Split Infinity

In moments they entered a transport tunnel, took a private capsule, and zoomed through the darkness away from the farm. It seemed the Citizen was not at his farmside apartment at this hour. “Now don’t stare, keep cool,” the foreman told him. The foreman himself was sweating. That made Stile quite nervous, for the foreman was normally a man of iron. There must be quite serious trouble brewing!  Yet why hadn’t they simply revoked Stile’s promotion without fuss?

They debouched at a hammam. Stile felt the fore-man’s nudge, and realized he was indeed staring. He stopped that, but still the environment was awesome.

The hammam was a public bath in the classic Arabian mode. A number of Citizens preferred this style, because the golden age of Arabian culture back on Earth had been remarkably affluent.  Islam had had its Golden Age while Christianity had its Dark Ages. For the ruling classes, at any rate; the color of the age had never had much significance for the common man.  Poverty was eternal.

Thus there were mosque-type architecture, and turban headdress, exotic dancing, and the hammam. This one was evidently shared by a number of Citizens. It was not that any one of them could not have afforded it alone; rather. Citizens tended to specialize in areas of interest or expertise, and an Arabian specialist had a touch that others could hardly match. Stile’s employer had a touch with fine horses; another might have a touch with desert flora; here one had a touch with the hammam. On occasion other Citizens wished to ride the horses, and were invariably treated with utmost respect.  The hammam was by nature a social institution, and a Citizen could only socialize properly with other Citizens, so they had to share.

There were many rooms here, clean and hot and steamy, with many serfs bearing towels, brushes, ointments, and assorted edibles and beverages. One large room resembled a swimming pool—but the water was bubbly-hot and richly colored and scented, almost like soup. Several Citizens were soaking in this communal bath, conversing. Stile knew they were Citizens, though they were naked, because of their demeanor and the deference the clustered serfs were paying. Clothing distinguished the Citizen, but was not the basis of Citizen-ship; a Citizen could go naked if he chose, and sacrifice none of his dignity or power. Nevertheless, some wore jewelry.

They came to a smaller pool. Here Stile’s employer soaked. Six extraordinarily voluptuous young women were attending him, rubbing oils into his skin, polishing his fingernails, even grooming his privates, which were supremely unaroused. An older man was doing the Citizen’s hair, meticulously, moving neatly with the Citizen to keep the lather from his face.

“Sir,” the foreman said respectfully.

The Citizen took no notice. The girls continued their labors. Stile and the foreman stood where they were, at attention. Stile was conscious again of the grime on him, from his recent riding lesson; what a contrast he was to these premises and all the people associated with them! Several minutes passed.

Stile noted that the Citizen had filled out slightly in the past year, but remained a healthy and youngish-looking man. He had fair muscular development, suggesting regular exercise, and obviously he did not over-eat—or if he did, he stayed with non-nutritive staples.  His hair looked white—but that was the effect of the lather. His pubic region was black. It was strange seeing a Citizen in the same detail as a serf!

Two more men entered the chamber. One was Billy, the roving security guard for the farm; the other was Bourbon. “Sir,” Billy said.

Now the Citizen nodded slightly to the foreman. “Be at ease,” the foreman said to the others. Stile, Billy and Bourbon relaxed marginally.

The Citizen’s eyes nicked to Bourbon. “Elucidate your protest.”

Bourbon, in obvious awe of his employer, swallowed and spoke. “Sir, I was passed over for promotion in favor of Stile, here, when I have seniority and a better record.”

The Citizen’s eyes flicked coldly to the foreman.

“You promoted Stile. Justify this.”

The foreman had promoted him? Stile had not been aware that the man had such power. He had thought the foreman’s authority ended with discipline, record-keeping, and perhaps the recommendation of candidates. The Citizen might have gotten mixed up, not paying full attention to the details of serf management, but the foreman should never have erred like this! He was the one who had suspended Stile, after all.

“Sir,” the foreman said, ill at ease himself. “It is my considered judgment that Stile is the proper man to fill the present need. I prefer to have him trained on the robot horse, which will only be with us three months.”