Going over to the bed, Sebastian said, "What can I tell you? That you'd like to know?"

The old brown eyes, with so much hidden wisdom in them, so much experience, fastened on him. "I see that, like all other religions, mine has become a hallowed institution. Do you approve of it?"

Taken aback, Sebastian said, "I--don't think I'm in a position to judge. It has its followers. It's still a vital force."

"And Mr. Roberts?" The old eyes were keen.

Sebastian said, "Opinions differ."

"Does he believe Udi is for both whites and colored?"

"He--tends to restrict it to colored."

The eyebrows knitted; the Anarch said nothing, but he no longer looked tranquil. "If I ask you an embarrassing question," the Anarch said, "will you kindly give me a truthful answer? No matter how unpleasant it might be?"

"Yes," Sebastian said, preparing himself.

The Anarch said, "Has Udi become a Circus?"

"Some people think so."

"Has Mr. Roberts made efforts to locate me?"

"Possibly." His answer was guarded; this was explosive.

"Have you notified him of my--rebirth?"

"No," Sebastian said. After a pause he said, "Generally, an old-born is kept in a hospital for a time, and the vitarium solicits bids on him from relatives and friends. Or, if he's a public figure--"

"If he has no relatives or friends," the Anarch said, "and he is _not_ a public figure, is he put to death again?"

"He's made a ward of the state. But in your case, obviously you--"

"I would like you to ask Mr. Roberts to come here," the Anarch said in his hoarse, dry voice. "Since he will be in California on a pilg it won't be much trouble for him."

Sebastian pondered. And then he said, "I would prefer that you let us handle your sale. We're experts, Your Mightiness. We do nothing but this. I would prefer not to bring Ray Roberts here, or in fact give him any information about you. He's not the buyer we have in mind."

"Do you want to give me the reason?" The wise eyes again fastened on him. "Won't the Uditi care to put up the money?"

"It's not a matter of that," Sebastian said. He made a covert signal to Dr. Sign, who immediately came over.

"I think you should rest, Anarch," Dr. Sign said.

"I'll talk to you again later," Sebastian said to the Anarch. "I'm going out for a pipeful of sogum, but I'll be back again this evening." He left the work area and the Anarch, carefully maneuvered the door open and shut; however, Miss Fisher sat reading, engrossed.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," Sebastian said.

She glanced up, smiled, slid gracefully to her feet, stood facing him; she was relatively tall and very slender with extremely meager breasts; her figure, in fact, was that of a supple adolescent. But her face was sharp-etched and mature, with strong features. And again he thought, This is one of the best-dressed women I have ever seen. And clothes had never impressed him before.

After they had imbibed sogum they wandered along the evening street, looking in store windows, saying very little, glancing cautiously at each other every now and then. Sebastian Hermes had a problem. He still intended to return to his vitarium, to talk further with the Anarch, but he could not very well do it until he had parted company with Miss Fisher.

Miss Fisher, however, did not seem inclined toward the normal, customary moment of saying hello. He wondered why; as time passed it seemed more and more strange.

All at once, as they stood studying a window display of furniture made from Martian wobwood, Miss Fisher said, "What day is this? The eighth?"

"The ninth," Sebastian said.

"Are you married?"

He thoughtly briefly; one had to calculate carefully in answer to this question. "Technically," he said. "Lotta and I are separated." It was true. Technically.

"The reason I ask," Miss Fisher said, starting on, "is that I have a problem." She sighed.

It was emerging, now. Her reason for sticking so close to him. He glanced sidelong at her, once again noted her attractiveness, marveled at the amount of communication already achieved between them, and said, "Tell me. Maybe I can help."

"Well, see... just about nine months ago, there was this lovely little baby, named Arnold Oxnard Ford. You get the situation?"

"Yes," he said.

"He was so darling." Her lips pursed, babytalk-wise, motherly. "And he was there in that children's ward, in the hospital, and he was searching for a womb, and I was doing volunteer work of various kinds for the city of San Bernardino, and I was getting really terribly sick of it, the volunteer work, and I thought, Gee wouldn't it be wonderful to have a sweet little creature like Arnold Oxnard Ford inside my tummy." She patted her flat stomach as they walked aimlessly along. "So I went to the nurse in charge of the ward and I said, Could I apply for Arnold Oxnard Ford? And she said, Yes, you look healthy, and I said I was, and she said, It's just about time for him; he'll have to go into a womb--he was in an incubator already--and I signed the papers, and--" She smiled at Sebastian. "I got him. Nine months of having him day by day becoming more and more a part of me; it's a marvelous feeling--you have no idea-- how it feels to sense another creature, one whom you love, merging molecule by molecule with your own molecules. Every month I had an examination and an x-ray, and it was working out fine. Now, of course, it's really over."

"I wouldn't know to look," he agreed; there was no bulge.

Miss Fisher sighed. "So now Arnold Oxnard Ford is a part of me and always will be, as long as I live. I like to think--a lot of mothers think--that the babys spirit is still here." She tapped her black bangs, her forehead. "I think it is: I think his soul migrated there. But--" Again she made a face, wistfully. "You know what?"

"I know," he said.

"That's right. By the eleventh--the doctor says no later--I have to give up the final physical bit of him. To a _man_." She made a mocking, but not hostile, face. "Whether I like it or not, I have to go to bed with some man; as a medical necessity. Otherwise the process won't be complete and I won't ever be able to offer my womb for any other babies again. And--it's strange; for the last two weeks, even longer, I've been experiencing it as a drive, a biological urge. To sleep with some man; any man." She glanced at him perceptively. "Or does that offend you? It wasn't meant to."

Sebastian said, "Then Arnold Oxnard Ford will be a part of me, too."

"Does the idea appeal to you? I had pictures of him, but of course the Erads got them. Ideally, you should have seen him; if we had been married you would. But I've been told I'm very good in bed, so maybe you could enjoy just that part alone; would that be enough?"

He pondered. Again astute calculation was required. How would Lotta feel if she knew? Would she know? _Should_ she know? And it seemed strange, Miss Fisher selecting him this way, virtually at random. But what she said was true; mothers, nine months after a baby had entered their womb, became--in need. As Miss Fisher said, it was a biological necessity; the zygote had to separate into sperm and egg.

"Where could we go?" he asked artfully.

"My place," she offered. "It's nice and you could stay all night; you wouldn't get tossed out after it was over."

Again he thought, I have to get back to the store. But--this was, at this time, fortuitous. He needed the psychological lift; one woman--probably quite rightly--had abandoned him, and now another had fixed her attention on him. He could not manage to be anything else but flattered.

"Okay," he said.

Ann Fisher hailed a passing cab and in a moment they were en route to her conapt.

It struck him as beautifully decorated; he roamed about the living room, inspecting a vase here, a wall-hanging there, books, a small jade statue of Li Po. "Nice," he said. However, he found himself alone; Miss Fisher had slipped off into the other room to, ahem, disgorge.