The trouble began in a seemingly trivial way. Connor had wanted to
speakto Rhoda, his wife, wished himself onto a trunk line and then
waited. "Dallas Shipping here, Mars and points Jupiterward, at your
service, "said a business-is-business, unwifely voice in his mind.
"My mind may have smaller scope outside the System but what's left of
itisn't cracking, Rhoda. " Working himself into a spasm of righteous
rage, he stalked out into the garden and tried to convince himself he
wascalmly studying the rose bushes' growth. But Sheila and Tony
Williamscame down the lane that skirted the garden and, as their eyes
movedhaughtily past him, his rage shifted its focus. He came back into
thehouse and remained in sullen silence.
But even this consolation did not last long. Why, Connor muttered
tohimself, did they have to wait for letters when telephone and
radiosystems could have eased their loneliness so much more
effectively?Because the paras did not need such systems and their needs
were theonly ones that mattered! His fingers itched to achieve something
moresubstantial than the work, now childishly routine, that he was
doing atthe factory. Just from studying Max he knew he could devise
suchworkable communication systems. But all that was idle
daydreaming--itwouldn't be in his lifetime.
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