve us and take care of our needs --"
"Yes, that was a problem," Hull admitted. "Too much leisure. Nothing to do. That, and the disappointment of finding our planet the only habitable planet in the system.
"Packman's bubbles seemed to solve both problems. But something went wrong. A change came. I noticed it right away." Hull stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. The change began ten years ago -- and it's been growing worse."
"But why?" Julie demanded. "Explain to me why everyone stopped building their worlds creatively and began to destroy."
"Ever seen a child pull wings off a fly?"
"Certainly. But --"
"The same thing. Sadism? No, not exactly. More a sort of curiosity. Power. Why does a child break things? Power, again. We must never forget something. These world bubbles are substitutes. They take the place of something else, of finding genuine life on our own planets. And they're just too damn small to do that.
"These worlds are like toy boats in a bath tub. Or model rocketships you see kids playing with. They're surrogates, not the actual thing. These people who operate them -- why do they want them? Because they can't explore real planets, big planets. They have a lot of energy dammed up inside them. Energy they can't express.
"And bottled-up energy sours. It becomes aggressive. People work with their little worlds for a time, building them up. But finally they reach a point where their latent hostility, their sense of being deprived, their --"
"It can be explained more easily," Bart said calmly. "Your theory is too elaborate."
"How do you explain it?"
"Man's innate destructive tendencies. His natural desire to kill and spread ruin."
"There's no such thing," Hull said flatly. "Man isn't an ant. He has no fixed direction to his drives. He has no instinctive 'desire to destroy' any more than he had an instinctive desire to carve ivory letter-openers. He has energy --and the outlet it takes depends on the opportunities available. That's what's wrong. All of us have energy, the desire to move, act, do. But we're bottled up here, sealed off, on one planet. So we buy Worldcraft bubbles and make little worlds of our own. But microscopic worlds aren't enough. They're as satisfactory as a toy sailboat is to a man who wants to go sailing."
Bart considered a long time, deep in thought. "You may be right," he admitted finally. "It sounds reasonable. But what's your suggestion? If the other eight planets are dead --"
"Keep exploring. Beyond the system."
"We're doing that."
"Try to find outlets that aren't so artificial."
Bart grinned. "You feel this way because you never caught the hang of it." He thumped his bubble fondly. "I don't find it artificial."
fondly. "I don't find it artificial."
Bart grunted. "It's turning sour, all right. Quite a scene, wasn't it?" He reflected, frowning. "But the bubbles are better than nothing. What do you suggest? Give up our bubbles? What should we do instead? Just sit around and talk?"
"Nat loves to talk," Julia murmured.
"Like all intellectuals." Bart tapped Hull's sleeve. "When you sit in your seat in the Directorate you're with the Intellectual and Professional class -- gray stripe."
"And you?"
"Blue stripe. Industrial. You know that."
Hull nodded. "That's right. You're with Terran Spaceways. The ever-hopeful company."
"So you want us to give up our bubbles and just sit around. Quite a solution to the problem."
"You're going to have to give them up." Hull's face flushed. "What you do after that is your affair."
"What do you mean?"
Hull turned toward Longstreet, eyes blazing. "I've introduced a bill in the Directorate. A bill that will outlaw Worldcraft."
Bart's mouth fell open. "You what?"
"On what grounds?" Julia asked, waking up.
"On moral grounds," Hull stated calmly. "And I think I can get it through."
The Directorate hall buzzed with murmuring echoes, its vast reaches alive with moving shadows, men taking their places and preparing for the session's business.
Eldon von Stern, Directorate Floor Leader, stood with Hull off to one side behind the platform. "Let's get this straight," von Stern said nervously, running his fingers through his iron-gray hair. "You intend to speak for this bill of yours? You want to defend it yourself?"
Hull nodded. "That's right. Why not?"
"The analytical machines can break the bill down and present an impartial report for the members. Spellbinding has gone out of style. If you present an emotional harangue you can be certain of losing. The members won't --"
"I'll take the chance. It's too important to leave to the machines."
Hull gazed out over the immense room that was slowly quieting. Representatives from all over the world were in their places. White-clad property owners. Blue-clad financial and industrial magnates. The red shirts of leaders from factory cooperatives and communal farms. The green-clad men and women representing the middle-class consumer group. His own gray-striped body, at the extreme right, the doctors, lawyers, scientists, educators, intellectuals and professionals of all kinds.