?"

"_Especially_ when I'm casting, boy. What've you been getting at the
Temple school these days? Zen! I've been so busy on a special project
I've been working on, I haven't had time to keep check on whether or
not you're even still living here."

The boy shrugged, picked up an apple from the sideboard and began to
munch. His voice was disinterested. "Aw, Comparative Religion, mostly.
We gotta go way back and study about the Greeks and the
Triple-Goddess, and then the Olympians, and all that curd."

"Hey, watch your language, Sam. Remember, you're going to wind up a
priest."

"Yeah," the boy grumbled, "that'll be the day. You ever heard of a
Lower becoming a full priest? I'll be lucky if I ever get to monk."

Freddy Soligen sat down suddenly, across from his son, and his voice
lost its edge of good-natured humor and became deadly serious.
"Listen, son. You were born a High-Lower, just like your father.
Unfortunately, I wasn't jumped to Low-Middle until after your birth.
But you're not going to stay a High-Lower, any more than I'm going to
stay a Low-Middle."

The boy shrugged, his expression almost surly, now. "Aw, what
difference does it make? High-Lower isn't too bad. It's sure better
than Low-Lower. I got enough stock issued me for anything I'll ever
need. Or, if not, I can work a while, just like you've done, and earn
a few more shares."

Freddy Soligen's face worked, in alarm. "Hey, Sam, listen here. We've
been over this before, but may be not as thoroughly as we should've.
Sure, this is People's Capitalism and on top of that the Welfare
State; they got all sorts of fancy names to call it. You've got cradle
to the grave security. Instead of waiting for old age, or thirty years
of service, or something, to get your pension, it starts at birth. At
long last, the jerks have inherited the earth."

The boy said plaintively, as though in objection to his father's
sneering words. "You aren't talking against the government, or the old
time way of doing things, are you Papa? What's wrong with what we got?
Everybody's got it made. Nobody hasta--".

His father was impatiently waving a hand at him in negation. "No,
everybody doesn't have it made. Almost everybody's bogged down. That's
the trouble Sam. The guts have been taken out of us. And ninety-nine
people out of a hundred don't care. They've got bread and butter
security. They've got trank to keep them happy. And they've got the
fracases to watch, the sadistic