Where is the man who owes nothing to the land in which he lives? Whatever that land may be, he owes to it the most precious thing possessed by man, the morality of his actions and the love of virtue.
—Jean Jacques Rousseau
The guard turned with a puzzled expression. "Seems to be a glitch in Tunnel 0-8, Captain."
"What kind of glitch?"
"No visual."
The duty captain frowned. "In 8? That's a critical area. Don't need intruders in 8 . . ." He typed furiously on his console, then looked relieved. "MILLIE shows maintenance in that," he said. "With overtime authorized yet, the lucky beggars. Punch in an immediate repair request for the visuals."
"Hell, it's near dinner time. They'll never get it fixed tonight."
The captain shrugged. "If they don't, we'll send in a patrolman. Give 'em a chance, though. They're in there already, maybe they can take care of it." He looked at his readout screen again and nodded. "Looks all right. Nobody's opened any doors to the outside. Let me know when the visual comes on again."
"Sure." The guard settled back and sipped coffee as the kaleidoscope began again.
* * *
Anthony Rand put down the telephone with a grimace. It was always an unpleasant experience when Genevieve called, and he wasn't sure whether it was worse when they fought or when she tried to make up. Why the hell didn't she marry and get out of his life? She was no bloody use when he was trying to make a career; and when he hadn't risen fast enough to suit her, she'd walked out taking Zachary and two-thirds of his inadequate income with her. Now, of course, she wanted to come back.
She doesn't want to live with me, she wants to live in Todos Santos, Tony thought. And I will be damned if she's going to come here and live like a goddam princess off my status.
Of course she had a bribe to offer: Zach, aged eleven. And she had some good arguments. The boy needed his father, but Tony Rand didn't have time to raise a son—he barely had time to have the boy in for visits—and someone should take care of Zach, why not his mother? And maybe their breakup hadn't been quite so simple and one sided. She did have her side to the story—
He squirmed a bit as his body remembered Genevieve, suddenly, against his will. Djinn had been wonderful in bed. It had been too long since he'd had a satisfying affair. No time for that; no time to make friends. Too bad you couldn't rent mistresses. He'd heard that was possible: that there were women who'd gladly pretend affection, be attentive when you wanted them to be and self-reliant when you had no time for them. He wished he knew where to find someone like that. It wasn't so much that he was afraid to ask, as that he hadn't any idea of whom to ask.
Why not Genevieve? She was offering almost the same thing—no, I'll be damned first.
His apartment was nothing like the others in Todos Santos. It was large, because his status rated a large place; but much of the space was concentrated in one enormous room. There was a small bedroom, but he seldom used it because it was too far from the drafting table; he'd forgotten a good idea once while stumbling from bedroom to drafting table, and that wasn't ever going to happen again.
The drafting table dominated a whole side of the big room: a vast expanse of metal surface littered with drafting instruments and bordered by switches and buttons; when he drew on it, an image went into his computer files and was accessible in his office, or on a job site. Another wall held awards, framed scrolls and trophies. Books took up another. There wasn't room for all the books he needed—and where should he keep them, here or in his office suite? Better to get them read into the electronic brains of Todos Santos. Somehow, though, storing his books in computer memory hadn't conquered the mess: the room was still littered with letter trays full of papers, magazines (mostly unread but full of important articles he didn't want to miss) in half a dozen mahogany rack tables, unanswered letters spilling out of drawers. He was drowning in paper.
He envied the quiet efficiency of Preston Sanders or Art Bonner or Frank Mead. Their assistants almost invisibly took care of details. Tony had never been able to manage that. It wasn't that he didn't have good people. Alice Strahler was a good engineer and executive assistant, and Tom Golden ran the procurement division, and—
But good as his staff people were, it wasn't enough. They might protect him from mere details—but far too often he'd found that details were the key to the problem. He had to follow the minutiae, because he didn't know what would turn out to be vital.
That led to his development of robot probes; small devices with cameras and sound equipment which could move freely through Todos Santos under Rand's direct control. If he sent out two or three of the small teleoperated devices (he called them Arr-twos after the small droid in Star Wars), Rand could effectively be in several places at once, see machinery and construction details in real time from both above and below, and generally explore without leaving his bedroom.
