“Did you see that blond bit on the Mort Walters show? The one that’s supposed to be a singer?”

“No.” Hutchman was fairly sure he had seen the girl in question, but he had no desire to get involved in a conversation — in any case, his viewing time had been brief. He had glanced up from a book and noticed an unusually pneumatic female figure on the screen, then Vicky had walked into the room and switched the set off. Accusation and disgust had spread like Arctic ice across her features. He had waited all evening for an explosion, but this time she seemed to be burning on a slow fuse.

“Singer!” Spain said indignantly. “It isn’t hard to see how she got on that show. I thought those balloons of hers were going to come right out every time she took a breath.”

What’s going on here? Hutchman thought.That’s exactly what Vicky said last night. What are they getting steamed up about? And why do they get at me about it? I’ve never exercised the droit du casting director.

“…makes me laugh is all the fuss about too much violence on television,” Spain was saying. “They never stop to think about what seeing all these half-naked women does to a kid’s mind.”

“Probably makes them think about sex,” Hutchman said stonily.

“Of course it does!” Spain was triumphant. “What did I tell you?”

Hutchman closed his eyes. This… this thing standing before me is an adult member of the so-called human race. God help us. Now is the time for all good parties to come to the aid of the men. Vicky gets jealous of electron patterns on a cathode-ray tube. Spain prefers to see shadows of the Cambodian war — those tortured women holding dead babies with the blue-rimmed bullet holes in their downy skulls. But would this charred sheet of paper in my pocket really change anything? I CAN MAKE NEUTRONS DANCE TO A NEW TUNE — but what about the chorea which affects humanity?

“…all at it, all those whores you see on the box are at it. All on the game. I wish I’d been born a woman, that’s all I can say. I’d have made a fortune.” Spain gave a throaty laugh.