Why not automate the cruelty? It would be so simple, wouldn’t it? The factories churn out their little robots to repair, to build, to engineer. Returns to a recurrent quandary that coats the innards of his mind like so much cold pragmatic plaque: A man or woman who lives in the sprawling shanty towns that pool beneath the mansions on their hills and prim estates.
The next jailer the Demographer will encounter will be one of 0.0000364% of humanity. But rather some officious brute, sneering and vicious, poised to wound so as not to feel alone or insignificant. His waiting hours are not filled with the anticipation of loved ones walking through his door. Was the H-word ‘House’ or ‘Home?’ He can’t recall. Before flowers, birds, colors seemed to shy away from all the weary eyes of humanity. The Demographer frowns, remembering the game he used to play. Who get to eat their meals with forks and spoons. Those scattered creatures who work the mansions and their grounds. Only the decimal point ever really changes.Īpartment. The result seems the same as all the others. He scans the stat sheet, scribbles another equation on the wall. His statistics are five years old, but for the purposes of the game, they will suffice. A Demographer sits down and plays a bastardization of a game in a tight metallic room with a ceiling that drips into a drain in the floor.
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