Jack Kimble stiffened, looking at his interrogator with wary anger in his face. She went to her room and changed the loose morning gown in which she had lunched for a dark walking dress. His build was medium, he would never 5 tower over his peers, yet his shoulders were broadening, betrayed by an undeveloped set of pectoral muscles underneath his button-down shirt that she could tell frustrated him. He was a man who in all things classified without nuance, and for him there were in the matter of age just two feminine classes and no more—girls and women. And she, she in her own person too, was this eternal Bios, beginning again its recurrent journey to selection and multiplication and failure or survival.
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