* * * *
I understand the Inscription in the lower left; it reads: Pour John Pierce, amicablement, Jean Tinguely, Avril, 1962.
The painting is the product of a stupid machine of clanking metal parts, a machine devised and built by the talented constructor of the jiggling “metametics” which have been shown in many countries, and of the celebrated “self-destroying machine” which partially succeeded some years ago in the courtyard of the Museum of Modern Art. .. .
If I didn’t like the painting on my wall, I wouldn’t hare it there. I am astonished that in some sense it is the product of a machine. But I am appalled when I think that a few hundred feet to my left there resides a machine, an electronic computer, which is to Tinguely’s machine as Newton is to an earthworm . . .
* * * *
As I said, a print accompanies the article. I like the painting too. It consists of delicate brushwork in gray, turquoise, and red, rather Japanese in appearance. Lots of, like, soul, you know?
* * * *
TERMINAL
RON GOULART
It was while the tacky white enameled android was putting the second scoop of beans on his breakfast tray that Penrose began to wonder if he was really old. Penrose put one hand flat on his face, feeling for wrinkles. The serving android flipped another scoop of beans out of the cauldron set in its chest. This one missed the tray and dropped on to the tan blanket of Penrose’s bed. The android ticked and more beans fell on the cot.
The old man in the next bed stretched a foot out from under the covers and kicked the andy. The machine ratcheted and whirred, then said, “Good morning. Have a happy day.” It rolled away to serve the fat man across the aisle.
“I’m Harrison,” said the old man who had booted the android. He was lanky, weathered. His face had deep sharp wrinkles. He turned slightly in the bunk and Penrose saw that he had only one arm.
Penrose hesitated. “I’m Penrose,” he said finally. “Excuse me. I’m fuzzy about things.” He couldn’t remember even yesterday, he realized now.
Harrison swallowed a spoonful of orange beans. “You know where you are, don’t you?”
Their room was small, metallic, with a low gray ceiling. There were six beds in it. Only five of them occupied. At the far end was a red metal door. “I guess,” said Penrose. “I’m not certain.”
“Where do you think?”
Penrose looked down at his tray. The two scoops of beans had collapsed into a single pool. “Well, this is Greater Los Angeles. And the date is . . . it’s October 15, 2046. Yes, I know that.”
“It’s the 16th,” corrected Harrison.
Nodding, Penrose said, “Oh, that’s right. I’m missing a day.”
“You’re in Senior Citizens’ Terminal #130,” said Harrison.
The men in the other beds were old, too, like Harrison. Penrose touched his face again. “I’m not quite sure why I’m here. I’ve been having trouble remembering exactly. I have a feeling I’m not . . . not a senior citizen.”
“Neither am I,” called the fat old man across the aisle. He was pink and gray.
“That’s Carlisle,” said Harrison. “He has memory trouble, too.”
“I know you, Harrison,” said Carlisle. “You’re a mean old coot. You’re old enough to be my grandfather. You maybe are my grandfather. He was a mean old one-armed man, too. Except it was his right arm he was lacking.”
The serving android was making harsh scraping sounds now. It had stopped by the bed of a small quiet old man. The man was flat on his back, not moving, breathing softly through his mouth. His hair was long and fine and his skin was a transparent blue-white. “Good morning. Have a happy day,” said the android, propping the old man up and spoonfeeding him from the cauldron.
“That’s Guttenberg,” said Harrison. “He’s eighty.”
“I bet he doesn’t know who he is either,” said Carlisle.
Penrose watched Harrison finish breakfast. “Is everyone sick here?”
“No,” said Harrison. “You must know all about the Senior Citizens’ Terminals. Think about it.”
Penrose leaned back against the metal head rest. “The Senior Citizens’ Terminals,” he said, “are under the jurisdiction of the United States Welfare Squad. And are free to all. The problem of the aged is at a stage of solution never before known. Nearly one hundred old-timers are collected each month in each terminal. Because of the Welfare Squad these old folks can live out their golden days without fear of burdening their friends and relations.” Now that he thought about it Penrose realized he knew a lot about the terminals. But he didn’t know why he was here.
“You’re doing excellently,” said old Harrison. “Do you recall the recruiting part of this setup?”
“Stop now,” said Carlisle. “I’m trying to recollect who I really am and your talk is unsettling to me.”