Good as the Arr-twos were, with their full two-way communications and their TV screen to show Rand's face, he'd found it necessary to get out and talk to the technicians and carpenters and pipe fitters and maintenance people; talk to them himself, because most construction people didn't like talking to an Arr-two even with Rand's TV image.
And he had to go himself. His subordinates, even the best ones, didn't seem able to recognize an important point when they heard it. And getting around Todos Santos took time, which meant that the journals and magazines and letters piled up until he was hopelessly behind—
The phone rang. Genevieve again? he wondered. What in hell does she want this time? "Hello," he barked at the empty room.
"Strahler here, Chief," the phone speaker said.
Uh oh. Alice wouldn't call about something trivial. "Oh, ah, yeah, hello."
"Sorry to bother you at dinner time. We have a problem on that carbon filament reinforcing lattice. Medland can't deliver on time."
"Grrrr—"
"Sir?"
"Nothing. We need that stuff." Boy do we ever need it, and it's completely out of our control, damn it all to hell! How would we handle this if we were a space colony? Or a starship? "Alice, the schedule's godawful tricky, and—"
"That's why I called," Strahler said. "I tried alternate sources. Farbenwerke has the best delivery schedule, but it's still a four-week delay. But I did find a condominium going up in Diamond Bar that has enough to take care of us for a month, and they've got a strike so they don't need it right now. We can buy theirs and have Farbenwerke ship ours to Diamond Bar—but they'll want a premium."
"Sounds like you've done your homework," Tony said.
"Yeah. But it'll cost us," she said. "Rescheduling around a four-week delay costs one point six million. The Diamond Bar deal costs nine hundred thousand. I can't find any other choices."
"Pretty clear what we have to do," Rand said.
"Yes. Shall I talk to the comptroller?"
"Yeah. Do that. Say, this is Tom's job, not yours."
"Mr. Golden has an anniversary party," Strahler said. "His wife would leave him if he missed it. So I took it."
"Thanks, Alice. Okay, make the deal."
"Sure will. Good night."
"Good night," Rand said. "Finished with phone." An expensive call, he thought. Nine hundred thousand bucks, no small sum. Oh, well. Alice and Tom would take care of it. That was the kind of thing he thought of as a detail, no matter how much money might be involved; somebody else could handle it. But if he hadn't got his hands dirty working on the sewage treatment system, he'd never have found out that the instrumentation pathway wasn't workable until the system was finished. He shuddered at the memory. They'd have had to tear out a concrete wall and delay completion of the new residential wing . . .
It was only by accumulating details that you found something like that—and the way the details fit together wasn't at all obvious, which meant there was no rational filing system for them, resulting in the mess in his apartment (his office was kept relatively neat) because you never knew when you'd need an old memo or an article . . .
Maybe, Rand thought; maybe if I had an implant? Is that how Bonner keeps track of everything? But Pres manages without one, and so does Mead.
He put on a clean shirt. It was time to meet Bonner and Stevens and, what was his name? Reedy. Time to meet them for dinner.
* * *
The dining hall was large enough for six thousand people and served an entire level. Holographic panels along one entire wall gave the impression that it looked out over the sea; sailboats moved on the Bay, and lights winked as sunset shadowed Catalina Island in the distance. The great bulk of the iceberg in the Santa Monica harbor was outlined against the dying sunlight, a mountainous island that shone too brightly to be stone.
"That's lovely," Sir George said. "And quite realistic."
"It ought to be," MacLean Stevens told him. "They've piped the view inside."
"Yep. Real time," Rand said proudly. "Cost less than moving the dining hall. There's never enough outside view area, and—" He cut himself off. He hadn't come to talk, but to listen. That was going to take careful control; he'd been told he talked too much, and he supposed it was true, although he never said anything he wouldn't have wanted said to him if he didn't know the information.
And certainly he had reason to be pleased at Reedy's response: appreciative silence, and another close look at the holographs. "Pity the ceiling is so low," Reedy observed finally. "But even so the illusion is nearly perfect."
