‘Come with me,’ he said, leading her back into the now-spotless living room and seating her down on the couch across from the screen. Sensing his presence, it hummed to life. Words appeared.

GOOD MORNING, ALBERT.

‘This is Theo. She’s—How old are you?’

‘Nine,’ she replied.

He turned back to the screen. ‘She’s nine. Talk to her, entertain her, show her whatever she wants, just keep her engaged.’

UNDERSTOOD.

He turned to Theo. ‘It’ll keep you company till I get back. All right?’

Theo didn’t answer. She was staring at the screen, which was now displaying a new set of words.

GOOD MORNING, THEO. WOULD YOU LIKE TO HEAR A STORY?

‘Hear a story? You think I’m a kid?’

MY APOLOGIES. WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE A STORY, THEN?

‘See a story?’

AFFIRMATIVE. I AM PROGRAMMED WITH OVER NINE MILLION VISUALLY DEPICTED STORIES APPROPRIATE FOR YOUR AGE GROUP. WOULD YOU LIKE SOMETHING WITH EMPIRES, OR WOULD YOU PREFER DETECTIVES?

‘I dunno. Empires, I guess. Or detectives. Or what else you got? Any fightin’? Or explorin’? I’m thinking maybe I’d like something ’bout castles, and travellin’ an’ …’

Albert tiptoed away, leaving her reeling off name after name of objects, actions and emotions that she wished to see figure in the tale; and left home, checking to make sure the door was locked. He stood there, just outside the door, and breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

Even though it was light outside, the shimmering holographic letters dancing on the surface of the Dome far above were bright enough to be clearly seen, at least for a while yet. The luminous words screamed out at him: TECHNOLOGICAL REVOLUTION, DAY 47389.

He looked at the letters, knowing what they meant, that he, along with everybody else looking at them was born privileged, lucky enough to be alive now, during the time of the Technological Revolution, the greatest revolution that ever was or would be, the one that would never end. Joy.

Albert looked back down. He wasn’t feeling particularly fortunate; in fact, he wasn’t feeling particularly anything. At the moment, he felt no pride, no elation, not even a sense of victory at having devised the master stroke that had finally succeeded in quelling that extraordinary child. His head was throbbing and he was tired, almost drained. And it was still morning!

Right now, the impending solitude of his cubicle seemed almost inviting.

4

Albert hadn’t long to wait. Within minutes, a transport pod filled with people rolled up the street. Sensing his presence, it stopped in front of him, the door sliding up to allow him to enter. He climbed in and found a seat. It was the same one he sat in each morning. Inevitable—it was the same pod, filled with the same people. Just another day in the City.