But this was desirable, for the more specialists, the higher the degree of civilization. The ultimate should be the complete segregation of each specialization--social and genetic measures to make them breed true, because the unspecialized man is an uncivilized man, or at any rate he does not advance civilization. And letting the specializations mix would produce genetic undesirables: clerk-laborer or Professional-GI misfits, for example, being only half specialized, would be good at no specialization. And the basis of this specialization society was: "The aptitude groups are the true races of mankind." Putting it into law was only the legal enforcement of a demonstrable fact. "Evening, Cap'n." A bleary old inmate orderly stood up straight and touched his cap as O'Leary passed by. "Evening." * * * * * O'Leary noted, with the part of his mind that always noted those things, that the orderly had been leaning on his broom until he'd noticed the captain coming by. Of course, there wasn't much to sweep--the spray machines and sweeperdozers had been over the cobblestones of the yard twice already that day. But it was an inmate's job to keep busy. And it was a guard captain's job to notice when they didn't. There wasn't anything wrong with that job, he told himself. It was a perfectly good civil-service position--better than post-office clerk, not as good as Congressman, but a job you could be proud to hold. He _was_ proud of it. It was _right_ that he should be proud of it. He was civil-service born and bred, and naturally he was proud and content to do a good, clean civil-service job. If he had happened to be born a fig--a _clerk_, he corrected himself--if he had happened to be born a clerk, why, he would have been proud of that, too. There wasn't anything wrong with being a clerk--or a mechanic or a soldier, or even a laborer, for that matter. Good laborers were the salt of the Earth! They weren't smart, maybe, but they had a--well, a sort of natural, relaxed joy of living. O'Leary was a broad-minded man and many times he had thought almost with a touch of envy how _comfortable_ it must be to be a wipe--a _laborer_. No responsibilities. No worries. Just an easy, slow routine of work and loaf, work and loaf. Of course, he wouldn't _really_ want that kind of life, because he was Civil Service and not the kind to try to cross over class barriers that weren't _meant_ to be-- "Evening, Cap'n." He nodded to the mechanic inmate who was, theoretically, in charge of maintaining the prison's car pool, just inside the gate. "Evening, Conan," he said.