“You’re Carlisle,” said Harrison. “A retired data processor.”
“No, I’m not,” said the heavy old man. “I’m a spry young fellow with a name that starts with W.”
“About recruiting,” Harrison said to Penrose.
Penrose concentrated. “It is the function of the Welfare Squad to recruit at least a minimum quota of old folks each collection period. Those old timers who are not reclaimed in thirty days are then processed at no extra cost.”
“Quit,” called out Carlisle. “I don’t want to hear about that.”
“He’s been here twenty-eight days,” said Harrison.
The fifth man in the room stood up on top of his cot. He was small with straight-standing white hair and black pockets under his pale eyes.
“There are things of which I may not speak;
There are dreams that cannot die;
There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,
And bring a pallor to the cheek,
And a mist before the eye.”
He said.
“That’s Remmeroy,” said Harrison. “He gets processed next week.”
Remmeroy’s bed was suddenly pulled out from under him and slid back into the gray metal wall. The old man thunked to the floor.
Harrison swung out of his cot just as it shot away and he caught Penrose up and out of his. “We arise abruptly in this place.”
The serving android opened a panel in the wall and buzzed out of the room. “Have a happy day.”
The big blond recreational android joggled Penrose by the shoulder. “No wool gathering, Fowler. This is letter-writing time.”
Penrose had almost remembered something important. “I’m not Fowler,” he said.
The second joggle was harsher. “Letter writing time, pops.”
“Sorry,” he said. He picked up the speaker tube of the lap letteriter. The andy moved on and Penrose dictated, “To whom it may concern. I still don’t know what I’m doing here. I am confused and depressed.”
The letteriter jumped out of his lap and began bouncing on the floor, making a bleating sound. “Negative, negative.”
The blond andy was at his shoulder again. “Fowler, you’re not doing so good today.”
“I guess not.”
“You guess? Gramps, you know not. Now I want you to speak a nice pleasant letter. Get me?”
“Yes, sir.” The letteriter crawled up his left leg and settled into his lap, nudging him sharply in the groin. “I’m not sure,” said Penrose, “who it is I’m writing to.”
“The therapy,” said the blond android, “is in the act and is not involved with the recipient at all.”
“Hello, everybody,” dictated Penrose. “I’m having a great time here.” He felt the android’s grip lessen. “I’m having a happy day.” The hand was lifted away but Penrose kept saying cheerful things.
Carlisle was having trouble. “I’m trying to communicate with my girl friend,” he told the rec andy. “Her name begins with an F or an S.”
“Just say you’re fond of her,” answered the android.
“I am, I am,” said Carlisle. “I can’
t start off the letter with ‘Dear F or S.’ You see?”
“Start.”
“Sweetheart,” said Carlisle into his tube.
Remmeroy used his letteriter standing up. He was hunched in a corner with it under his arm.
“When the lamp is shattered
The light in the dust lies dead—
When the cloud is scattered,
The rainbow’s glory is shed.
When the lute is broken,
Sweet tunes are remembered not...”
“That’s right,” said the passing android, “keep it cheerful.”
Guttenberg, his hands limp at his sides, was propped in a chair. “Come on, gramps,” said the android. “Talk. Send off something friendly to your loved ones.”
Penrose turned to Harrison, who was sitting next to him, his letter writing done. “Why don’t they leave Guttenberg alone? He can’t even speak, can he?”
“No,” said Harrison.
“It doesn’t make sense.”
“Not efficient, is it?”
Penrose hesitated. “The Welfare Squad has an able and qualified staff of checkers, the Efficiency Detail. It is their duty to make a thorough inspection periodically of each and every Senior Citizens’ Terminal.”
“Yes, that’s true,” said Harrison.
“Of course,” said Penrose, “fellows in the Efficiency Detail are overworked and underpaid. Sometimes they can’t be as thorough as they’d like to be.”
The recreational andy held the speaker up near Guttenberg’s mouth. “A ten-word message, pops. You can do that much. Come on.”
“Can’t we stop him?” Penrose asked.
“He turns off automatically when the recreation period ends. Guttenberg is able to hold out till then.”
“This happens every day?”
Harrison nodded.
“Therapy time,” announced a crisp voice from the wall.
The blond android let go of Guttenberg.
