O Pioneer!

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Evesham Giyt’s mailing address was care of the Bal Harbor Residential Park, but he didn’t use the address much. He practically never received any mail. He didn’t expect to. He didn’t even have a terminal, at least not one that anybody knew about. Certainly not one that had his name on it. Anyway, there wasn’t anybody he’d ever known whom he had any interest in keeping in touch with. He had no living relatives. He had not retained any old friends.

Even if he had, Bal Harbor wasn’t the kind of place you’d especially want people to know you were living in. Located in the industrial fringe of Wichita, Kansas, it looked more like a district of broken-down warehouses than anything you would call residential. About the only time Giyt mentioned that Bal Harbor was his home was when he was applying for a job as a bug-killer. That happened only when his money began to run out—maybe three or four times a year. That was because he had no choice, since employers always wanted to know where you lived. In this one rare case Giyt found that it was easier to tell the truth than to fake something.

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