Anthology of Speculative Fiction, Volume One

by Short Story Anthology

  The number was: "2 B R 0 2 B."

  It was the telephone number of an institution whose fanciful sobriquets included: "Automat," "Birdland," "Cannery," "Catbox," "De-louser," "Easy-go," "Good-by, Mother," "Happy Hooligan," "Kiss-me-quick," "Lucky Pierre," "Sheepdip," "Waring Blendor," "Weep-no-more" and "Why Worry?"

  "To be or not to be" was the telephone number of the municipal gas chambers of the Federal Bureau of Termination.

  * * * * *

  The painter thumbed his nose at the orderly. "When I decide it's time to go," he said, "it won't be at the Sheepdip."

  "A do-it-yourselfer, eh?" said the orderly. "Messy business, Grandpa. Why don't you have a little consideration for the people who have to clean up after you?"

  The painter expressed with an obscenity his lack of concern for the tribulations of his survivors. "The world could do with a good deal more mess, if you ask me," he said.

  The orderly laughed and moved on.

  Wehling, the waiting father, mumbled something without raising his head. And then he fell silent again.

  A coarse, formidable woman strode into the waiting room on spike heels. Her shoes, stockings, trench coat, bag and overseas cap were all purple, the purple the painter called "the color of grapes on Judgment Day."

  The medallion on her purple musette bag was the seal of the Service Division of the Federal Bureau of Termination, an eagle perched on a turnstile.

  The woman had a lot of facial hair--an unmistakable mustache, in fact. A curious thing about gas-chamber hostesses was that, no matter how lovely and feminine they were when recruited, they all sprouted mustaches within five years or so.

  "Is this where I'm supposed to come?" she said to the painter.

  "A lot would depend on what your business was," he said. "You aren't about to have a baby, are you?"

  "They told me I was supposed to pose for some picture," she said. "My name's Leora Duncan." She waited.

  "And you dunk people," he said.

  "What?" she said.

  "Skip it," he said.

  "That sure is a beautiful picture," she said. "Looks just like heaven or something."

  "Or something," said the painter. He took a list of names from his smock pocket. "Duncan, Duncan, Duncan," he said, scanning the list. "Yes--here you are. You're entitled to be immortalized. See any faceless body here you'd like me to stick your head on? We've got a few choice ones left."

  She studied the mural bleakly. "Gee," she said, "they're all the same to me. I don't know anything about art."

  "A body's a body, eh?" he said, "All righty. As a master of fine art, I recommend this body here." He indicated a faceless figure of a woman who was carrying dried stalks to a trash-burner.

  "Well," said Leora Duncan, "that's more the disposal people, isn't it? I mean, I'm in service. I don't do any disposing."

  The painter clapped his hands in mock delight. "You say you don't know anything about art, and then you prove in the next breath that you know more about it than I do! Of course the sheave-carrier is wrong for a hostess! A snipper, a pruner--that's more your line." He pointed to a figure in purple who was sawing a dead branch from an apple tree. "How about her?" he said. "You like her at all?"

  "Gosh--" she said, and she blushed and became humble--"that--that puts me right next to Dr. Hitz."

  "That upsets you?" he said.

  "Good gravy, no!" she said. "It's--it's just such an honor."

  "Ah, You admire him, eh?" he said.

  "Who doesn't admire him?" she said, worshiping the portrait of Hitz. It was the portrait of a tanned, white-haired, omnipotent Zeus, two hundred and forty years old. "Who doesn't admire him?" she said again. "He was responsible for setting up the very first gas chamber in Chicago."

  "Nothing would please me more," said the painter, "than to put you next to him for all time. Sawing off a limb--that strikes you as appropriate?"

  "That is kind of like what I do," she said. She was demure about what she did. What she did was make people comfortable while she killed them.

  * * * * *

  And, while Leora Duncan was posing for her portrait, into the waitingroom bounded Dr. Hitz himself. He was seven feet tall, and he boomed with importance, accomplishments, and the joy of living.

  "Well, Miss Duncan! Miss Duncan!" he said, and he made a joke. "What are you doing here?" he said. "This isn't where the people leave. This is where they come in!"

