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 THE OCCUPANTS of each floor of the hotel must as usual during the games form their 

own protective groups … .” Gosseyn stared somberly out of the curving corner window of his hotel room. From its thirty-story vantage point, he could see the city of the Machine spread out below him. The day was bright and clear, and the span of his vision was tremen- dous. To his left, he could see a blue-black river sparkling with the waves whipped up by the late-afternoon breeze. To the north, the low mountains stood out sharply against the high backdrop of the blue sky. 

That was the visible periphery. Within the confines of the mountains and the river, the buildings that he could see crowded along the broad streets. Mostly, they were homes with bright roofs that glinted among palms and semitropical trees. But here and there were other hotels, and more tall buildings not identifiable at first glance. The Machine itself stood on the leveled crest of a mountain. It was a scintillating, silvery shaft rearing up into the sky nearly five miles away. Its gardens, and the presidential mansion nearby, were partially concealed behind trees. But Gosseyn felt no interest in the setting. The Machine itself overshadowed every other object in his field of vision. The sight of it was immensely bracing. In spite of himself, in spite of his dark mood, Gosseyn experienced a sense of wonder. Here he was, at long last, to partic- ipate in the games of the Machine—the games which meant wealth and position for those who were partially successful, and the trip to Venus for the special group that won top honors.