He spent the next day, Unification Day, in the gym and the library.
He went to a few of Wei’s evening discussions. They were held in the garden, a pleasant place to be. The grass and the trees were real, and the stars and the moon were near reality, the moon changing phase but never position. Bird warblings sounded from time to time and a gentle breeze blew. Fifteen or twenty programmers were usually at the discussions, sitting on chairs and on the grass. Wei, in a chair, did most of the talking. He expanded on quotations from the Living Wisdom and deftly traced the particulars of questions to their encompassing generalities. Now and then he deferred to the head of the Educational Council, Gustafsen, or to Boroviev, the head of the Medical Council, or to another of the High Council members.
At first Chip sat at the edge of the group and only listened, but then he began to ask questions—why parts, at least, of treatments couldn’t be put back on a voluntary basis; whether human perfection might not include a degree of selfishness and aggressiveness; whether selfishness, in fact, didn’t play a considerable part in their own acceptance of alleged “duty” and “responsibility.” Some of the programmers near him seemed affronted by his questions, but Wei answered them patiently and fully; seemed even to welcome them, heard his “Wei?” over the askings of the others. He moved a little closer in from the group’s edge.
One night he sat up in bed and lit a cigarette and smoked in the dark.
The woman lying beside him stroked his back. “It’s right, Chip,” she said. “It’s what’s best for everyone.”
“You read minds?” he said.
“Sometimes,” she said. Her name was Deirdre and she was on the Colonial Council. She was thirty-eight, light-skinned, and not especially pretty, but sensible, shapely, and good company.
“I’m beginning to think it is what’s best,” Chip said, “and I don’t know whether I’m being convinced by Wei’s logic or by lobsters and Mozart and you. Not to mention the prospect of eternal life.”
“That scares me,” Deirdre said.
“Me too,” Chip said.
She kept stroking his back. “It took me two months to cool down,” she said.
“Is that how you thought of it?” he said. “Cooling down?”
“Yes,” she said. “And growing up. Facing reality.”
“So why does it feel like giving in?” Chip said.
“Lie down,” Deirdre said.
He put out his cigarette, put the ashtray on the night table, and turned to her, lying down. They held each other and kissed. “Truly,” she said. “It’s best for everybody, in the long run. We’ll improve things gradually, working in our own councils.”
They kissed and caressed each other, and then they kicked down the sheet and she threw her leg over Chip’s hip and his hardness slipped easily into her.
He was sitting in the library one morning when a hand took his shoulder. He looked around, startled, and Wei was there. He bent, pushing Chip aside, and put his face down to the viewer hood.
After a moment he said, “Well, you’ve gone to the right man.” He kept his face at the hood another moment, and then stood up and let go of Chip’s shoulder and smiled at him. “Read Liebman too,” he said. “And Okida and Marcuse. I’ll make a list of titles and give it to you in the garden this evening. Will you be there?”
Chip nodded.
His days fell into a routine: mornings at the library, afternoons at the Council. He studied construction methods and environment planning; examined factory flow charts and circulation patterns of residential buildings. Madhir and Sylvie showed him drawings of buildings under construction and buildings planned for the future, of cities as they existed and (plastic overlay) cities as they might some day be modified. He was the eighth member of the Council; of the other seven, three were inclined to challenge Uni’s designs and change them, and four, including Madhir, were inclined to accept them without question. Formal meetings were held on Friday afternoons; at other times seldom more than four or five of the members were in the offices. Once only Chip and Gri-gri were there, and they wound up locked together on Madhir’s sofa.
After Council, Chip used the gym and the pool. He ate with Deirdre and Dover and Dover’s woman-of-the-day and whoever else joined them—sometimes Karl, on the Transportation Council and resigned to wine.
One day in February, Chip asked Dover if it was possible to get in touch with whoever had replaced him on Liberty and find out if Lilac and Jan were all right and whether Julia was providing for them as she had said she would.
“Sure,” Dover said. “No problem at all.”
“Would you do it then?” Chip said. “I’d appreciate it.”
A few days later Dover found Chip in the library. “All’s well,” he said. “Lilac is staying home and buying food and paying rent, so Julia must be coming through.”
“Thanks, Dover,” Chip said. “I was worried.”
“The man there’ll keep an eye on her,” Dover said. “If she needs anything, money can come in the mail.”
“That’s fine,” Chip said. “Wei told me.” He smiled. “Poor Julia,” he said, “supporting all those families when it isn’t really necessary. If she knew she’d have a fit.”
Dover smiled. “She would,” he said. “Of course, everyone who set out didn’t get here, so in some cases it is necessary.”
“That’s right,” Chip said. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“See you at lunch,” Dover said.
“Right,” Chip said. “Thanks.”
Dover went, and Chip turned to the viewer and bent his face to the hood. He put his finger on the next-page button and, after a moment, pressed it.
He began to speak up at Council meetings and to ask fewer questions at Wei’s discussions. A petition was circulated for the reduction of cake days to one a month; he hesitated but signed it. He went from Deirdre to Blackie to Nina and back to Deirdre; listened in the smaller lounges to sex gossip and jokes about High Council members; followed crazes for paper-airplane making and speaking in pre-U languages (“Français” was pronounced “Fransay,” he learned).
One morning he woke up early and went to the gym. Wei was there, jumping astride and swinging dumbbells, shining with sweat, slab-muscled, slim-hipped; in a black supporter and something white tied around his neck. “Another early bird, good morning,” he said, jumping his legs out and in, out and in, swinging the dumbbells out and together over his white-wisped head.
“Good morning,” Chip said. He went to the side of the gym and took off his robe and hung it on a hook. Another robe, blue, hung a few hooks away.
“You weren’t at the discussion last night,” Wei said.