Art Bonner laughed, a short polite sound. Tony Rand had no trouble reading Bonner's mind: the cost of the holographic walls had been high enough without using up valuable space to give high ceilings to the Common rooms. Rand had suggested it and got nowhere.
Art hadn't wanted the holographs, either, but Tony insisted—and brought them in under budget, too. He was proud of that. The Commons wouldn't be nearly so nice without that illusion of looking out—
The room was filled with the buzz of conversation and clicking plates. There were the random sounds of people in motion. "A good bit less noise than I'd have imagined for this many diners," Reedy said.
Rand was about to tell him about the acoustic design: walls subtly not parallel, indentations at key places, and the rest, but Reedy wasn't listening.
"Custom again," MacLean Stevens said. "Deeply ingrained custom. Developed pretty rapidly, too."
"Doubtless there is selectivity," Reedy said. "Those who can't adapt won't stay long."
"The idea is to adapt the habitat to the inhabitants' needs," Art Bonner said.
"You seem to have done well," Reedy replied.
* * *
The tables were long and narrow, with a pair of moving beltways down the center. Dirty dishes came from their right, and a continuous stream of food and beverages and clean utensils poured from some cornucopia to the left. "Take a place," Art Bonner said. "You can choose your own company, or wait for someone to choose you."
"No reservations?" Reedy asked.
"No. It's a random proposition." Bonner led them to an empty stretch at a long table. "Scheduling's going to catch hell for this if it doesn't fill up." He paused for a moment to stare at nothing.
That's the value of that implant, Rand thought. He's just made a note, with all the details, and tomorrow MILLIE will remind him to think about schedules.
Reedy waited until he saw Bonner was attentive again. Then he said, "How can you plan without reservations?"
Bonner shrugged. "We manage."
Stevens's voice was carefully controlled as he said, "Residents must take a certain number of meals in the Commons. They're not only charged for them as part of the services, but they pay extra if they skip out too many times. With that incentive it's a simple matter of queuing theory mathematics."
"Not all that simple," Rand said.
Reedy frowned. "That doesn't seem very pleasant."
They took seats, Reedy and Bonner on one side of the table, Rand and Stevens on the other. The moving dishes and foods seemed to distract Reedy and made it hard for him to talk across the table. Bonner didn't seem to notice.
"You'll find clean plates coming along any second," Bonner said. "I think you'll like the meal, and certainly it's efficient." Pause. "Tonight's was only seven dollars twenty-eight cents per person that we'll serve, assuming the projection's right. If you see something you like, just take it. When you've served yourself, put the rest back on the conveyor."
"Is that sanitary?" Reedy asked.
"Certainly." Bonner snared a covered dish of chicken fricassee. "There are no more than four portions in a dish to begin with. And we've empirical evidence, too. Check our absenteeism due to minor illness—"
Reedy looked thoughtful. "Quite low," he said.
"Check the LA rate for comparison. Not that they have as good data as we have, but it gives you an idea."
Rand watched them carefully. In his office he could have got the same data just as quickly, but here he would have to take out his pocket communications terminal, type in the question, and read the answer. Reedy and Bonner simply thought the question and got the answer piped into their heads without interrupting the conversation.
"There's another reason for no more than four portions to a dish," Rand said. "If the FROMATES do get in and poison some dishes they won't kill many people—"
"Oh dear. Is there much chance of that?" Reedy asked. He seemed to have lost his appetite.
"Almost none," Rand assured him. "The security agents watch all the time." He waved toward the low ceiling.
Reedy glanced around nervously, as if feeling eyes on the back of his neck. Then plates and silver came past and he took them. Bonner handed him Hungarian goulash, and vegetables and bread quickly followed. There was tea and coffee, and milk, and water, and fruit juice. The goulash was hot and smelled deliciously of paprika.
Rand ate eagerly, but Reedy was still hesitant.
"Gets to you, doesn't it?" MacLean Stevens said gently. He began to eat. "Not much you can do about it, so enjoy your meal."
"About what?" Rand asked.
"Being watched all the time."
