“Ya wanna get in or ya wanna go home? C’mon, there’s lotsa people waitin’.”

Ron looked around. The people in line were glaring at him, angry, hot, and impatient. There was a policeman nearby, tall and official-looking in his uniform and helmet. But he was carefully looking in the other direction.

Ron tore the plastic wrapping off his package of bills and pulled out a fifty. He slid it across the counter.

“Welcome t’ Fun City,” said the man in the booth in a flat, totally automatic way.

The little gate at the far end of the booth clicked open and Ron stepped through. He was now officially in New York City.

“Watch it!”

A porter in an electric wagon piled high with luggage zipped past him. Ron had to jump back to get out of the way.

Ron pushed through the crowd and made it outside to the street. The throngs here were even thicker and noisier, pushing and shouldering along the sidewalk. Everyone was going someplace. Someplace important, too, from the busy looks on their faces. At the curb was a line of cabs, and people poured into them. Cars were charging down the street. They pulled up short when the traffic light turned red, then roared for the next light as soon as it flashed green again. Bumpers banged but nobody seemed to care or even notice.

These cars weren’t the safe, quiet electrics that were used in the Tracts. These smoked and went vrooom! when they started up. Unsanitary, Ron told himself. They make a terrible amount of pollution. Still, he yearned to drive one.

Down the street he rushed. He couldn’t walk slowly because the crowd pushed him along, move, move, move. Doesn’t matter where you’re going or why. Just keep moving or they’ll trample over you.

A little old lady with a sweet smile and an umbrella passed him, heading the other way. She was holding a leash that was attached to the collar of the biggest dog Ron had ever seen. Walking a dog, on a public street! In the daytime! Back home, you couldn’t take a dog out on the street at all. You could only walk him in the park, or on your own property, and then only at night.

It wasn’t until after the lady with the dog had passed that Ron thought about her umbrella. It took him a minute to figure out what the odd-looking thing was. Back home, with the Weather Control Force in charge of everything, you always knew well in advance when it was going to rain. And here, under Manhattan Dome, why would anyone need an umbrella at all?

He glanced upward. Yes, the Dome was still up there. He could see its gray steel framework, like a giant spiderweb, far, far above. It was almost lost in the haze of smog that hung above the street.

Two blocks down the street Ron found a clothing store. The windows looked great. Real live models walking up and down inside the windows, talking to one another, tossing a ball around, laughing and waving to the crowd. A bunch of people had gathered in front of the window to watch them. Ron fought his way past the stream of people walking down the street and got to the edge of the crowd at the window. He was tall enough to see over the heads of most of them.