at an exit near the southern edge of the city. As I was about to direct the car along a route that would take me nearer my own tower, my hand froze above the panels. I couldn’t go home now, couldn’t bear the thought of facing Mother again. I could stay in a dormitory for a little while, but the counselors there would urge me to find my own rooms soon, if I didn’t plan to go home.
Then I saw where the car had stopped. I got out and left the tunnel. I was standing on a brightly lit street just south of the towers. A few young women had gathered across the way to talk; through a window behind them, I could see several women of various ages around a table, sharing an evening meal. Along the street, on tables outside the small, square buildings, a few wares were still being displayed. I passed tables filled with pieces of embroidery, jewelry made of metal, enamel, or bright gems, glazed pottery shaped by hand, and woven cloth. A girl behind a table laden with candies and other sweets called out to me, but I walked on, having nothing to trade for her wares.
I was among those we served, those over whom the Mothers of the City watched. Here a girl could grow to maturity in a household of women, could pursue what art or craft she liked. When it was time to have her children, she would go to the wall and, with the advice of a geneticist, choose a man’s seed based on his characteristics and traits. She would never have to call a man to the wall or communicate with him over a mindspeaker. She would never have to think of the outside or concern herself with what lay out there. Whatever children she had would be daughters; she would never have to bear a son and take him to the wall. She would grow old among a community of women, a house filled with others like herself.
Theirs was a carefree, placid life, and yet it was possible only because of what my kind did. My friends and I had lived among such girls in the dormitories; we had learned how to cooperate and to share, while they had learned how to live outside their close, affectionate households for a time. I had made friends with a few such girls, had encouraged those who seemed curious or quick to work at the lessons through which, if a girl shows promise, she can win a place among the Mothers of the City. Now, as I glanced at their smiling faces and heard their cheerful babble, I wondered why any of them would want to be like us.
For a moment, it seemed that the punishment of being sent here to live as one of these women might in fact be a blessing. But even they would scorn a disgraced woman. I could not become one of them; I was condemned to be what I was.
I came to a playground below the towers overlooking this part of the city. I was near Zoreen’s rooms. I hurried along the playground’s winding path and came to her tower’s entrance. Zoreen had chosen to live here, as far from the city’s center as she could move.
Her rooms were at the top of this tower. She lived alone, and no one was with her that evening. She seemed surprised to see me as I entered and watched me without expression as I crossed the room, then said, “Whatever brings you here?”
“I had a fight with my mother.”
She cleared a space among the papers and books on her couch so that I could sit down. “Can’t say I’m surprised,” she said. “I know she’s had problems lately.”
I told her a little of what had happened as she gazed at me impassively. “I can’t live with Shayl now,” I finished, “and I really don’t feel like going home.”
“Shayl always was stodgy.”
“I don’t know what to do, Zoreen.”
“There’s always a dorm.”
“They won’t let me stay long, not at my age. I don’t want to go through all this with an adviser.”
“They’ll find a set of rooms for you. You can always live alone, as I do.” Her mouth twisted. I had never known whether Zoreen had chosen to live by herself, or if she had been unable to find anyone to share her rooms.
“I
Then I saw where the car had stopped. I got out and left the tunnel. I was standing on a brightly lit street just south of the towers. A few young women had gathered across the way to talk; through a window behind them, I could see several women of various ages around a table, sharing an evening meal. Along the street, on tables outside the small, square buildings, a few wares were still being displayed. I passed tables filled with pieces of embroidery, jewelry made of metal, enamel, or bright gems, glazed pottery shaped by hand, and woven cloth. A girl behind a table laden with candies and other sweets called out to me, but I walked on, having nothing to trade for her wares.
I was among those we served, those over whom the Mothers of the City watched. Here a girl could grow to maturity in a household of women, could pursue what art or craft she liked. When it was time to have her children, she would go to the wall and, with the advice of a geneticist, choose a man’s seed based on his characteristics and traits. She would never have to call a man to the wall or communicate with him over a mindspeaker. She would never have to think of the outside or concern herself with what lay out there. Whatever children she had would be daughters; she would never have to bear a son and take him to the wall. She would grow old among a community of women, a house filled with others like herself.
Theirs was a carefree, placid life, and yet it was possible only because of what my kind did. My friends and I had lived among such girls in the dormitories; we had learned how to cooperate and to share, while they had learned how to live outside their close, affectionate households for a time. I had made friends with a few such girls, had encouraged those who seemed curious or quick to work at the lessons through which, if a girl shows promise, she can win a place among the Mothers of the City. Now, as I glanced at their smiling faces and heard their cheerful babble, I wondered why any of them would want to be like us.
For a moment, it seemed that the punishment of being sent here to live as one of these women might in fact be a blessing. But even they would scorn a disgraced woman. I could not become one of them; I was condemned to be what I was.
I came to a playground below the towers overlooking this part of the city. I was near Zoreen’s rooms. I hurried along the playground’s winding path and came to her tower’s entrance. Zoreen had chosen to live here, as far from the city’s center as she could move.
Her rooms were at the top of this tower. She lived alone, and no one was with her that evening. She seemed surprised to see me as I entered and watched me without expression as I crossed the room, then said, “Whatever brings you here?”
“I had a fight with my mother.”
She cleared a space among the papers and books on her couch so that I could sit down. “Can’t say I’m surprised,” she said. “I know she’s had problems lately.”
I told her a little of what had happened as she gazed at me impassively. “I can’t live with Shayl now,” I finished, “and I really don’t feel like going home.”
“Shayl always was stodgy.”
“I don’t know what to do, Zoreen.”
“There’s always a dorm.”
“They won’t let me stay long, not at my age. I don’t want to go through all this with an adviser.”
“They’ll find a set of rooms for you. You can always live alone, as I do.” Her mouth twisted. I had never known whether Zoreen had chosen to live by herself, or if she had been unable to find anyone to share her rooms.
“I
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