"But we're not watched all the time," Rand said. "The guards follow a random surveillance pattern."
"What do you do if you catch them?" Reedy asked. "Saboteurs. Or even just pickpockets."
Bonner snorted. "That's a sore subject. What happens is, we turn them over to Mac's police, and they let them go."
Sir George lifted an eyebrow. "Really, Mr. Stevens?"
"Not quite—"
"Close enough," Bonner said. "Let's suppose we catch an Angelino with his hand in a stockholder's pocket. Suppose we've got him dead to rights, a dozen witnesses. We call the LA police. They come get him. One of the District Attorney's people comes out and takes statements. So far so good.
"But now the Public Defender gets in the act. It'll be some bright youngster just out of law school, anxious to make a reputation. So we get delays. Continuances. Every time the victim and our witnesses show up, the Public Defender isn't available. Schedule conflict. Something. Until the day the victim isn't available, and wham! That's the day they insist on a speedy trial."
"Now, damn it, that's not fair," Mac Stevens insisted.
"It's close enough, Mac, and you know it. If we want a conviction, we have to spend hours and days in courtrooms, and for what? Even if we do it, the yo-yo gets bail and probation."
"So what do you do, Mr. Bonner?" Reedy asked.
"We grit our teeth and play the game," Bonner said. "And try to see that no repeat offenders get in here. We do have the right to keep the bums away from our people."
And how would we do that on a starship? Tony Rand wondered. Hmmm. We'd have to have criminal law. Justice, if you will. Which is hard to automate . . . and not my department.
The food was good, and they ate in silence for a few minutes. Most had second helpings. Rand started to tell them about some of the problems he'd had in getting the conveyor belt system working properly, but he saw they weren't interested.
Finally Sir George looked up and said, "Surely there's a lot of wastage? You can't possibly predict how much will be eaten."
"We do better than you think," Bonner said.
"Yes, and they sell the leftovers to Los Angeles welfare institutions," Stevens said grimly. "Churches, skid row missions, that sort of thing. There's no waste because the Los Angeles poor live on Todos Santos's garbage."
"Now, that's not true," Rand said. "The garbage goes to the pig farms—"
"He means that only the untouched portions are sold for human consumption," Bonner said. "And he's right, the real garbage feeds animals. And, Mac, you may not like feeding your welfare people on our leftovers, but I notice you don't complain about the water we supply."
The sun fell into the sea and the iceberg offshore winked with navigation lights. The darkness of the holograph was lovely, but it made the low ceiling press down even more heavily. Sir George glanced around again. "I shouldn't think Americans would like surveillance while they eat."
"The Corporation doesn't much like the expense of providing it, either," Bonner said. "Now tell me what I should do? Despite everything the FROMATES do get into Todos Santos. And they do try to poison people—"
"They don't think it's poison," Stevens said.
"LSD is poison," Bonner said. "If my people want to turn on, they'll do it themselves. They don't need help from eaters. And slipping acid into the food isn't all the honorable Friends of Man and the Earth do. They've also tried blowing up the kitchens, as well as other parts of Todos Santos. They tried—well, their diseased minds come up with pretty ingenious stunts.
"So we have to watch for them, and we can't abandon the Commons. Wouldn't if we could. Most of our residents like the Commons. Some never eat anywhere else. After all, it's our most democratic institution."
"Why do these criminals dislike you so much?" Sir George asked. "Surely they know your people are not unhappy here—"
Bonner and Stevens laughed together, a shared joke, which Rand could have joined if he wanted to, but the memory was too painful. Genevieve had lived with an eco-freak after she left Tony's bed. Tony tried to be objective, but he found it difficult.
"The FROMATES claim to be ecologists," Bonner said. "As if I didn't have some of the best ecological talent in the world available to my staff. Only they can save the Earth—"
"Art's not being quite fair," Stevens said. "I've got no use for terrorists, but the FROMATES have a point. They claim that if Todos Santos succeeds, there'll be no barrier to population growth. Not even famine and overcrowding can stop the population bomb, until it's too late for everyone and everything. Actually their best arguments are fiction. They're backing a movie made from an old science fiction novel, The Godwhale, about how the human race crowds itself until no humans are left."
