the Dark Light Years by Brian W. Aldiss

being in the national interest; that Death could be turned to Financial Account by bequeathing one's body to Burgess's Body Chemicals; and that Gonorrhea was Out of Control, with a graph to prove it, by courtesy of the World Gonorrhea Year. There was also a smaller poster issued by minigag, the Ministry of Gastronomy and Agriculture, proclaiming that animal foods caused premature ageing and that man-made foods contained no toxics; the point was rammed deftly home by two pictures, one of an old man having a heart attack, one of a young girl having a synthash.
    Mercifully, most of this townscape was wrapped in a decent obscurity, since power cuts imposed semi-blackouts on the capital's gaiety every night.
    "Walking here, I can hardly think of walking on a different planet," Mrs. Warhoon said.
    "You certainly don’t get much sight of the universe here," Pasztor said, speaking above the snarl of engines.
    "In another two or three centuries, mankind will have a different outlook on life and the rules by which he lives. He will have digested the universe into his art, architecture, customs, everything. As yet we're adolescents. The city's our savage playground." She gestured at a shop window exhibiting one enormous motor bike, shaped like a system-ship and glittering like El Dorado. "It's a place where we undergo perpetual initiation rites, ordeals by fire, crowds, and gas. We aren't mature enough to deal with your ETA's.”
    With a shock. Mihaly thought, "My God, she's tight! We drank real wine and she's probably used to synthwine...." She went on talking, even when he clutched her arm so that she would not trip over the old newspapers blowing about their feet "We started wrongly with those creatures, Mihaly, by making them adhere to our rules instead of studying theirs. Perhaps the Gansas will find more of them and we will have another chance to make contact, on their terms.”
    "As yet we don't know what their terms are. Should we respect their inclination to live in their own waste pro-ducts? We could let them accumulate this - er, matter, as they seem disposed to do. You know I suggested that. But it is - well, it's malodorous, and poor old Bodley and his staff have to work in there with them....”
    He was glad to get her to the theatre.
    The play was a jolly send-up of the Cold War era. a non-musical version of West Side Story, played in quaint pre-World War III costume. Both Pasztor and Mrs. War-boon enjoyed it; but her mind kept drifting back to the prospect of making vacuum with the Gansas, so that in the interval Pasztor threw himself into the free-for-all struggle round the theatre bar rather than let her start another discussion. As they came out of the theatre at the end of the play, she insisted she must go home, and he competed with evening dresses and uniforms to cram into one of the sinkers that rose to connect with the district shuttle. It had rained during their incarceration, clearing the city air somewhat Drops of oily water splashed on them from the overhead rail; still Mrs. Warhoon stuck bravely to her subject "Do you remember Wittgenbacher's saying that our intelligence might merely be an instinct for space?”
    "I have thought about it," he said, elbowing forward.
    "Do you think I'll be following my instinct if I join the Gansas?”
    He looked at her, tall and still fairly slender, her eyes attractive over her mask.
    "What's wrong with you this evening. Hilary? What do you want me to say to you?”
    "You could tell me for instance whether I am going into deep space to integrate myself - to become matured away from my womb world and all that sort of thing - or whether I am doing it to flee from an unsatisfactory marriage I would be better employed mending.”
    A man in astrogator's uniform wedged behind her looked at her in sudden interest as he caught part of this remark.
    "I don't know you well enough to answer that," Mihaly said.
    "Nobody does." She spoke the words dismissively, smiling, for he had