d way to get over social
trauma once every seven-hundred eighty days.

"Shut it off, Kit. Kit, please."

The telio blared in a cheaply feminine voice, "Oh, it's a long way to
nowhere, forever. And your honey's not coming back, never, never,
never...." A wailing trumpet represented flight.

"They'll exploit anything, Kit."

"It's just a song."

"Turn it off, please."

Christopher Temple turned off the telio, smiling. "They'll announce
the names in ten minutes," he said, and felt the corners of his mouth
draw taut.

"Tell me again, Kit," Stephanie pleaded. "How old are you?"

"You know I'm twenty-six."

"Twenty-six. Yes, twenty-six, so if they don't call you this time,
you'll be safe. Safe, I can hardly believe it."

"Nine minutes," said Temple in the darkness. Stephanie had drawn the
blinds earlier, had dialed for sound-proofing. The screaming in the
streets came to them as not the faintest whisper. But the song which
became briefly, masochistically popular every two years and two months
had spoiled their feeling of seclusion.

"Tell me again, Kit."

"What."

"You know what."

He let her come to him, let her hug him fiercely and whimper against
his chest. He remained passive although it hurt, occasionally stroking
her hair. He could not assert himself for another--he looked at his
strap chrono--for another eight minutes. He might regret it, if he
did, for a lifetime.

"Tell me, Kit."

"I'll marry you, Steffy. In eight minutes, less than eight minutes,
I'll go down and get the license. We'll marry as soon as it's legal."

"This is the last time they have a chance for you. I mean, they won't
change the law?"

Temple shook his head. "They don't have to. They meet their quota this
way."

"I'm scared."

"You and everyone else in North America, Steffy."

She was trembling against him. "It's cold for June."

"It's warm in here." He kissed her moist eyes, her nose, her lips.

"Oh God, Kit. Five minutes."

"Five minutes to freedom," he said jauntily. He did not feel that way
at all. Apprehension clutched at his chest with tight, painful
fingers, almost making it difficult for him to breathe.

"Turn it on, Kit."

* * * * *

He dialed the telio in time to see the announcer's insincere smile.
Smile seventeen, Kit thought wryly. Patriotic sacrifice.

"Every seven-hundred eighty days," said the announcer, "two-hundred of
Center City's young men are selected to se