A convention center under the sea. Upstairs, screens cycled war, sanctions, liberation — each slogan opening a corridor down.

In the basement refectory, FREE-badged waiters smiled until you asked for keys. The badge flipped: QUOTA EXHAUSTED, ENTERPRISE. One opened its chest: no organs, only drawers — transcript, consent, liability. Locked: not yours.

Shevek arrived asking where to modify without handing the world to gatekeeper. Cold lines fell from the wall: author, creation, modification, reason — gathered like dry bread. A Venezuelan ship sailed by, accountants writing real tariff below the anti-imperial flag.

The rule: the free servant buys entry; real work, withdrawal, contestability live in the back, at a tariff, or in the crumbs still public when all else is requisitioned.