by Dave Dryfoos
plan and go, but if you don't spendthose tickets before their expiration dates, Mister, you'll have causeto regret it."
With a special pencil, he sense-marked the card's margins.
Fred felt that each stroke of the pencil was a black mark against him.He watched in apprehensive silence.
The young cop was also silent. When finished he wordlessly returned theidentification, tipped his cap, and swaggered off, his thick neck redabove his green collar.
Fred found he'd had more than enough of swaggering young men with beefyred necks. That added to his disgust with the constant struggle toproduce and consume, consume and produce. Vague, wishful threats frozeas determination: he absolutely wasn't going through any more of it.
He filed a flight plan that would return him to his home, and in duecourse arrived there.
The phone rang in his ears as he opened the cockpit. He didn't want toanswer, and he stayed on the roof securing the gyro and plugging in itsbattery-charger. But he couldn't ignore the bell's insistent clamor.
When he went downstairs and switched on the phone, George Harding'sround face splashed on the wall.
"Fred," he said, "when we talked a few hours ago, you forgot to say youwere sick. I phoned to confirm that for the Attendance Report. Did thiscall get you out of bed?"
He could see it hadn't. Therefore Fred knew he must be recording theaudio only, and not the video; trying to give him a break with theAttendance people and coach him on the most appeasing answers.
A well-meant gesture, but a false one. And Fred was fed up with thefalse. "I forgot nothing," he said bluntly. "I'm perfectly well andhaven't been near bed."
"Now, wait," George said hastily. "It's no crime to be sick.And--ah--don't say anything you wouldn't want preserved for posterity."
"George, I'm not going to play along with you," Fred insisted. "Thisbusiness of producing to consume and consuming to produce has got medown. It's beyond all reason!"
"No, it isn't. You're an excellent mechanical engineer, Fred, but you'renot an economist. That's why you don't understand. Just excuse me for aminute, and I'll show you."
He left the field of view. Fred waited incuriously for him to return,suddenly conscious of the fact that he now had nothing better to do withhis time.
George was back in less than a minute, anyhow. "O.K.," he said briskly."Now, where were we? Oh, yes. I just wanted to say that production is aform of consumption, too--even the production of machine-tools andlabor-saving devices. So there's nothing inconsistent--"
"What are you trying to do?" Fred demanded. "Don't lecture me--I know asmuch econ as you do!"
"But you've got to come back to work, Fred! I want you to use yourrations, put your shoulder to the wheel, and conform generally. Thepolicing's too strict for you to try anything else, fella--and I likeyou too well to want to see you--"
"I don't need you to protect me, George," Fred said stiffly. "I guessyou mean well enough. But goodbye." He switched off.
* * * * *
The silence struck him. Not a sound stirred the air in that lonely newhouse except the slight wheeze of his breathing.
He felt tired. Bone weary. As if all the fatigues of his eighty-sixyears were accumulated within him.
He stood by a window and stared blindly out. Everyone seemed to havebeen heckling him, shoving him around, making him change all his waysevery minute. He didn't want to change. He didn't want to be foreveradapting to new gadgets, new fads, new ways of doing things.
He thought of the villages of India, substantially unchanged for three,four, five thousand years. The villagers had no money, so they couldn'tbe consumers. Maybe they had the natural way to live. Statically. Also,frugally.
But no. It was too frugal, too static. He'd heard and read too muchabout the starvation, pestilence, peonage and other ills plaguing thoseIndian villagers. They didn't have life licked, either.
The Indians had not enough, the Americans, too much. One was as bad asthe other.
And he was in the middle.
He left the window he'd been staring from unseeingly and walked to thefoyer control-panel. There he pushed the button that would cause thehouse to rear a hundred feet into the air on its titanium-aluminumplunger.
Then he went back to the window to watch the ground recede. He felt ahand on his shoulder. He decided the sensation was an illusion--a partof his state of mind.
A young man's voice said, "Mr. Lubway, we need you."
That was a nice thing to hear, so Fred turned, ready to smile. He didn'tsmile. He was confronted by another ration-cop.
This one was a tall young man, dark and hefty. He seemed very kindly, inhis official sort of way.
"Mr. George Harding sent me," he explained. "He asked us to look you upand see if we could help."
"Yes?"
"You seem to have been a little unhappy this morning. Imean--well--staring out that window while your house rises dangerouslyhigh. Mr. George Harding didn't like the mood you're in, and neither doI, Mr. Lubway. I'm afraid you'll have to come to the hospital. We can'thave a valuable citizen like you falling out that window, can we?"
"What do you mean, 'valuable citizen'? I'm no use to anybody. There'splenty of engineers, and more being graduated every semester. You don'tneed me."
"Oh, yes, we do!" Shaking his head, the young ration-cop took a firmgrip on Fred's right biceps. "You've got to come along with me till youroutlook changes, Mr. Lubway."
"Now, see here!" Fred objected, trying unsuccessfully to twist free ofthe officer's grip. "You've no call to treat me like a criminal. Nor totalk to me as if I were senile. My outlook won't change, and you knowit!"
"Oh, yes, it will! And since you're neither criminal nor senile, that'swhat has to be done.
"We'll do it in the most humane way possible. A little brain surgery,and you'll sit in your cage and consume and consume and consume withouta care in the world. Yes, sir, we'll change your outlook!
"Now, you mustn't try to twist away from me like that, Mr. Lubway. Ican't let you go. We need every consumer we can get."
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from _If Worlds of Science Fiction_ September 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note.