“Sorry,” said Lembeck. Accidentally his chair had ticked against his chief's.
Smollet was only a week past his thirty-first birthday. He was a B10 and had been for six months. Of course he'd been given credit for his Propaganda Corps Reserve time. Edith was not up on protocol and Smollet's age and rank bothered her. Smollet was a pretty fair slogan man, though.
A small pink card slapped out of the In slot and landed face down next to Lembeck's left hand. Absently, like a confident card player, Lembeck turned the punch card over. “Report 8:45 tomorrow (the twenty-fifth) for Termination Processing,” it read. “Wing 6 of the Pre-Termination Board, Hollywood & Vine, Greater Los Angeles, Sector 28. Thank you for the interest you've shown.”
Lembeck swallowed. “They can't fire me on a Wednesday,” he said.
“There was a memo to that effect last month,” said Smollet. “Are they?”
Lembeck held up the pink card. “I have to turn in all my cards, food and everything, and go back to the Employment Complex.” He had been with the Outdoor Bureau for seven years, since before his marriage.
“No sweat,” said Smollet. “They'll fix you up in no time. And after all, these days, nobody starves.”
That was a nice slogan. “Thanks for reminding me,” said Lembeck. “You're right.”
“Now that that's settled,” said Smollet, “let's get going on the quota. I'm going to have a hell of a time breaking in a new man and not slowing the stride of Cubicle 97.”
The other two men in the cubicle looked up and nodded sympathetically at Lembeck. Then everybody got going on the slogans.
***
The Pre-Termination Board was fully automated so it wasn't as embarrassing as it might have been. The last time Lembeck had been here, seven years ago, they'd had fac-human androids. Now everything looked like a machine. Except the doorman who, in keeping with an old robotics tradition, was made in the image of a proper English butler.
Waiting in the Card Surrendering Room foyer, Lembeck let himself loosen up a little. He stretched his legs and made fists of his hands a few times. Edith had taken it all pretty well. The Power Bureau had jumped the gun and cut everything off but Edith had rounded up some candles and they'd had a pretty romantic dinner. The pantry outlet had scrambled at midnight and nothing would come out but garbage so they'd skipped their midnight wafers. Edith was confident that the Employment Complex would do something nice for him this time.
Holding hands in the candlelit dining cubicle they'd even suggested to each other that someone had had Lembeck fired so that he could be switched to a better job. It did seem a possibility.
Edith had not had an Employment Card since four years ago when the clinical android at her office had decided she was pregnant. Their live doctor had disagreed but by that time the card was cancelled and the waiting list for married women in Edith's age and rank group was closed until such a time as conditions shifted. That was all right. Lembeck had never had a bad deal from the Employment Complex.
***
Things got disturbing over on Sunset in the Post-Termination Board offices. The big Temporary Food Card machine was making an odd whirring sound. Finally it said, “Lembeck, Lembeck, Arlen, Arlen.”
“Yes, sir?” Lembeck said, watching the bright gray machine. It was ten feet high and ten feet wide and, as he watched, the little brass plate with the manufacturer's name popped off and the four little zuber screws pinged on the imitation floor.
“Lembeck, Lembeck, Lembeck, Arlen, Arlen, Arlen,” said the Food Card machine.
“Yes, I'm right here. I was told to check with you people before I went over to the Employment Complex. So that I could have a Temporary Food Card until I am put through Pre-Indoctrination by my new place of employment. And then I have to get all my other cards here, too, and see somebody about getting my parking receipt validated.”
“Lemlen Arbeck Becklem Lenlem Beckbeck Lenlen Ararar,” said the machine.
“Arlen Lembeck,” corrected Lembeck.
Two more zuber screws popped out from some unseen place. “Follow the red line and your processing will continue.”
A throbbing scarlet line, six inches wide, appeared on the floor and snaked like downhill water for a door in the far wall. Once through it Lembeck found himself outside on Sunset Boulevard.
