"I hope so," she said, "even though it diffuses the lightand I can't 'see' anything at all through it. I like to feelit falling about me and blowing against my face.""How do you get about?"

"My dog, Sigmund—I gave him the night off," shesmiled, "—he can guide me anywhere. He's a mutie Shepherd."

"Oh?" Render grew curious. "Can he talk much?"She nodded.

"That operation wasn't as successful on him as onsome of them, though. He has a vocabulary of aboutfour hundred words, but I think it causes him pain tospeak. He's quite intelligent. You'll have to meet himsometime."

Render began speculating immediately. He had spokenwith such animals at recent medical conferences, andhad been startled by their combination of reasoning ability and their devotion to their handlers. Much chromosome tinkering, followed by delicate embryo-surgery,was required to give a dog a brain capacity greater thana chimpanzee's. Several followup operations were necessary to produce vocal abilities. Most such experimentsended in failure, and the dozen or so puppies a year onwhich they succeeded were valued in the neighborhoodof a hundred thousand dollars each. He realized then, ashe lit a cigarette and held the light for a moment, thatthe stone in Miss Shallot's medallion was a genuine ruby.He began to suspect that her admission to a medical school might, in addition to her academic record,have been based upon a sizeable endowment to the college of her choice. Perhaps he was being unfair though,he chided himself.

*'Yes," he said, "we might do a paper on canine neuroses. Does he ever refer to his father as 'that son of afemale Shepherd'?""He never met his father," she said, quite soberly. "Hewas raised apart from other dogs. His attitude couldhardly be typical. I don't think you'll ever learn the functional psychology of the dog from a mutie."

"I imagine you're right," he dismissed it. "Morecoffee?"

"No, thanks."

Deciding it was time to continue the discussion, hesaid, "So you want to be a Shaper...."

"Yes."

"I hate to be the one to destroy anybody's high ambitions," he told her. "Like poison, I hate it. Unless theyhave no foundation at all in reality. Then I can be ruthless. So—honestly, frankly, and in all sincerity, I do notsee how it could ever be managed. Perhaps you're a finepsychiatrist—but in my opinion, it is a physical and mental impossibility for you ever to become a neuroparticipant. As for my reasons—"

"Wait," she said. "Not here, please. Humor me. I'mtired of this stuffy place—take me somewhere else to talk.I think I might be able to convince you there is a way."

"Why not?" he shrugged. "I have plenty time. Sure—•you call it. Where?"

"Blindspin?"

He suppressed an unwilling chuckle at the expression,but she laughed aloud.

"Fine," he said, "but I'm still thirsty."

A bottle of champagne was tallied and he signed thecheck despite her protests. It arrived in a colorful "DrinkWhile You Drive" basket, and they stood then, and shewas tall, but he was taller.

Blindspin.

A single name of a multitude of practices centeredabout the auto-driven auto. Flashing across the countryin the sure hands of an invisible chauffeur, windows allopaque, night dark, sky high, tires assailing the road below like four phantom buzzsaws—and starting fromscratch and ending in the same place, and never knowingwhere you are going or where you have been—it is possible, for a moment, to kindle some feeling of individuality in the coldest brainpan, to produce a momentaryawareness of self by virtue of an apartness from all but asense of motion. This is because movement through dark-ness is the ultimate abstraction of life itself—at least that'swhat one of the Vital Comedians said, and everybody inthe place laughed.

Actually now, the phenomenon known as blindspinfirst became prevalent (as might be suspected) amongcertain younger members of the community, when monitored highways deprived them of the means to exercisetheir automobiles in some of the more individualisticways which had come to be frowned upon by the National Traffic Control Authority. Something had to bedone.

It was.

The first, disastrous reaction involved the simple engineering feat of disconnecting the broadcast control unitafter one had entered onto a monitored highway. Thisresulted in the car's vanishing from the ken of the monitor and passing back into the control of its occupants.Jealous as a deity, a monitor will not tolerate that whichdenies its programmed omniscience: it will thunder andlightning in the Highway Control Station nearest thepoint of last contact, sending winged seraphs in search ofthat which has slipped from sight.

Often, however, this was too late in happening, for theroads are many and well-paved. Escape from detectionwas, at first, relatively easy to achieve.

Other vehicles, though, necessarily behave as if a rebelhas no actual existence. Its presence cannot be allowedfor.

Boxed-in on a heavily-traveled section of roadway, theoffender is subject to immediate annihilation in the eventof any overall speedup or shift in traffic pattern whichinvolves movement through his theoretically vacant position. This, in the early days of monitor-controls, causeda rapid series of collisions. Monitoring devices later became far more sophisticated, and mechanized cutoffs reduced the collision incidence subsequent to such anaction. The quality of the pulpefactions and contusionswhich did occur, however, remained unaltered.

The next reaction was based on a thing which hadbeen overlooked because it was obvious. The monitorstook people where they wanted to go only because peopletold them they wanted to go there. A person pressing arandom series of coordinates, without reference to anymap, would either be left with a stalled automobile anda "RECHECK YOUR COORDINATES" light, or wouldsuddenly be whisked away in any direction. The latterpossesses a certain romantic appeal in that it offersspeed, unexpected sights, and free hands. Also, it is perfectly legal: and it is possible to navigate all over twocontinents in this manner, if one is possessed of sufficientwherewithal and gluteal stamina.

As is the case in all such matters, the practice diffusedupwards through the age brackets. School teachers whoonly drove on Sundays fell into disrepute as selling pointsfor used autos. Such is the way a world ends, said theentertainer.

End or no, the car designed to move on monitoredhighways is a mobile efficiency unit, complete withlatrine, cupboard, refrigerator compartment and gamingtable. It also sleeps two with ease and four with somecrowding. On occasion, three can be a real crowd*

Render drove out of the dome and into the marginalaisle. He halted the car.

"Want to jab some coordinates?" he asked.

"You do it. My fingers know too many."

Render punched random buttons. The Spinner movedonto the highway. Render asked speed of the vehiclethen, and it moved into the high-acceleration lane.

The Spinner's lights burnt holes in the darkness. Thecity backed away fast; it was a smouldering bonfire onboth sides of the road, stirred by sudden gusts of wind,hidden by white swirlings, obscured by the steady fall ofgray ash. Render knew his speed was only about sixtypercent of what it would have been on a clear, dry night.

He did not blank the windows, but leaned back andstared out through them. Eileen "looked" ahead intowhat light there was. Neither of them said anything forten or fifteen minutes.

The city shrank to sub-city as they sped on. After atime, short sections of open road began to appear.

"Tell roe what it looks like outside," she said.

"Why didn't you ask me to describe your dinner, orthe suit of armor beside our table?"

"Because I tasted one and felt the other. This is different."