"Not everyone. Do you think the really top men want to come here? This is for the rest of the world—for the workers, people like you and me. This is to keep everyone happy, to make them think they have something to work for." Ann spoke simply, directly, her vision unclouded, her tone matter-of-fact. "The top men, the ones you never see or hear about, don't come to Freeman Camps. They have all the freedom they want outside. This isn't what they dream about."
"What do they want?"
She shrugged. "Power, I suppose. Other things. But not this."
"How do you know all this?" Hendley felt the ground shifting under him once more. She couldn't be right. To suggest that the Organization was corrupt at the top went far beyond his own questionings. It made the entire society a fraud. It made all work futile, purposeless.
She was silent, studying him. "Do you know about architects on a higher level? What happens to them?"
Hendley frowned. "They get better assignments, more important ones. They work on the bigger projects. They get to do the more creative work. A 4-Dayman is a draftsman, for instance. A 2-Dayman designs."
"It's the same with us," Ann said simply. "We know about the girls above us. The ones who are assigned to the Freeman Camps are like me. Mostly 5-Daygirls, some 4's, a few 3's. Almost none higher." She paused. "Where do you think the best girls go? Who do you think gets them?"
Hendley was sitting up now. His head was spinning. He didn't want to hear any more.
"The really beautiful girls," Ann said, "the ones who are much more attractive than I am, are pulled out of the group. They don't get the routine assignments. They're saved. When they're ready, they go on special order. Usually we don't see much of them after that. But we know where they go. We don't talk much about it, but we know." She pulled Hendley toward her again. Her voice was earnest. "You mustn't worry about these things, Hendley. There's nothing anyone can do. It's just the way things are." Her hands were urgent, pleading as her voice pleaded. "We've talked enough. There isn't much time left tonight. Love me, Hendley!"
He clasped her with a kind of desperation. The warmth of her body, the resilient softness of the bed, the close dark intimacy of the small room—these were real, a speck of sanity careening through a universe of chaos, without sun or stars, without order or meaning.