“It'll be okay,” he told himself. He put his timevox to his ear and it told him it was sixteen minutes from his appointment at the Employment Complex. And that was way down on Spring Street in Sector 54. He would have to come back to Post-Termination later. He reminded himself to ask somebody at Employment Complex about it.
***
It was the first time he'd seen an android cry. This one was in Re-Placement and looked something like an A10 with extra calorie allotments. Lembeck asked, “Nothing?”
“Look,” said the android, holding a sheaf of graphs up to Lembeck. It sniffed quietly. “Though less than human, Mr. Lembeck, I pride myself on having more than a human share of compassion.” Its wide unwrinkled head shook from side to side, deflecting the course of the tears. “Your aptitude tests are depressing.”
“Couldn't I take new tests? After all, those were done seven years ago when I was still a young man in my twenties.”
“No, no,” said the android, smoothing the graphs out on the desk. “These were made just today.”
“When? I've only been here twelve minutes.”
“That revolving door you came through is no ordinary revolving door.” The android nodded. “Take my word for it, Mr. Lembeck, if there's one thing we know about you with a certainty it's your aptitudes.”
“There must be something.”
“You see,” said the android, “the demand for ceramics is so small at present. Most authorities seem to agree that the Venusian imports are ceramic in nature. The balance of import and local products and the surplus storage factors involved in the output of Greater Los Angeles make chances pretty slim for anyone in the ceramics line.”
“But I'm a slogan writer. I was a B14 in Subliminal Outdoor,” said Lembeck. “I'm not a ceramicist. My job classification card will show that.”
“The cards in your case are still processing over in Sector 28,” said the android. “Besides the aptitude figures show that you're a ceramicist. You may feel some inclinations in other directions but we can't honestly put you into a new job where you'll be unhappy and frustrated.”
“I was happy for seven years as a slogan writer.”
“As you say, though, you entered that line at an early unformed age. Now, wiser and more mature, your real strengths and weaknesses shine through. You can be sure we'll keep you on file. Venusian imports may be only a fad.”
“Isn't there some temporary job?”
“You wouldn't be happy in an uncertain situation like that.”
“Well,” said Lembeck, “there's a problem in that I didn't get any temporary food cards and lodging cards and all the rest of the cards when I was at Post-Termination. Something went wrong and then it was late and I had to rush over here. I even had to pay for my own parking.”
“I don't believe,” said the android, “that anything can have gone wrong. If you wish to make another appointment to see Post-Termination I can get you the forms to fill out.”
“Fine. Could I get another appointment today?”
“You can't even get the forms until next week.”
“And the new job?”
“Possibly toward the spring if current trends remain constant.”
“What do my wife and I do till then? See, we don't have any food cards at all. She doesn't work at present and I had to surrender all my cards at Pre-Termination. So if…”
“Mr. Lembeck,” interrupted the android, “let me assure you. Nobody starves. I would suggest, considering the personal nature of your problem, that you consult the Therapy Wing over at Welfare Hub. They're out by the beach over in Sector 24. It's a pleasant drive out there since the rain's let up.”
“Thanks,” sai
d Lembeck, standing up.
“Would you mind leaving by the side door? If you go back through the revolving door that'll produce another aptitude test. One more like this will depress me even more.”
Lembeck used the side door.
***
Therapy was closed for alterations and the Information Booth in the Welfare Hub's Alternate Lobby suggested that Lembeck try the Motor Club of Southern California.
“The Motor Club?”
“Oops, oops,” said the booth. “Sorry, Mr. Lembeck. Correcting. With your problem you had best see the Abraham Lincoln, Etc. Handout Kitchen in Sector 54, down on Central Street. They'll give you a food bundle and a good word until you get on your feet again.”
“Thank you.”
“No trouble. They have lots of road maps.”
***
All the androids at the Abraham Lincoln, Etc. Handout Kitchen had beards. According to a sign in the Waiting Room today's special was veal wafers.
