Disembarking the Airfloat at Parnassus Station, Lora climbs up the hill, flashes her Ident to the robot and elevates to her module. She spoons hot soy-veg soup from the dispenser, slurps and wonders about the guys who fill the dispenser twice a week. She’d like to talk to them, get to know them, thank them for their good work, but they probably have been told not to talk to residents. Oh well, she consoles herself, I’m lucky to have my privacy.

Relaxed, she picks up a small mirror and looks for spots and lumps on her face and breast—always the same brown eyes, same brown hair. Her nutrient intake is so spiked, she doesn’t seem to age. Aging is a disaster.

After a luxurious hot shower, she lights a rose-scented candle and slips into her silver nightgown. Stretching her body on the deluxe bed, she zones out in the plasma’s soft light—the best part of her day, no worries, no need for other people. Lately it’s a chore to click links to her Indoc Fellows. They don’t know she exists. They only think of themselves.

Arranging a pile of apricot colored pillows, she rummages for Fluffy, her poodle-dog doll, hugs it close, and hunkers down. Basking in the flickering light, she smiles to herself. She knows she isn’t alone. Everybody at FEDRA, and thousands of others, all of them dressed in silver gowns, are watching plasmas with her. She feels their heat. A six by nine plasma is all she needs.

This week the Newsies have everyone tracking the murder of nine-year-old Shirly. Roomfuls of workers at FEDRA have been tsk-tsking all day. Little Shirly, star of the serial Good World, was saucy, cute, and painted with flashy make-up. Shirly amused everyone. Parading around like a grown woman, her antics were adorable. Shirly’s mutilated body, found on the set, left no clues for the Thorities. Without clues, they were forced to suspect her Hugger.