The flesh in the furnace

Rhetoric has bored me for as long as I can remember."
        Trimkin grew taut, like a wire suddenly stretched, though his face remained impassive and his manner polite. "I'll be brief. Our organization is small but growing. Our purpose is to banish all art forms of alien origin and to nurture those arts which are indiginant to Earth. Since the Emigration, our cultural heritage has grown poorer. For the last two hundred years, Earth's painting has been a derivative of the work of off-world painters. Her music is pattered after that imported from Pino, Bleden and Treelight. All our culture is imitation, and we grow shallower year by year. The sensitive young people finally manage to Emigrate. And until Earth has her own rich culture, they won't return, and the younger ones will continue to leave when they come of age and make money."
        "Excuse me," Pertos said. "But I've already begun to let my mind wander"
        Color rose on Trimkin's cheeks. "I'll try to be more specific. Don't perform here. Pack your things and leave"
        Irritated, Pertos shook his head. "I have to eat, and I want to leave Earth. Both require money."
        "We could pay…"
        "How much?"
        "A thousand postals"
        "I'd make ten times that much in a week here, and still it would be a pittance!"
        "Ten thousand, then," Trimkin said.
        Pertos smiled grimly. "You would have bought me at a dishonest price if I had been witless enough to accept, eh?"
        Trimkin shrugged. Suddenly, his aristocratic bearing made Pertos feel angry, used. "If you want me off Earth so bad, why not just get the departure fees lifted for me?"
        "We haven't got many people in high office. And even our ranks are split on that issue. But some day we'll be able to do as you ask."
        "Well," Pertos said, "until you can, I'd thank you to stop bothering me with speeches."
        "Perhaps more than speeches are required," Trimkin said.
        "I'd advise against foolishness," Pertos warned. He withdrew a sleek pistol from his overcoat pocket. It was plainly not of Earth design, and no man there wanted to test it to see what results it might have.
        Trimkin and his companions looked at Sebastian who had just returned from the theater.
        "If you want to take on Sebastian, go ahead," Pertos said. "He isn't well educated, but he has other abilities that compensate for that. He moves slowly, but strikes hard. As for my equipment, the Furnace-which you have surely been considering-it's protected by an Olmesclan amoeba which is coded to Sebastian and me. Anyone else will find theft or vandalism quite painful"
        For half a minute they continued to confront each other.
        Blue lightning coursed across the low clouds, and the first fat raindrops began to fall.
        "We'll be to a performance or two," Trlmkin said. He nodded to both Pertos and Sebastian, then walked away, across the plaza. His companions followed like mute, synthetic creatures, though they were not.
        "Trouble?" Sebastian asked.
        "No more than usual. Come on. Let's get inside before the worst of this storm hits us."
        They ran up the steps of the side entrance to the Grande Theater in Blue, through the hexagonal crimson doors and under the roof of their haven for the following week.
        
        Sebastian could not sleep. It was not that he was afraid of the Heritage League-he had all but forgotten about them. It was just that he felt somehow unfinished for the day, as if he were hungry, though he was not.
        He left his mom and wandered away from Pertos' chamber. He passed empty actors' quarters, made his. way through storage vaults of old costumes that had been sewn and hung in anticipation of the lavish shows that would be performed when Earth's children returned from the stars. Many of them were rotted. In time, he crossed the boards and reached the footlights of the main stage. There, he looked out across the darkened hall at the empty seats.
        He wished there were people here.
        Perhaps that would make him feel better.
        He went on the floor and sat in the front row and tried to pretend he was watching a performance in the midst of a large audience. He smiled at those to either side of him. No one smiled in return.
        In the rear of the auditorium he found the stairs which led to the lightman's perch. He took them two at a time.
        Up there, he sat