  "We're going to be in the same picture together," she said shyly.

  "Good!" said Dr. Hitz heartily. "And, say, isn't that some picture?"

  "I sure am honored to be in it with you," she said.

  "Let me tell you," he said, "I'm honored to be in it with you. Without women like you, this wonderful world we've got wouldn't be possible."

  He saluted her and moved toward the door that led to the delivery rooms. "Guess what was just born," he said.

  "I can't," she said.

  "Triplets!" he said.

  "Triplets!" she said. She was exclaiming over the legal implications of triplets.

  The law said that no newborn child could survive unless the parents of the child could find someone who would volunteer to die. Triplets, if they were all to live, called for three volunteers.

  "Do the parents have three volunteers?" said Leora Duncan.

  "Last I heard," said Dr. Hitz, "they had one, and were trying to scrape another two up."

  "I don't think they made it," she said. "Nobody made three appointments with us. Nothing but singles going through today, unless somebody called in after I left. What's the name?"

  "Wehling," said the waiting father, sitting up, red-eyed and frowzy. "Edward K. Wehling, Jr., is the name of the happy father-to-be."

  He raised his right hand, looked at a spot on the wall, gave a hoarsely wretched chuckle. "Present," he said.

  "Oh, Mr. Wehling," said Dr. Hitz, "I didn't see you."

  "The invisible man," said Wehling.

  "They just phoned me that your triplets have been born," said Dr. Hitz. "They're all fine, and so is the mother. I'm on my way in to see them now."

  "Hooray," said Wehling emptily.

  "You don't sound very happy," said Dr. Hitz.

  "What man in my shoes wouldn't be happy?" said Wehling. He gestured with his hands to symbolize care-free simplicity. "All I have to do is pick out which one of the triplets is going to live, then deliver my maternal grandfather to the Happy Hooligan, and come back here with a receipt."

  * * * * *

  Dr. Hitz became rather severe with Wehling, towered over him. "You don't believe in population control, Mr. Wehling?" he said.

  "I think it's perfectly keen," said Wehling tautly.

  "Would you like to go back to the good old days, when the population of the Earth was twenty billion--about to become forty billion, then eighty billion, then one hundred and sixty billion? Do you know what a drupelet is, Mr. Wehling?" said Hitz.

  "Nope," said Wehling sulkily.

  "A drupelet, Mr. Wehling, is one of the little knobs, one of the little pulpy grains of a blackberry," said Dr. Hitz. "Without population control, human beings would now be packed on this surface of this old planet like drupelets on a blackberry! Think of it!"

  Wehling continued to stare at the same spot on the wall.

  "In the year 2000," said Dr. Hitz, "before scientists stepped in and laid down the law, there wasn't even enough drinking water to go around, and nothing to eat but sea-weed--and still people insisted on their right to reproduce like jackrabbits. And their right, if possible, to live forever."

  "I want those kids," said Wehling quietly. "I want all three of them."

  "Of course you do," said Dr. Hitz. "That's only human."

  "I don't want my grandfather to die, either," said Wehling.

  "Nobody's really happy about taking a close relative to the Catbox," said Dr. Hitz gently, sympathetically.

  "I wish people wouldn't call it that," said Leora Duncan.

  "What?" said Dr. Hitz.r />
  "I wish people wouldn't call it 'the Catbox,' and things like that," she said. "It gives people the wrong impression."

  "You're absolutely right," said Dr. Hitz. "Forgive me." He corrected himself, gave the municipal gas chambers their official title, a title no one ever used in conversation. "I should have said, 'Ethical Suicide Studios,'" he said.

  "That sounds so much better," said Leora Duncan.

  "This child of yours--whichever one you decide to keep, Mr. Wehling," said Dr. Hitz. "He or she is going to live on a happy, roomy, clean, rich planet, thanks to population control. In a garden like that mural there." He shook his head. "Two centuries ago, when I was a young man, it was a hell that nobody thought could last another twenty years. Now centuries of peace and plenty stretch before us as far as the imagination cares to travel."

  He smiled luminously.

  The smile faded as he saw that Wehling had just drawn a revolver.