"I take it you agree with them," Sir George asked.
"No. But they do have their share of truth. Todos Santos uses enormous resources to produce an elite that enjoys—" He clamped his lips firmly together. "I'd rather you saw everything for yourself."
Saw what? Rand wondered. Something not working right? Where?
"I saw the demonstrators outside," Sir George said. "Do you often have serious attempts at sabotage? Bombs, that sort of thing?"
"More than I like," Bonner said. "But they don't often get past Security. Setting off a bomb's pretty hard when the guards are looking over your shoulder."
"Isn't there anywhere the guards don't watch?"
"Not many places."
A young family came over to their part of the table and sat next to Art Bonner. The man was about thirty, and his wife considerably younger. There were two boys with them, about six and eight years old. All wore the neat slacks and wrinkle-free shirts that seemed to be standard dress, and all four wore resident badges. Like most resident badges these were personalized. The parents' had color drawings with their names in stylized calligraphy; the children's had cartoons. The shirts had complementary patterns of wild color, designed so that you could see from a distance that they were a family, although each shirt was different.
The man sat next to Bonner and examined Art's badge with care before he spoke. "I thought I recognized you, Mr. Bonner."
"Good evening," Bonner said pleasantly. He looked at their badges: Cal and Judy Phillips. The color had already told him they were resident stockholders, and the badge identified his business: Executive Row Clothing Rental, 25th Level Mall.
Bonner gestured to his companions. "Mister Phillips, this is Tony Rand, the Chief Engineer. Our visitors are Mr. Stevens of the Los Angeles Mayor's Office, and Sir George Reedy of the Canadian government."
Phillips's eyes widened slightly. He nodded pleasantly to the others, then began to gather dishes for himself and his family. He spoke in a low voice that they could just make out if they listened hard enough.
The newcomers talked only to each other for a while, but when Cal Phillips was certain that Bonner was finished with his meal, he said, "Mister Bonner, my shower is not delivering enough water."
Bonner frowned. "You've had Maintenance in to check?"
"Yes, sir. They say everything's fine."
"But it isn't," Judy Phillips said. "I used to be able to rinse off completely, and now I can't. And there's been no water allowance reduction in our neighborhood."
"Where?" Rand asked.
"Forty-four, West, R-ring," Judy answered.
"Hmm. Could be the computer. I don't think there's—"
"Leave it to Maintenance, Tony," Bonner said. He frowned for a moment. "All right, someone will look into it."
"Thank you," Cal Phillips said. "If you've a few minutes—"
"Not tonight," Bonner said pleasantly. "I have to show my guests around. If you'll excuse us—"
"Certainly," Cal and Judy Phillips chorused.
"We'll have coffee at my place," Bonner said to his guests when they were away from the table. "And we can discuss the economics of the situation, Sir George. Expect that will bore you to tears, Tony—"
Was Bonner trying to get rid of him? Rand wondered. Why would he do that? But it had happened before, when there was diplomacy to discuss.
Before they reached the outside of the Common Room, Bonner had heard five more complaints, been given three separate solutions to problems in garbage disposal—one interesting enough that Rand took out a notebook and wrote it down—and had been encouraged not to give in to outside pressures from the Teamsters.
When they reached the corridor, people obviously recognized Bonner, but they didn't speak to him, except to wish him a pleasant evening.
"We'll head on up to my place," Bonner said. "Sure you can't join us, Tony?"
Definitely a hint, Rand decided. "Thanks, Art, but I think I'd better turn in early," Rand said.
He watched them get onto an elevator.
* * *
There were other residents in the elevators, and they didn't speak to Bonner either as he led his guests to a corner of the 47th floor. An apartment door opened as they approached. He ushered them into a large carpeted room. The view of the city was magnificent on two sides of them.
Long lines of light that were streets overflowing with traffic; dotted lines of empty lighted streets; tall buildings with more patterns of light; a bank of fog rolling in from the bay, shrouding the iceberg, its top far below them; Los Angeles lay in splendor around them.
