The Blast stepped in and slapped him, hard. John rocked back on his heels, clenched his fists, but did nothing. The Blast slapped him again, not quite so hard but with a great deal more deliberation. John bit his lip and dropped his eyes. "Yeah," he said. "Why don't _we_ act like human beings!" The second Blast, a shorter, heavier man, waved his companion away. "Easy, Farn. Don't let this Yorker get you." He turned to the two adolescents, something like pity in his brown eyes. "We'll let it pass, this time. But we've got you down on our photopads. The next offense means Re-education House." Neither boy said a word, but John's cheek burned and something in his chest burned even more. The conciliatory Blast hesitated; then said, "Why don't you boys come down to Composite Youth Center? We've got the latest vizios, athletic--" "We're members of Race-Through-God," John said, a quiet satisfaction in his voice. "The scroll says we can't be forced to attend CYC. Our master told us that. We go to meetings regularly." Farn, the Blast who had slapped John, whirled around and stamped back to the bubble. "C'mon, Stan!" he called. "This filthy slum sickens me!" Stan nodded, but lowered his voice to a confidential murmur. "You'll never get out of York, be issued a space visa, or do anything worth while if you stick to the race-church stuff, boys. You don't know what the Galaxy is like--the planets, the beautiful cities. It's really something. Just sign up for CYC. After that, you can qualify for Integration and meet some really beautiful ladies." "We got our own ladies," John said, sullen and irritated. And his emotions bothered him. He should be enraged, after the slaps and sacriligeous lecture; not irritated. "We don't want Integration." Stan shrugged wearily. "All right. So you'll stick in this archaic hole, and eventually try to kill one of us, and end up on a euthanasia table. And one day the Galactic Council will get fed up and clean out the lot of you." He turned to the bubble, speaking over his shoulder. "Watch your steps. Any gang fights, stealing, or profanity will get you six months. The Blasts in Re-education won't slap--they'll use electros on your fannies!" When the bubble went down the street and around the corner, Pete spat eloquently. John was still fighting his irritation, his vast sense of dissatisfaction, but he spat too, and said, "Man, I'd love to do a carve on all Outsiders!" "John!" a shrill voice called. "John, you getting into trouble again?" John turned light blue eyes to the left and looked at the ground floor window. "Oh, ease up, Ma! Can't an Aryan stand up to a foul-blood Outsider?" "John!" the gray-haired, prematurely-old woman screeched. Her eyes darted up and down the street and her voice dropped to an intense whisper. "Don't you use those words in public! A profanity charge is all we need, what with your father drinking--" John tried to interrupt, but she raised her voice again and shouted him down.