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of some sort, trapped down here? Carried down by the elevator?
    Jason Dill shivered, hesitated, and then went on.

CHAPTER FOUR
    From Unity records, William Barris had obtained the address of Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Pitt. It did not surprise him to discover that the Pitts—now just Mrs. Pitt, he realized soberly—had a house in the expensive and fashionable Sahara region of North Africa. During the war that part of the world had been spared both hydrogen bomb explosions and fallout; now real estate there was priced out of the reach of most people, even those employed by the Unity system.
    As his ship carried him from the North American landmass across the Atlantic, Barris thought, I wish I could afford to live there. It must have cost the man everything he had; in fact, he must have gone into debt up to his neck. I wonder why. Would it be worth it? Not to me, Barris thought. Perhaps for his wife . . .
    He landed his ship at the fabulously illuminated Proust Field runways, and shortly thereafter he was driving by commercial robot taxi out the twelve-lane freeway to the Golden Lands Development, in which Mrs. Pitt lived.
    The woman, he knew, had been notified already; he had made sure that he would not be bringing her the first news of her husband’s death.
    On each side of the road, orange trees and grass and sparkling blue fountains made him feel cool and relaxed. As yet there were no multiple-unit buildings; this area was perhaps the last in the world still zoned for one-unit dwellings only. The limit of luxury, he thought. One-unit dwellings were a vanishing phenomenon in the world.
    The freeway branched; he turned to the right, following the sign. Presently SLOW warnings appeared. Ahead he saw a gate blocking the road; astonished, he brought his rented taxi to a halt. Was this development legally able to screen visitors? Apparently it was; the law sanctioned it. He saw several men in ornate uniforms—like ancient Latin American dictator garb— standing at stopped cars, inspecting the occupants. And, he saw, several of the cars were being turned back.
    When the official had sauntered over to him, Barris said in a brusque voice, “Unity business.”
    The man shrugged. “Are you expected?” he asked in a bored tone.
    “Listen,” Barris began but the man was already pointing back at the through freeway. Subsiding, Barris said with great restraint, “I want to see Mrs. Arthur Pitt. Her husband was killed in the line of duty and I’m here expressing official regrets.” That was actually not true, but it was near enough.
    “I’ll ask her if she wishes to see you,” the uniformed man, heavy with medals and decorations, said. He took Barris’ name; the fact that he was a Director did not seem to impress him. Going off, he spent some time at a portable vidscreen, and then he returned with a more pleasant expression on his face. “Mrs. Pitt is willing to have you admitted,” he said. And the gate was drawn aside for Barris’ rented taxi to pass.
    Somewhat disconcerted by the experience, Barris drove on. Now he found himself surrounded by small, modern, brightly colored houses, all neat and trim, and each unique; he did not see two alike. He switched the automatic beam, and the taxi obediently hooked in to the circuit of the development. Otherwise, Barris realized, he would never find the house.
    When the cab pulled over to the curb and stopped, he saw a slim, dark-haired young woman coming down the front steps of the house. She wore a wide-brimmed Mexican-style hat to protect her head from the midday African sun; from beneath the hat ringlets of black hair sparkled, the long Middle Eastern style so popular of late. On her feet she had sandals, and she wore a ruffled dress with bows and petticoats.
    “I’m dreadfully sorry that you were treated that way, Director,” she said in a low, toneless voice as he opened the door of the cab. “You understand that those uniformed guards are robots.”
    “No,” he said. “I