  Wehling shot Dr. Hitz dead. "There's room for one--a great big one," he said.

  And then he shot Leora Duncan. "It's only death," he said to her as she fell. "There! Room for two."

  And then he shot himself, making room for all three of his children.

  Nobody came running. Nobody, seemingly, heard the shots.

  The painter sat on the top of his stepladder, looking down reflectively on the sorry scene.

  * * * * *

  The painter pondered the mournful puzzle of life demanding to be born and, once born, demanding to be fruitful ... to multiply and to live as long as possible--to do all that on a very small planet that would have to last forever.

  All the answers that the painter could think of were grim. Even grimmer, surely, than a Catbox, a Happy Hooligan, an Easy Go. He thought of war. He thought of plague. He thought of starvation.

  He knew that he would never paint again. He let his paintbrush fall to the dropcloths below. And then he decided he had had about enough of life in the Happy Garden of Life, too, and he came slowly down from the ladder.

  He took Wehling's pistol, really intending to shoot himself.

  But he didn't have the nerve.

  And then he saw the telephone booth in the corner of the room. He went to it, dialed the well-remembered number: "2 B R 0 2 B."

  "Federal Bureau of Termination," said the very warm voice of a hostess.

  "How soon could I get an appointment?" he asked, speaking very carefully.

  "We could probably fit you in late this afternoon, sir," she said. "It might even be earlier, if we get a cancellation."

  "All right," said the painter, "fit me in, if you please." And he gave her his name, spelling it out.

  "Thank you, sir," said the hostess. "Your city thanks you; your country thanks you; your planet thanks you. But the deepest thanks of all is from future generations."

  END

  Harrison Bergeron, by Kurt Vonnegut

  The year was 2081, and everybody was finally equal. They weren't only equal before God and the law. They were equal every which way. Nobody was smarter than anybody else. Nobody was better looking than anybody else. Nobody was stronger or quicker than anybody else. All this equality was due to the 211th, 212th, and 213th Amendments to the Constitution, and to the unceasing vigilance of agents of the United States Handicapper General.

  Some things about living still weren't quite right, though. April, for instance, still drove people crazy by not being springtime. And it was in that clammy month that the H-G men took George and Hazel Bergeron's fourteen-year-old son, Harrison, away.

  It was tragic, all right, but George and Hazel couldn't think about it very hard. Hazel had a perfectly average intelligence, which meant she couldn't think about anything except in short bursts. And George, while his intelligence was way above normal, had a little mental-handicap radio in his ear. He was required by law to wear it at all times. It was tuned to a government transmitter. Every twenty seconds or so, the transmitter would send out some sharp noise to keep people like George from taking unfair advantage of their brains.

  George and Hazel were watching television. There were tears on Hazel's cheeks, but she'd forgotten for the moment what they were about.

  On the television screen were ballerinas.

  A buzzer sounded in George's head. His thoughts fled in panic, like bandits from a burglar alarm.

  "That was a real pretty dance, that dance they just did," said Hazel.

  "Huh?" said George.

  "That dance—it was nice," said Hazel.

  "Yup," said George. He tried to think a little about the ballerinas. They weren't really very good—no better than anybody else would have been, anyway. They were burdened with sash weights and bags of birdshot, and their faces were masked, so that no one, seeing a free and graceful gesture or a pretty face, would feel like something the cat drug in. George was toying with the vague notion that maybe dancers shouldn't be handicapped. But he didn't get very far with it before another noise in his ear radio scattered his thoughts.

  George winced. So did two out of the eight ballerinas.

  Hazel saw him wince. Having no mental handicap herself, she had to ask George what the latest sound had been.

  "Sounded like somebody hitting a milk bottle with a ball-peen hammer," said George.

  "I'd think it would be real interesting, hearing all the different sounds," said Hazel, a little envious. "All the things they think up."

  "Um," said George.

  "Only, if I was Handicapper General, you know what I would do?" said Hazel. Hazel, as a matter of fact, bore a strong resemblance to the Handicapper General, a woman named

  Diana Moon Glampers. "If I was Diana Moon Glampers," said Hazel, "I'd have chimes on Sunday—just chimes. Kind of in honor of religion."

