Members of groups—even members of the governing council itself—found themselves unable to make any but the most minor decisions. Precedent dictated each move. And precedent developed into iron-hard tradition.
In fact, Stan thought, the culture seemed now to be completely self-controlled—self-sustaining. The people were mere cells, who conformed—or were eliminated.
Again, he picked up the book, looking casually through its pages. Detail was unimportant here. There was, he realized with a feeling of frustration, only a sort of dull pattern, with no significant detail apparent.
He awoke a little groggily, looked around the cell, then jumped hastily out of his bunk. Usually he was awake before the bell rang.
Pete Karzer was coming back from the washstand. He looked over.
"You up, Graham?" he said in his whispery voice. "Hey, you know I'm getting out this morning. Guess you'll want to swap blankets again, huh?"
"That's right, too. No use turning in a good blanket, is there?"
"Don't make sense." Pete massaged the back of his neck.
"Never could figure that swap," he said. "Don't get me wrong, it was real good, being able to sleep warm, but you caught me good when I tried to swipe that blanket of yours. Ain't never seen a guy move so quick. And I ain't so dumb I don't know when I'm licked." He grinned ruefully.