MacLean Stevens stood at the windows basking in the light. "Now that's a city," he said. "Alive and lovely and free."
"Splendid," Sir George said. "Really lovely."
"Especially from here," Bonner added. "Pimm's Cup again, Sir George?"
"Thank you, I'll have brandy—"
"Carlos Primera be all right?"
"Splendid. Thank you."
They took seats. They watched the solid coffee table for a moment, a duplicate of the one in Bonner's office.
"Customs again," Reedy said.
Bonner looked puzzled.
"The residents. They are permitted to speak to you in the Commons, but not in the corridors."
"More or less," Bonner said. "Not so much permitted as—well, as you say, a custom."
MacLean Stevens started to say something, but caught himself.
"Actually," Bonner said, "anyone can speak to anyone in the Commons. If you hadn't been along they'd have talked my arm off. They were being polite to outside visitors."
"And why was everyone so interested in garbage disposal?" Reedy asked.
"It's the 'Problem of the Week'," Bonner said. "Every week we have something the residents are asked to think about. If they come up with a good idea, we use it. Works more often than you think."
"I see. And you eat in the Commons regularly?"
"Reasonably so. I'm exempt from the requirement, of course, although I'm not so certain that's wise. Getting out and meeting the residents is just plain good politics. If Nixon had gone drinking in bars once in a while, he'd have served two full terms as President. For that matter, Mac, your Mayor would benefit by getting out and meeting some random citizens."
"Sure. With fifty bodyguards."
"See?" Bonner said. "I don't need bodyguards. Not in Todos Santos. I can go meet anyone I like. Ah. Here are our drinks."
The coffee table opened to reveal three large snifters of brandy.
Reedy asked, "Is an automatic bartender standard in all apartments?"
"It's not automated," MacLean Stevens said. "Somewhere in this building a very human bartender poured those drinks."
Bonner nodded agreement. "Most places get deliveries by jitney to their outside door. Executive and luxury suites have direct conveyors."
"A service reserved for the higher castes," Stevens said. "Kings, Queens, and Drones." He lifted his glass. "Cheers."
"That's a very old image, Mac." Bonner lifted his own glass in reply. "Cheers. I suppose you could call the executives kings and queens, and the major stockholders drones, but what's the sense of it? Sir George, Mac doesn't like Todos Santos—but his wife wants to live here. Doesn't she, Mac?"
Stevens nodded sourly.
"You'll notice he doesn't say he can't afford to bring her here, either," Bonner said. "I've offered him nearly every job in my department."
Stevens fidgeted nervously, then glanced at his watch. "Sir George, I really must be leaving soon."
"Good heavens, yes, of course you'll have to get back to your family. I'm very sorry—"
"You needn't leave," Bonner said. "We have guest suites. Please stay on, Sir George. What time is your first appointment in the morning?"
"Well, actually I had expected to return here—"
"That's settled, then. I'll have a guest suite with some toilet articles laid out for you. You've no family with you in Los Angeles."
He didn't say it as a question. Stevens wondered for a moment, then nodded. Bonner would have had MILLIE check airline and hotel reservations.
"I would enjoy staying over, if Mr. Stevens doesn't mind," Reedy said.
"No, of course not. I can find my way out, Art. Can you have my chopper meet me?"
"Sure."
Stevens downed the last of his brandy and stood. "Be seeing you. I'll come by for Sir George in the morning. Call City Hall about an hour before you're ready to leave, if you please."
"We'll get him back to you," Bonner assured him. He walked with Stevens across the thick carpets to the entryway. "Bring Janice with you next time. Sometime when you're not showing the Commons—"
Stevens nodded. "Thanks." The door slid open for him, then closed.
"Poor Mac," Bonner said as he came back to his seat. "His wife really enjoys this place, and Mac thinks coming here is a chore. Excuse me a moment, please?" He frowned in concentration.
Reedy could hear the instructions: That is, he could hear MILLIE listening to them. MacLean Stevens leaving 47-001 now. Full Protection. Call LAFD for his helicopter.
ACKNOWLEDGED.
Bonner said, "I expect you've got a few more questions."