  "I could think, if it was just chimes," said George.

  "Well—maybe make 'em real loud," said Hazel. "I think I'd make a good Handicapper General."

  "Good as anybody else," said George.

  "Who knows better'n I do what normal is?" said Hazel.

  "Right," said George. He began to think glimmeringly about his abnormal son who was now in jail, about Harrison, but a twenty-one-gun salute in his head stopped that.

  "Boy!" said Hazel, "that was a doozy, wasn't it?"

  It was such a doozy that George was white and trembling, and tears stood on the rims of his red eyes. Two of the eight ballerinas had collapsed to the studio floor, were holding their temples.

  "All of a sudden you look so tired," said Hazel. "Why don't you stretch out on the sofa, so's you can rest your handicap bag on the pillows, honeybunch." She was referring to the forty-seven pounds of birdshot in a canvas bag, which was padlocked around George's neck. "Go on and rest the bag for a little while," she said. "I don't care if you're not equal to me for a while."

  George weighed the bag with his hands. "I don't mind it," he said. "I don't notice it any more. It's just a part of me."

  "You been so tired lately—kind of wore out," said Hazel. "If there was just some way we could make a little hole in the bottom of the bag, and just take out a few of them lead balls. Just a few."

  "Two years in prison and two thousand dollars fine for every ball I took out," said George. "I don't call that a bargain."

  "If you could just take a few out when you came home from work," said Hazel. "I mean— you don't compete with anybody around here. You just set around."

  "If I tried to get away with it," said George, "then other people'd get away with it—and pretty soon we'd be right back to the dark ages again, with everybody competing against everybody else. You wouldn't like that, would you?"

  "I'd hate it," said Hazel.

  "There you are," said George. "The minute people start cheating on laws, what do you think happens to society?"

  If Hazel hadn't been able to come up with an answer to this question, George couldn't have supplied one. A siren was going off in his head.

  "Reckon it'd fall all apart," said Hazel.

  "What would?" said Geo
rge blankly.

  "Society," said Hazel uncertainly. "Wasn't that what you just said?"

  "Who knows?" said George.

  The television program was suddenly interrupted for a news bulletin. It wasn't clear at first as to what the bulletin was about, since the announcer, like all announcers, had a serious speech impediment. For about half a minute, and in a state of high excitement, the announcer tried to say, "Ladies and gentlemen—"

  He finally gave up, handed the bulletin to a ballerina to read.

  "That's all right—" Hazel said of the announcer, "he tried. That's the big thing. He tried to do the best he could with what God gave him. He should get a nice raise for trying so hard."

  "Ladies and gentlemen—" said the ballerina, reading the bulletin. She must have been extraordinarily beautiful, because the mask she wore was hideous. And it was easy to see that she was the strongest and most graceful of all the dancers, for her handicap bags were as big as those worn by two-hundred-pound men.

  And she had to apologize at once for her voice, which was a very unfair voice for a woman to use. Her voice was a warm, luminous, timeless melody. "Excuse me—" she said, and she began again, making her voice absolutely uncompetitive.

  "Harrison Bergeron, age fourteen," she said in a grackle squawk, "has just escaped from jail, where he was held on suspicion of plotting to overthrow the government. He is a genius and an athlete, is underhandicapped, and should be regarded as extremely dangerous."

  A police photograph of Harrison Bergeron was flashed on the screen—upside down, then sideways, upside down again, then right side up. The picture showed the full length of Harrison against a background calibrated in feet and inches. He was exactly seven feet tall.

  The rest of Harrison's appearance was Halloween and hardware. Nobody had ever borne heavier handicaps. He had outgrown hindrances faster than the H-G men could think them up. Instead of a little ear radio for a mental handicap, he wore a tremendous pair of earphones, and spectacles with thick wavy lenses. The spectacles were intended to make him not only half blind, but to give him whanging headaches besides.

  Scrap metal was hung all over him. Ordinarily, there was a certain symmetry, a military neatness to the handicaps issued to strong people, but Harrison looked like a walking junkyard. In the race of life, Harrison carried three hundred pounds.