the architect said. “But she is a good girl. She would make a wonderful wife. Her desserts are excellent.” “As, I said, I am willing to give her a trial.” And so it was that Enheim’s daughter washed the feet of the architect, made him sweets, sacrificed her lips and even attempted to give him her heart, but he, who had so many of the opposite sex at his disposal, was anything but entertained—found her insipid and, in the end, determined that a marriage with the young lady would be a dull and unnecessary business. “I think being a bachelor is my destiny,” he said to the doctor. “But…” “The structure needs to be completed. She would be more useful putting her hands to good use instead of baking me cookies.” The next day Enheim informed his daughter that, at least for the present, she was to remain single. Trudy took her father by the hand. He leaned over and kissed her forehead, caressing her young face with his thick beard. Together they gazed at the structure before them—at the workers who were in the process of finishing the great dome with the fleshcrete of their recently accepted comrades—at the works near at hand, where others were queued up to be processed, transformed into building material.
