Another damn ritual club was holding a parade through Trafalgar Square when the floater-cab carrying Dan AnMan and Hamilton Smith entered the traffic circle. Hamilton stared gloomily at the parade as the robot taxi changed lanes, neatly dodging the brightly clad celebrants.

“Bloody damn boring ritual clubs,” Hamilton muttered to himself. This one seemed to have a Middle Eastern theme, the marchers stepping along to recorded tambourines. Banners hung limply and the participants seemed scarcely more aroused than the onlookers. He couldn’t make out which club this was, though he recognized several individuals as frequent customers at the bank where he worked.

Hamilton remembered that his ritual club, the Loyal Order of Rockers, was supposed to hold a parade of their own next month. He wasn’t looking forward to getting into his twentieth-century motorcycle-gang attire, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it. A ritual hobby was one of the six avocations required by law for every citizen.

Hamilton looked at his assistant, the AnMan, who stared back with an android’s fixed, translucent smile.

“You’re sure this fellow we’re going to interview fits the criteria I set? I’ve only got a few hours this week to spend on my sociology avocation, Dan. I don’t want to waste it interviewing someone who’s just a statistical fluke.”

The AnMan’s voicebox buzzed reassuringly. He opened his valise. “If you wish, I can go over the data again, Hamilton. Of our random sampling, this man Farrell Cooper shows a level of satisfaction with his ritual club that is two standard deviations above average. I feel certain he fits the criteria.”

Hamilton was still uneasy. Although he was a fully licensed amateur sociologist, he didn’t like invading people’s homes to interview them. What if he interrupted this Cooper fellow while he was busy at one of his avocations? Or worse, at work on his Vocation?