“Welcome, son,” said a whiskered android. “In the name of Abraham Lincoln, Theodore Roosevelt, Warren Gamaliel Harding, Barry Goldwater and 17 Latter-Day Great Americans let me welcome you.” He handed Lembeck a nine by twelve punch hole sheet of blue paper and a pen, which was chained to his wrist. “Sign that and your package of nourishing food will be handed to you with the sincere best wishes of a group of citizens who, although they are too proud to let themselves sink down to poverty and too energetic not to rise to A rank, nevertheless take pity on those unfortunates who are lazy and indigent and, in many cases, just don't want to work for their bread or, as is the case today, veal wafers.”
Lembeck read the paper over. “This says I swear under threat of criminal prosecution that I have never cadged a meal from the Abraham Lincoln, Etc. Handout Kitchen before and won't ever come whining back here again,”
“It's our way of teaching you to do and dare, risk and rise, stand and deliver,” said the android. “Sign by the little X's.”
Lembeck hadn't eaten since the night before and it was now nearly dusk. He signed.
***
Two days later Lembeck had to divorce his wife. He and Edith still loved each other. In fact, the candlelight suppers had brought them closer together. But the Real Estate Council had evicted them from their two-room apartment on the twenty-sixth floor of the Zanuck-Sahara Building and before Edith could move back in with her mother she had to be legally divorced from Lembeck. Living with her mother seemed to be the only way to get immediate food for Edith, The Abraham Lincoln, Etc. Handout Kitchen must have circulated Lembeck's name on their daily ne'er-do-well lists. When he went to a Food Dole Shelter two IBM machines blacked his eye and tossed him out. The Post-Termination Board gave him an appointment a month hence for a pre-interview to reconsider his request for a Temporary Food Card. The only thing that had come off smoothly and quickly was the divorce.
After that Edith was able to sneak food to Lembeck once a day. Her mother, though, was on a Pensioner's Low Calorie Food Allotment and even with an Incompetent Dependent Food Card in the offing for Edith there wasn't much chance of a lot of food coming out of the pantry outlet at Edith's mother's.
From an unemployed TV writer, with whom he had been ejected from a Down-But-Not-Out One Night Sleep Hostel, Lembeck learned that the Adopt A Misfit Center might help him.
“You mean I can get a job with them?”
“No,” said the ex-TV writer, guiding Lembeck into a thin slit of an alley that was policed by an android cop with a defective tube that made him night blind. “Here. We can sleep here tonight.”
“I've been sleeping in my car,” said Lembeck, settling clown on some weeds, “but the Great Los Angeles Credit Authority took it back a couple days ago. Because I missed my regular $38.01 payment. If I'd had my savings account I could have done something. It turns out I forgot to send in my monthly statements saying that I wasn't planning to withdraw the money. They've been taking out a service charge of eight dollars and so the savings are gone.”
“You're going to be perfect for the Adopt A Misfit Center.”
“But not for a job?”
“No. Childless couples go there to adopt whatever they want. Not everyone wants a troublesome little kid. There are those who prefer maturity. When I was on top I adopted six 50-year-old men just to bounce my ideas off of. Those days we had a big six room place in the Benedict Canyon sector of Greater LA.”
“Somebody would want to adopt a thirty-four-year-old ex-slogan writer?”
“Maybe,” said the ex-writer, leaning back against the slick wall of the building. “Me, they didn't want. Ex-TV-writers depress people.”
“I'll make an appointment,” said Lembeck.
That night he dreamt of wafers.
***
The day before Lembeck visited the Adopt A Misfit Center an A2 couple from the Palm Springs sector of Greater Los Angeles had come in and adopted a 43-year-old ceramicist. That meant there would be a 30-day waiting period before Lembeck's application could be considered. The lobby of the Misfit Center did give him a cup of near-coffee and two donut wafers and that took care of the food problem for another day. That was Tuesday.
On Wednesday Lembeck got by on the food Edith slipped him. Thursday an A5 dropped a 20 calorie coupon in Lembeck's hand in front of a Martian style foodmart and Lembeck went in and had twenty calories worth of something thick and light blue. He now weighed fifteen pounds less than his usual one hundred fifty and his beard had filled out. The rest of the week he tried making the rounds of Termination Boards and welfare outlets again in hope of getting an earlier appointment. All he got was a small red punch card listing him as a Chronic Malcontent. He had to carry the card with him at all times or pay a fine.
