All of man's evolutionary struggle, and the women had assumed the climax, assumed all the past wrapped up in the end, usurped the effect, and thereby psychologically assuming also all the thousands of years of causation. For being held down, being made neurotic by frustration and the impossibility of being the "equal" of men, because they were fundamentally psychologically and physiologically different, women had taken to space with an age-old vengeance. Personal ego salvation. But they hadn't stopped there. What had they done? What about the men? A man for every woman, yet no men from Earth. That much Bowren knew. Native Martians? What? He had been transported somewhere in a car of some kind. He didn't bother to be interested. He couldn't get away. He was held fast. He refused to open his eyes because he didn't want to see the men who held him, the men who had replaced him and every other man on Earth. The men who were destroying the civilization of Earth. The gimmicks whereby the women had rejected Earth and left it to wither and die in neglect and bitter, bitter wonderment. He was tired, very tired. The movement of the car lulled him, and he drifted into sleep. He opened his eyes and slowly looked around. Pretty pastel ceiling. A big room, beautiful and softly furnished, with a marked absence of metal, of shiny chrome, of harshness or brittle angles. It was something of an office, too, with a desk that was not at all business-like, but still a desk. A warm glow suffused the room, and the air was pleasantly scented with natural smelling perfumes. A woman stood in the middle of the room studying him with detached interest. She was beautiful, but in a hard, mature, withdrawn way. She was dark, her eyes large, liquid black and dominating her rather small sharply-sculptured face. Her mouth was large, deeply red. She had a strong mouth. He looked at her a while. He felt only a deep, bitter resentment. He felt good though, physically. He had probably been given something, an injection. He sat up. Then he got to his feet. She kept on studying him. "A change of clothes, dry detergent, and hair remover for your face are in there, through that door," she said. He said: "Right now I'd rather talk." "But don't you want to take off that awful--beard?" "The devil with it! Is that so important? It's natural isn't it for a man to have hair on his face? I like hair on my face." She opened her mouth a little and stepped back a few steps. "And anyway, what could be less important right now than the way I look?" "I'm--I'm Gloria Munsel," she said hesitantly. "I'm President of the City here. And what is your name, please?" "Eddie Bowren. What are you going to do with me?" She shrugged. "You act like a mad man. I'd almost forgotten what you men of Earth were like. I was pretty young then. Well, frankly, I don't know what we're going to do with you. No precedent for the situation. No laws concerning it. It'll be up to the Council."