 What seems to be true about the world Rikud lives in?
Every day for a week now, Rikud had come to the viewport to watch the great changeless sweep of space. But ever since the engines somewhere in the rear of the world had changed their tone, from the steady whining Rikud had heard all twenty-five years of his life, to the sullen roar that came to his ears now, the feelings had grown. Rikud knew that something which he could not explain had entered the elder man's head for a moment, but it had departed almost before Chuls knew of its existence. Rikud, for his part, wanted to get back to the viewport and watch the one new bright star. Rikud often thought of his own death, still seventy-five years in the future, not without a sense of alarm. "You know," Rikud said, sitting up now, "the stars in the viewport are changing." The view had changed, and the strangeness of it made Rikud's pulses leap with excitement. Rikud couldn't remember, and he suddenly wished he could read Crifer's book on astronomy, which meant the same as stars. Something big and round, all grays and greens and browns, and something for which Rikud had no name. It seemed neatly sheered down the middle, so that on one side Rikud saw an expanse of brown and green, and on the other, blue. Rikud turned again to the port, where he could see nothing but an obscuring cloud of white vapor, murky, swirling, more confusing than ever. And besides, Rikud had the distinct feeling that here was something far vaster than the gardens, although all of it existed in the viewport which was no wider than the length of his body. For a whole week that view did not change, and Rikud had come to accept it as fact. A garden larger than the entire world, a garden of plants which Rikud had never seen before, although he had always liked to stroll through the world's garden and he had come to know every plant well. Rikud regretted that he never had had the chance to read that book on astronomy. If he, Rikud, walked from one part of the world to another, it was with a purpose—to eat, or to sleep, or perhaps to bathe in the health-rays. Now if the world had walked from—somewhere, through the vast star-speckled darkness and to the great garden outside, this also was purposeful.
 It's run by machines, and no longer run by people. There is no room for decisions.
 It's run by machines, and no longer run by people. There is no room for decisions.  Change never happens. It's a concept that's been erased.  Women and men are segregated, because they can't live with one another.  It's run by machines, and no longer run by people. They remember a time when they could make decisions, but no longer can.