On Sunday, Lembeck found the All-Purpose Automatic Religious Center. It had never occurred to him to turn to the church for help but as he was walking by the bright silver building in the derelict sector of Greater Los Angeles, a strong aroma of hot soup drifted out over the gold turnstiles and Lembeck was compelled to go inside.
There were, surprisingly considering the strong food scents inside, only two other people in the great vaulted room. An old C rating derelict in frayed gray sports clothes and an attractive blond girl of about twenty. The girl had on a clean pair of faded denim pants and a pale tartan shirt. The sniffling C rating derelict was sitting in front of the Buddhist display and the girl knelt before an automatic religious android whose denomination Lembeck couldn't place.
The smell of soup, and possibly a meat course, was strong in the big shadow-ceilinged room. Lembeck couldn't locate its source. He picked a friendly looking scarlet robed android and pushed the “On” button.
“What is life without a purpose, without a goal?” Asked the android in a warm rich voice.
“Could you tell me where the dining room is?”
“What is life without a goal? I will tell you, my son. A hollow shell.”
“I didn't eat yesterday. I thought, noticing the aroma, that I might be able to arrange for a meal here.”
“Those of us who have fallen from the main currents of Greater Los Angeles Society need goals, too. And though it is truly said that nobody starves in this day and age, nevertheless a certain hunger can grow up.”
“That's right,” agreed Lembeck.
“A two-year hitch with the Martian Reclamation And Roadway Corps provides you with a goal, a purpose and three minimum calorie requirement meals each and every day,” said the android. “When I have finished my sermon an application blank will issue from the slot marked goal. Sign it and put it back in the slot. This time tomorrow you will be en route to the red planet on a fine ship where meals of great warmth and nourishment are served at regular hours. Sign, my son.”
“I don't want to go to Mars. I have an ex-wife down by the ocean. I just want something to eat until I get a job.”
“Life is nice when you have a purpose,” said the android and clicked off.
An application form dropped out into
Lembeck's hand.
“Don't,” said a voice at his side.
It was the blond girl. “Ma’am?”
“The other guy's too far gone for us, but you might do. Want to join?”
“Join what?”
“Tell you outside,” she said. “Come on.”
“I don't want to go to Mars.”
“Neither do we.”
“Couldn't I see somebody about a bowl of soup?”
“There's no food here.”
“The smell.”
“It's a chemical substance they feed into blowers,” she said, nodding her head at the ceiling.
Lembeck went outside with the girl.
***
Sawtelle was a tall grizzle-whiskered man, thin in his khaki coat and pants. He handed Lembeck a half a vegetable wafer and a real piece of near-cheese. The food caught a pleasant glow from the camp fire. “I have a hundred in my group so far,” Sawtelle said. “Dotted all over the Sierra Madres here.” He pointed at the 100 million lights of Greater Los Angeles fanning away far below. “Misfits and unemployables. We don't eat well. But we do, with our raids and our experimental gardens, manage to eat without taking charity.”
The blond girl, her name was Margery McCracklin, was one of Sawtelle's recruiters. She was sitting quietly across the cave.
Lembeck, watching her as he ate, noticed that her wrists were narrow and sharp, her ankles, too. It had taken them a long time to climb up here into the mountains to Sawtelle's temporary encampment. “You steal food and supplies?” Lembeck asked. He broke the piece of cheese into four sections, making each one last four bites.
“Yes,” said Sawtelle. “Only from the A class and the top half of the B's. Those who have well above the minimum.”
“I have an ex-wife,” said Lembeck. “If I joined you would I be able to see her?”
“I have an ex-wife, too,” said Sawtelle. “Margery has an ex-child. We all try to pay visits and give over what food we can.”
Lembeck ran his tongue over his teeth. “I hate to hurt my job chances.”
Margery laughed. “You'll probably never get called back in. Once you get edged out of the system you seldom get back.”
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