"What are they doing?"
"Labor. They are making car parts. You know, for those high-end Mercedes things you marketing gurus love."
Friedman was only vaguely offended at being lumped in with his employer. He realized he had arrived in a vehicle as ostentatious as the man described. Except more so; Bigend had been almost too kind. The car barely made it through the narrow streets, narrowly missing pigs and donkeys and the occasional man on a bicycle, helmet almost never on.
"These men, they labor. They are only connected by their labor to your world. It is impersonal. But it is efficient."
"Can I try it?"
"No. You would hurt yourself."
He pressed the man, but he was adamant: "It is impossible."
After returning to his bed that night, draped in the ridiculous luxury of fabrics made for him, Friedman wondered what was wrong. Something, something, had to click.
But he drifted off before it would happen.
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