Starbuck had heard about palace revolutions. It would be servants to the leaders, naturally. Let them bide their time, let them learn what they could of the Citadel and its Robots. "Servants," he said.
"Are you married?" The old woman, shamelessly bare to the waist on this hot day, smiled at them with a perfect set of false teeth which seemed laughably incongruous in her gaunt, seamed face. Her bare breasts were dry as parchment and hung, flat but pendulant, almost to her waist. From a distance she looked almost like a manikin, a leathery, humanoid robot.
"We are," Starbuck beamed.
But Diane said, "Certainly not."
The old woman cackled. "I believe the woman. In that case, you will live in these underground dormitories."
"Not in the City upstairs?" Starbuck demanded, disappointed.
"Not in the City, that is correct. Do not ask why, it is merely so. We work for the Robots and obey them, is that clear? Some day the only humans left on Earth will be Shining Ones, or so the Robots tell us. Then we will climb up into the light of day and take our rightful place, side by side with them. Meanwhile, we do as we are told."
"Are you satisfied, Harry?" Diane wanted to know. "The Robots make promises—and destroy our brothers."
"Our brothers?" Starbuck laughed. "You mean the people of the villages? Those, our brothers?"
"The Plague makes brother hate brother, but you're a fool, Starbuck. The Robots want that, this playing of human against human."