The small mouths opened and clear soprano voices filled the air: "It came upon the midnight clear, that glorious song of old, from angels bending near the Earth to tune their harps of gold. Peace on Earth, good will to men, from Heaven's All-Celestial. Peace to the Universe as well and every extraterrestrial.... Beat the drum and clash the cymbals; buy your Christmas gifts at Nimble's." "This beautiful walk you see before you," Carpenter said, waving an expository arm, "shaded by boogil trees from Dschubba, is called Broadway. To your left you will be delighted to see--" "Listen, could we--" Michael began. "--Forty-second Street, which is now actually the forty-second--" "By the way--" "It is extremely rude and hence illegal," Carpenter glared, "to interrupt anyone who is speaking." "But I would like," Michael whispered very earnestly, "to get washed. If I might." The other man frowned. "Let me see. I believe one of the old landmarks was converted into a lavatory. Only thing of suitable dimensions. Anyhow, it was absolutely useless for any other purpose. We have to take a taxi there; it's more than two hundred yards. Custom, you know." "A taxi? Isn't there one closer?" "Ah, impatient youth! There aren't too many altogether. The installations are extremely expensive." They hailed the nearest taxi, which happened to be one of the variety equipped with dancing girls. Fortunately the ride was brief. Michael gazed at the Empire State Building with interest. It was in a remarkable state of preservation and looked just like the pictures in his history--in his books, except that none of them showed the huge golden sign "Public-Washport" riding on its spire. Attendants directed traffic from a large circular desk in the lobby. "Mercurians, seventy-eighth floor. _A_ group Vegans, fourteenth floor right. _B_ group, fourteenth floor left. _C_ group, fifteenth floor right. _D_ group, fifteenth floor left. Sirians, forty-ninth floor. Female humans fiftieth floor right, males, fiftieth floor left. Uranians, basement...." Carpenter and Michael shared an elevator with a group of sad-eyed, translucent Sirians, who were singing as usual and accompanying themselves on _wemps_, a cross between a harp and a flute. "Foreign planets are strange and we're subject to mange. Foreign atmospheres prove deleterious. Only with our mind's eye can we sail through the sky to the bright purple swamps of our Sirius." The cost of the compartment was half that of the feeding station; one credit in the slot unlocked the door. There was an advideo here, too: