“Sometimes you have to show something baldly before people accept it as possible. There’s no trickery involved. We cancontrol the violent.”

“I also think you might consider using the electrodes to produce calm, sleepiness. We aren’t making blue movies, Charlie!”

Dr. Hodges cleared his throat, rising stiffly. “It was interesting, sure. But it’s not cost‑effective. The computer time. The hardware. A sufficient dose of psychoactive drugs would stop her violence as quickly.”

“Sam, listen–with a computer the size of a DEC PDP‑10 here you could monitor the outputs from every patient in this whole zoo! You have to administer tranquilizers several times a day. But this way, eventually patients will be cleared out, back to their families, back to keeping house, back to work, out into nursing homes. The state’s short of money and they put a lot of pressure on you to get them out through the revolving door. But then you get that fuss in the papers about patients being turned loose. Here’s your answer. After the initial outlay, Sam, the cost is more than competitive. Now you know, Sam, with the best wish in the world and all the hard work your staff puts in, you can’t cure that many. But with these new techniques, you can turn out real cures. Instead of a warehouse for the socially dysfunctional, you’ll be running a hospital. That’s why the legislature bought this project, Sam. That’s why you’ll buy it when the time comes.”

Dr. Argent sauntered toward the door, leaving the others to follow him. “Isn’t he persuasive, Sam? That’s how I found myself knee deep in this gadgetry.”

“Nonsense,” Redding said, but softly. “Now that you’re retiring, you want in to the most exciting project to come down the pike in years. You always wanted to make history, Chip.”

“Hmmm,” Dr. Argent said, and they all went out.

Above the general uproar of the war Connie spoke to Sybil. “They’re going to put a machine in our heads?”

“Poor Alice!” Sybil shook her head. “She must be humiliated! Imagine playing up to that fascist because he presses a button.”

“I don’t want that done to me!” Connie’s voice scooted up with fear. She cleared her throat. “There must be a way to stop them. If only my niece would come!”

Thursday evening she called for Luciente. She could not sleep and they weren’t allowed to talk after lights out. Nothing happened. She tried again. She pushed blindly in the direction of Luciente, wanting desperately to talk to her, to tell her what was happening. Maybe they’d know what this business of radios in the brain, needles and control, meant and how to fight it. For a moment she felt something, a sense of a person surprised, groggy and excited at once on some kind of drug, it felt like. For an instant she saw a plastic deck lit from below, under a clear dome with nothing outside but strange yellow fog. Women with their legs painted all over in what looked like layers and layers of enamel that shone and glittered as they very carefully moved, posed in awkward one‑legged positions like storks, managing small hookahs and bright vials. Men in silver uniforms. All white faces. Panic. Theirs? Hers? Then she felt Luciente and she was back in her bed and reaching. She felt Luciente sluggishly respond and also somebody else.

“Be guest,” said a throaty voice. It was not the presence of a moment ago. And she did still feel Luciente.

“Connie, my rose,” Luciente said weakly, “I can’t handle you tonight. But I’m holding till Parra takes over. Open your mind to per. Parra will send tonight if you’d like to come through.”

“Are you sick, Luciente?”

“No, don’t worry. Let Parra send.”

It took ten minutes and a nauseating time of drifting, while she had strong flashes of the stork women, before she stood in the meetinghouse. It felt like a different building. Ten people were sitting in a small room around a doughnut‑shaped table, about half from Luciente’s family. She noticed Hawk, Barbarossa, Jackrabbit, and Sojourner. The person with the deep voice who had brought her through bumpily was a short, plump young woman. Although Parra looked strong enough to carry her up a flight of stairs, they were roughly the same size and complexion. Parra had short dark hair and a broad face. On her left arm she wore an armband with a rainbow worked of beads.

Bolivar seemed tense, sitting with his head in his hands, staring from gray eyes that burned bloodshot. Luciente sat bunched tight across the circle from him. Her hands crouched on the table before her, the knuckles like miniature snowcapped mountains. Luciente flashed a tenuous smile at her and wiped her forehead.

“I’m people’s judge for Mouth‑of‑Mattapoisett this year, and tonight I’m refereeing,” Parra said.

“This is a game?”

“No, we’re having a worming.” Parra turned to the table. “Do easercises while I explain. You look as if you could use relaxing.”

Around the doughnut table all begun to murmur a sort of chant–making no effort to do it in unison–eyes shut, faces tilted slightly backward and then forward.

“Luciente and Bolivar have not been communing. Meshing badly. Sparks and bumps. Tonight we try to comprend that hostility and see if we can defuse it.”

“Aren’t people allowed to dislike each other?”

“Not good when they’re in the same core. Jackrabbit is close to both. Such bumping strains per. They compete for Jackrabbit’s attent. They are picky toward each other’s ways. We have critted them for it before, but matters lift only briefly. When they crit each other, it does not hold up under scrutiny as honest–but self‑serving.” Parra smiled wryly.

“Suppose after a worming they still can’t stand each other?”

“Jackrabbit may choose to see neither for some time. Both may be sent into temporary wandering. We may impose invisibility. We resort to that after bad quarreling. Or sometimes when people cease to be sweet friends, one feels bitterness.” Parra looked into her face with eyes that reminded her of Luciente’s. In old earth she’d have thought them related. She felt a brief glimmer of hope that such a resemblance might make Parra sympathetic to Luciente. “We put a mother‑in‑law taboo on–drawn from old‑time practice? Persons aren’t allowed to speak for two months to or about each other. Such a time often releases bumping. Besides, it’s such a nuisance, frequently each longs to be done with it and speak to the other again. It becomes silly. That too helps.”

Connie grimaced. “Don’t you people have nothing to worry about besides personal stuff? Why should you care if Luciente and Bolivar like each other? What a big waste of those resources you all like to go on about!”

“First, they need not like each other to behave civilly. Second, we believe many actions fail because of inner tensions. To get revenge against someone an individual thinks wronged per, individuals have offered up nations to conquest. Individuals have devoted whole lives to pursuing vengeance. People have chosen defeat sooner than victory, with credit going to an enemy. The social fabric means a lot to us. In childhood we all learn a story about how an anthropologist asked a Pawnee to define bravery. Person said that White Cloud was the bravest individual person had ever known because when Laughing Bear slandered per, White Cloud had given Laughing Bear a horse. How is that brave? asked the anthropologist. The Pawnee said, But it was White Cloud’s only horse.”

Around the table everyone was stretching, sitting back.

“The community is precious. That’s what you’re saying.”

“Just so.” Parra nodded, grinning.

“You’re a judge? Can you hang a sentence on them?”

“Tonight I’m referee. Here to make sure the group crits each justly. I can point out injustice. Watch for other tensions that may surface, clouding the issues, weighting the reaction. Someone not from this village must play referee.”

She frowned at this short, plump woman who called herself a judge. Younger than her and no more imposing, surely. “Is that what you mean by a judge? A referee?”