"But who is this Contract with?"

("It's 'whom,' ") Pard interjected. Silence!

"Tolive," El replied.

"You mean the Tolivian government?"

"No, the planet itself. We declared our planet a person, just as corporations were declared legal entities many centuries ago."

"But why the planet?"

"For the sake of immutability. In brief: All humans of sound mind must sign the Contract within six months of their twentieth birthday—an arbitrary age; they can sign beforehand if they wish—or on their arrival on the planet. The Contract affirms the signer's right to pursue his own goals without interference from the government or other individuals. In return for a sum not to exceed more than five per cent of his annual income, this right will be protected by the agents of the planet—the police, courts, et cetera. But if the signer should inject physical coercion or the threat of it into any relationship, he must submit to the customary punishment, which we've already discussed. The Contract cannot be changed by future generations, thus we safeguard human rights from the tamperings of the fools, do-gooders, and powermongers who have destroyed every free society that has ever dared to rear its head along the course of human history."

Dalt paused. "It all sounds so noble, yet you make a dangerous drug like Zemmelar freely available and yon have stores that sell the most prurient, sick material I've ever seen."

"It's sold because there are people who want to buy it," El replied with another shrug. "If a signer wants to pollute his body with chemicals in order to visit an artificial Nirvana, that's his business. The drugs are available at competitive prices, so he doesn't have to steal to feed his habit; and he either learns how to handle his craving or he takes a cure, or he winds up dead from an overdose. And as for prurience, I suppose you stopped in at Lin's—he's our local pornographer. All I'll say about that is that I'm not for telling another individual how to enjoy himself ... but didn't you hunt up any other lit shops? There's a big one on the square that sells nothing but classics: from The Republic to No Treason to The Rigrod Chronicles, from Aristotle to Hugo to Heinlein to Borjay. And down on BenTucker Drive is a shop specializing in new Tolivian works. But you never bothered to look for them."

"The scene in the park cut short my window shopping," Dalt replied tersely. They ate in silence for a moment and Pard took the opportunity to intrude.

("What're you thinking?")

I'm thinking that I don't know what to think.

("Well, in the meantime, ask her about that tax.")

Good ideal Dalt swallowed a mouthful and cleared his throat "How do you justify a tax in a voluntary society?"

"It's in the Contract. A ceiling of five per cent was put on it because if a government spends much more than that, it's doing more than it should."

"But you don't even have any government to speak of; how does it spend even that much?"

"Federation dues, mostly: We have no army so we have to depend on the Fed Patrol for protection from external threat. The rest of the expenses go to the police, judiciary, and so on. We've never reached five per cent by the way."

"So it's not a completely voluntary society, then," Dalt stated.

"Signing the Contract is voluntary, and that's what counts." She ran her napkin across her mouth. "And now I've got to run. Finish your meal and take your time and think about what we've discussed. If you want to stay, Webst will probably be waiting back at the complex. And don't worry about the bill... it's on me today." She leaned over, brushed her lips against his cheek, and was gone before Dalt could say a word.

("Quite an exit,") Pard said with admiration.

Quite a woman, Dalt replied, and went back to eating.

("Still ready to take the first shuttle out of here?")

I don't know. Everything seems to fit together in some weirdly logical way.

("Nothing weird about it at all. It works on the principle that humans will act responsibly if you hold them responsible for their actions. I find it rather interesting and want to spend some time here; and unless you want to start the fiercest argument of our partnership, you'll agree.")

Okay. We'll stay.

("No argument?")

None. I want to get to know El a little—a lot!— better.

("Glad to hear it.")

And the funny thing is: the more time I spend with her, the less she reminds me of Jean.

("That's because she's really nothing at all like Jean; she's far more mature, far more intelligent. As a matter of fact, Ellen Lettre is one of the more fascinating things on this fascinating planet.")

Dalt's lack of response as he cleared his plate was tacit agreement. On the way out, his eye was caught by a golden seal on the door. It read: "Premises, kitchen, and food quality graded Class I by Nauch & Co., Inc." The date of the most recent inspection was posted below.

("I guess that's the Tolivian equivalent of a department of public health,") Pard said. ("Only this Nauch is probably a private company that works on a subscription basis. When you think about—")

Pard paused as a ground car whined to a halt before the restaurant and Dr. Webst leaped out. He looked relieved at the sight of Dalt.

"Glad I found you," he said as he approached. "I met Dr. Lettre back at the complex and asked her when you were coming back; she said she wasn't sure if you were coming back at all."

"That was a possibility."

"Well, look, I don't know what this is all about, but you must come back to the complex with me immediately."

Dalt stiffened. "You're not trying to make an order out of that, I hope."

"No, of course not. It's just that I've made some startling discoveries about you that may have great medical significance. I've doubled-checked everything."

"What are you talking about?" Dalt had a sudden uneasy feeling.

Webst grabbed Dalt's arm and guided him toward the car. "I'm babbling, I know, but I'll explain everything on the way over to the complex." He paused in mid-stride. "Then again, maybe it's you who should do the explaining."

"Me?" Dalt was genuinely puzzled.

"Yes. Just who or what are you, Mr. Dalt?"

VIII

"This is my psi pattern," Webst said, pointing to an irregular red line undulating across the viewscreen in his office. "It shows the low level of activity found in the average human—nothing special about my psi abilities. Now, when we focus the detector on you, look what happens." He touched a panel and two green lines appeared on the screen. The one at the lower end was very similar to Webst's and occasionally superimposed itself on it at certain points.

"That's what I expected from you: another normal pattern. And I got it... but what the hell is that?" He was pointing to the large, smoothly flowing sine-wave configuration in the upper part of the screen. "We have tried this out on thousands of individuals and I have never once seen a pattern that even vaguely approximates that, neither in configuration nor in amplitude.

"Whatever it is," Webst continued as he blanked the screen, "it seems to like you, 'cause it goes where you go. At first I thought it was a malfunction, that's why I brought you over to Big Blue, where we have another model. But the same pattern appeared as soon as you walked into the building—and disappeared as soon as you left. So, what have you got to say for yourself, Mr. Dalt?"

Dalt shrugged with convincing bafflement. "I really don't know what to say." Which was true. His mind raced in an attempt to give Webst, obviously an expert in psionics, a plausible but fictitious explanation. The machine in question was a fairly recent development of IMC research—it detected levels of psionic capacity, even in the nascent stage, and was planned for interplanetary marketing to the psi schools which were springing up on every planet. The current thrust of Webst's research was in the field of psionics and psychotherapy, so he took the liberty of screening for psi ability everyone who entered his office. He felt he had hit pay dirt with Dalt.