“What were you out there for?” asked Goram.

Heym licked stiff lips. “The waiter was new here himself and went to ask the cook about hotels.”

* * *

The first raindrops were falling as the two came out into the street. Lightning forked vividly overhead. Goram shuddered in the raw damp chill. “Foul place,” he muttered. “No weather control, not even a roof for the city—uncivilized.”

Heym made no reply, though he tried to unlock his jaws. The blade in his pocket seemed to have the weight of a world. He looked down from his stringy height at the soldier’s squat massiveness. I’ve never killed, he thought dully. I’ve never even fought, physically or mentally. I’m no match for him. It’ll have to be a sneak thrust from behind.

They entered the hotel. The clerk was reading a journal whose pages seemed purely mathematical symbols. He was probably a scientist of some kind in his main job. There was, luckily for Goram, no register to sign, the clerk merely nodded them casually toward their room.

“No system here,” muttered Goram. “How can they keep track of anybody without registry?”

“They don’t,” said Heym. “And they don’t have to.”

The room was large and airy and well furnished. “I’ve slept in worse, places,” said the soldier grudgingly. He flopped into a chair. “But it’s the first place where the hired help reads technical journals that I’ve seen.”

“The social order here is unique,” Heym repeated himself. “The colonists evolved through families, clans, tribes, kingdoms, and republics in a matter of centuries. Finally the most advanced countries worked out the present system, which was universally adopted when planetary government was established.”

“What is it?”

“Well, it’s a kind of democratic socialism—really the only logical form of government for a race of geniuses, at least until robots are developed. You see, the race needs an advanced civilization, with its technical advantages, in order to give the brilliant minds contact with each other and resources to carry out and propagate their ideas. Yet no high-grade mind should be put to the myriad routine and menial tasks essential to running a civilization, everything from garbage collection to government. The present set-up is a compromise, in which everyone puts in a small proportion of his time at those jobs. He can do manual work, or teach, or run a public-service enterprise like a farm or restaurant—whatever he wishes. And he can work steadily at it for a few years and then have all his needs taken care of for the rest of his life, or else put in a few hours a day, two or three, over a longer period of time. The result is that needs and a social surplus are available for all, as well as education, health services, entertainment, or whatever else is considered desirable. The planet could, in fact, do without money, but it’s more convenient to pay in cash than fill out credit slips.

“Incidentally, that’s probably one reason there’s no great interest in providing more material goods for all—it would mean that everyone would have to put in more time in the mines and factories and less on his chosen work. Which is apparently a price that genius is unwilling to pay. I don’t think there’ll be any great progress in applied science until the research project established some time back perfects the robots it’s set for a goal.”