"Millions," Reedy agreed. "I don't know where to begin. Uh—I say, Mr. Bonner, I can't help noticing that your relationship with Mr. Stevens is rather peculiar."
Bonner grinned broadly. "That's not the way I'd put it, but yes. Mac is convinced that this place couldn't exist without Los Angeles. To him we're no more than a vampire sucking up sustenance from his city. And since he's got an ungovernable mess out there, naturally he resents our order and tranquility even more."
"I see. And yet you're friends."
"I wish we were closer friends. He's a very good man, Sir George. But then you've seen that."
"Yes. Is his theory correct, by the way?"
Bonner hesitated for only a second. "Certainly. In a way. There have been several experiments in arcologies, Sir George. This is the only one that has succeeded."
"You're quite the largest and best financed."
Bonner nodded. "True. But that isn't all of it, I think. We have had a lot of success. Not just avoiding deterioration, we've had growth and improvement and we make a profit for the stockholders and financiers. The earlier arcologies need massive tax subsidies, Todos Santos pays taxes. As few as possible, but we pay."
Sir George nodded agreement. "I know. It's the purpose of my visit. Why?"
"Our independence and lack of tax strangulation," Bonner said quickly. "We make our own laws, and no one outside bothers us. Dictatorial efficiency. 'The first bloom of fascism.' I make the trains run on time. I even build trains."
"Seriously—"
"I am being serious. We do have efficient administration. Simply getting out from under the dead hand of government, chopping out bureaucratic deadwood—that's worth a lot."
Reedy nodded again. "That's the standard explanation, but I am not at all certain that I accept the standard theories, else I'd not be here. I am looking for what the sociologists and economists may have missed. Most of them hate you from theoretical principles. Or love you from others."
"Something else you've seen," Bonner said. "Security. Nobody has to be afraid in Todos Santos. Everyone in this place can talk to everyone else, and not be afraid. I think that's worth something, too."
"But what of Stevens's theory?"
Bonner smiled. "I'll jump Mac's gun, since he'll tell you all about it tomorrow anyway. But do keep in mind what I said. Without our communications, upwards and downwards and sideways, the rest wouldn't matter.
"Now, Mac Stevens believes that without the resources of a big city to draw on we'd never make Todos Santos anything like self-sufficient. We'd forget something vital, and it would take time and effort to correct. That's why he said you couldn't build an arcology out in your undeveloped lands."
"I see. But there was an experiment like that. In India." Reedy leaned back in the comfortable chair and sniffed brandy. "Back when the United States was sending aid to India. The Rockefeller Foundation tried to build an instant industrial complex in an undeveloped village and farming region."
Bonner nodded. "MILLIE has the details, if you're interested. Yes. And the project failed dismally, for precisely the reasons I've mentioned. Sure. Sir George, I won't try to hide from you just how much we depend on Los Angeles. I know, because MILLIE monitors everything coming into this place. I know where every dollar goes out of here, too. I think Mac's absolutely right, you have to be near a big city, near enough to draw on its resources, or your arcology's going to flop. Economically, socially, in every way."
"But certainly that's not enough by itself. It can't explain your economic successes."
"Right," Bonner said. "But you saw some of that tonight."
"Did I?"
"The Phillips boy. Clothing rental. Obviously there was a need for that service. We weren't providing it, but our people like to dress up for parties and weddings and such. So we were importing rental clothing and exporting money. Now Phillips does it, and the money stays right here. More than that, he's buying stock with his profits."
"And he brought in the capital to start the business," Reedy mused. "Of course, I can see why people with no capital resent you."
"And you're wrong," Bonner said. "I admit I checked on Phillips so I know in advance, but his story's typical. He came in with nothing. We loaned him the money to build up his business."
Reedy thought that over. "Do you do that often? It seems risky."
"Win a few, lose a few. We do pretty well. Our Director for Capital Development is very seldom wrong."
"Ah." Reedy smiled. He wondered if Arthur Bonner realized just how much he was revealing. Or cared. "And how would we go about locating such a magician?"
Bonner grinned. "That's your problem. We've got Barbara Churchward."