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the sounds with as much detachment as he could muster, until they drifted away into silence.
    Jaro sat in a state of bafflement. Without conviction he told himself that the sounds were no more than a minor nuisance which sooner or later would dwindle to nothing.
    This was not the case. From time to time Jaro continued to hear the woeful sounds. They wavered in and out of definition, as if originating in a place sometimes near, sometimes far. It was most confusing, and Jaro presently gave up any attempt at analysis.
    As time passed the sounds became more immediate, as if they were deliberately challenging Jaro’s composure. Often they intruded into his mind when he could ill afford the distraction. He thought to detect malice and hatred, which made the sounds frightening. Jaro finally decided that they were telepathic messages from an unknown enemy: an idea no less far-fetched than any other. A dozen times he started to confide in the Faths; as many times he held back, not wishing to excite Althea.
    Who could be causing such a dreary nuisance? The voice came and went without regularity. Jaro grew resentful; no one else suffered such persecution! It clearly derived from the occluded early years of his life, and Jaro made a resolve he was never to abandon: as soon as possible he would explore all the mysteries and learn all the truths. He would locate the source of the voice and release it from its torment.
    Questions marched across his mind. Who am I? How did I come to be lost? Who was the gaunt man who stood so dark and ominous against the twilight sky? His questions, clearly, would never be answered on Gallingale, so that only one course lay open. Despite the certain opposition of the Faths, he must become a spaceman.
    When Jaro thought these thoughts, he felt an eery tingling of the skin, which he took to be a presage of the future—whether for good or for bad he could not guess. Meanwhile, he must find a means to deal with the nuisance which had invaded his mind.
    As time passed, he found that the most effective strategy was simply to ignore the voice and let it drone on unheeded.
    Still, the voice persisted, as dreary as ever, returning at intervals ranging from two weeks to a month. A year passed. Jaro applied himself to his schoolwork and ascended the levels of Langolen School. The Faths provided him everything but what they themselves had renounced: high social status, which could only be gained by “striving” up through a series of ever more prestigious social clubs.
    At the tip of the pyramid the three Sempiternals maintained a precarious stability. These were the mysterious Quantorsi—so preferential that the membership was limited to nine—the equally exclusive Clam Muffins and the Tattermen. The Sempiternals were unique in that their members enjoyed hereditary privileges denied the common ruck. Next below were the Bon-tons and the steady old Palindrome. The Lemurians asserted equal status but were considered a bit recherché.
    To the ledges an iota below clung Bustamonte, Val Verde and the Sasselton Tigers. Claiming equal status were the Sick Chickens and the Scythians: both considered a trifle extravagant and hyper-modern. At the bottom layer of the “Respectables” (though indignantly asserting otherwise) were the four Quadrants of the Squared Circle: the Kahulibahs, the Zonkers, the Bad Gang and the Naturals. Each claimed preeminence, while half-jocularly deriding the deficiencies of the others. Each expressed a particular character. The Kahulibahs included more financial magnates, while the Zonkers tolerated unconventional types, including musicians and artists of a decent sort. The Naturals were dedicated to the refinements of decorous hedonism, while the Bad Gang included a contingent of top level Institute faculty. Still, all taken with all, there was little difference between any of the quadrants, despite the sometimes rather shrill claims to supreme status, and a few incidents of hair-pullings,