And the room was filled with a quiet voice: "You are unhappy here, O'Hara?"
The door was locked. The voice of the Father came again:
"I shan't insult you, O'Hara—these are not miracles. It is a simple contrivance. Doubtless you have it beyond the Curtain—electronic disks in the ceiling above you. I can hear you and see you, although I am some distance away in my own quarters. I was preparing to come to you when I heard you calling me. Are you unhappy?"
O'Hara said, "I am not unhappy, Father. I am—shall I call it restless? Caged!"
"I understand—you miss the illusion of choice. You are vastly more comfortable in that room than you were in your aircraft in the Arctic, and within those walls at least you have your liberty. An illusion, I insist—a matter of degree. Yet it is irritating to you, isn't it? I have a remedy for that—the stimulation of your mind. And in time you will achieve patience. There is work for you. While you were sleeping with your woman, I have considered a new concept for the Americas—interesting! The first development in a hundred years, O'Hara, and so delightfully simple that I cannot understand why I did not discover it before. You've seen what has happened to my people?"
"The Degraded?" O'Hara answered. "And the Sons?"
The Father's voice was silken. "Are there none beyond the Curtain who would change places with those you describe as the Degraded? Are there none in your world, O'Hara, as deserving of that ungracious term?"
"I am sorry, Father. I used a clansmen's word."
"And there is truth in it. The physiological facts are obvious. That is why I am vain about my Sons—the same stock, yet so perfectly trained that even you, I suppose, believe they have an intelligence superior to that of the masses."
"I have heard how they were selected as babies."