The car glided down to a platform on the fiftieth floor of a skyscraper. The surrounding buildings were as hideous as most of the continent-wide city; but this tower stood clean and proud, its starkness relieved by colorful beds of mutated flowers on each terrace. “So many men wanted to sponsor you, we set up a fund an’ got a special place,” said Amily. She squeezed his arm. “But I saw you first, ’member.”

With that buildup, he was surprised at the modesty of the apartment: two smallish rooms, plus bath and kitchenette. Amily showed him how to operate the gadgets, which were little different from those he knew. He was more interested in the quiet good taste of the interior decoration. The bookshelves were filled with finer volumes than he was accustomed to, most of them handbound. He wouldn’t have much trouble getting used to the spelling, he saw. A music library ranged from medieval chants to modern symphonies almost as foreign to his ear; but in between he found many old friends, and when he tried out part of the Beethoven Ninth, he had never heard it better performed.

“I think you’re hungry,” said the girl. She opened a built-in refrigerator. “Lemme make you a san’wich.” The meat was exotic, the bread far tastier than that library paste sold under the name in Barlow’s milieu. He ate with pleasure, downing a bottle of excellent beer.

“Might be best you nap now,” she said. “Been a strain, I know.”

“I feel fine,” he said, rising.

“Tha’s jus’ the tranquistim,” she warned. “Tonight’ll be a big do. Last till all hours.”

He edged closer. She stayed where she was. Her eyelashes fluttered, long and smoky against smooth sunbrowned cheeks. “I can rest tomorrow,” he said.

“Sure. You’re your own master here, Tom. Later Dad’ll find some status position for you, but tha’s nominal. An’ no hurry ’bout it.”

He stopped, struck by a thought. In all this bewilderment of newness, it hadn’t occurred to him before. But if he really was such a wonder, he had been received with extraordinary quietness and informality. “What does your father do?” he asked.

“Why, Joe’s the Pres’dent o’ the world. Didn’ you realize?” She laughed afresh. “I s’pose not. We all get so used to each other, all good frien’s not standin’ on ceremony, we plain forgot—Oh, yes, Joe’s the Pres’dent. Sam Wong heads the World Department o’ Technics, Phil Faubus is chief sociohistorian, Ivan—No matter.”

He needed a while to shed his preconceptions. That the chief executive of fifteen billion people could be so human seemed almost a contradiction in terms. He noticed he’d stepped back from Amily.

She noticed too, seized both his hands and pulled him closer. “Don’ be scared,” she said merrily. “Jus’ ’cause I’m the Pres’dent’s daughter, I won’t eat you. Got other plans.”

Barlow decided to take things as they came. “I told you before,” he said. “Please don’t rush off.”

“Well,” she answered, low-voiced, ‘‘I’m not in that much of a hurry…”