* * * *
The therapist was shaped like a portable safe and had a gun-metal finish.
“Now,” said Penrose when it was his turn, “this is going to sound odd to you.”
“Not at all, Mr. Fowler,” said the metal box in a warm voice.
Penrose fidgeted on the armchair that had come up through the floor. “First off, I’m not Fowler. I’m Penrose. Now, here’s the situation as I see it. Let me, by the way, apologize for being vague in some of the details. I realize now that I’ve probably been given some kind of medication. Look,” he said, rolling up the sleeve of his tan shirt, “you can’t help but see the needle marks, several of them. And some in my backside, too. While I appreciate the smooth efficient way I was given medical aid I have to say I’m disturbed that I haven’t snapped out of it better.”
“Yes, of course, Mr. Fowler,” said the therapist.
“No, I’m not Fowler. Let’s skip that for a minute. I think I had some sort of accident or something and was taken maybe to the nearest hospital. Fine. However, there seems to be a mistake being made. I’m not this Fowler. In fact, you can see that I’m not even old. I’m not a senior citizen. It’s hardly efficient, is it? To keep me on here.”
“Certainly, certainly.”
“When I woke up this morning I was much fuzzier than I am now. Things are starting to fill in for me. I’m certain I’m about thirty-four years old. There must be, though I can’t remember it as yet, some useful function I fill on the outside. Some part of the essential function of Greater Los Angeles.”
“That’s surely possible,” answered the therapist.
“All you have to do is let them know at Central Control and I’ll be able to take off. You must have my outside clothes and ID packet and money someplace.”
“You realize that in a terminal of this size we can not be responsible for loss of property,” said the machine. “Theft of belongings is naturally lamentable. The responsibility can not be assumed, however, by the terminal staff.”
“No,” said Penrose, “I’m not grousing about my belongings. Let’s go back to the fact that I’m only thirty-four years old. I don’t belong here.”
“To be sure.”
“Then you’ll do something?”
“You can assume that your problem will be given all the attention it warrants,” said the therapist. “I must be getting on to my next patient.”
“When exactly will you let me know?” Penrose asked as the machine started to roll toward Carlisle’s chair.
“Yes, yes,” it said and began talking to Carlisle.
Penrose glanced hopefully at Harrison and the one-armed man smiled back.
After lunch came sitting. Not in the soft chairs that had appeared for therapy but in stiff straight metal ones.
Penrose had his hands capping his knees. “Essentially,” he said to Harrison, “the terminals are a positive thing. A solution to the problem of senior clutter.”
“That’s the Welfare Squad point of view.” Harrison’s hand rested on his chest.
“Those old-timers who don’t function anymore in the highly overstocked urban and suburban complex are weeded out,” said Penrose. “Should it turn out that an individual senior citizen still has a valid function he can always be reclaimed.”
“They say the actual termination is pleasant.”
Looking at the red door Penrose said, “Right beyond there, isn’t it?”
“Yes. This is one of the waiting rooms. You can spend from a day to a week or more here. Depends on processing.”
After a moment Penrose said, “I should be back home by late today.”
“You know about yourself?”
Penrose shook his head. “Not entirely. I’m aware that I’m only thirty four. I’m in this terminal by mistake. All the details on myself haven’t come back to me as yet.”
“Still,” said Harrison, “don’t you wonder?”
“Wonder about what?”
“If this terminal has made a mistake. Perhaps others do, too. Perhaps this one has before.”
“No,” said Penrose, “that’s why they have the Efficiency Detail.”
“They slipped up in your case.”
There was a brief confusion because Guttenberg fell over sideways out of his chair. Carlisle and Remmeroy righted him.
“A system like this has to have a human element,” said Penrose. “Even though the terminal itself is fully automatic. The Efficiency Detail provides that human element. That’s why I know the error in my case will be cleared up.”
“Suppose,” said Harrison.
Remmeroy hopped up on his chair.
“I remember, I remember
The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn.”
“Suppose what?” asked Penrose.
Harrison shrugged his armless shoulder. “That an Efficiency Detail man came here to Terminal #130 to inspect. They work solo, you know.”
“The budget doesn’t allow for teams.”
“Possibly the last time the Efficiency Detail man was through he overlooked a faulty rail on a ramp. This time as he leaned on it he fell and whacked his head. While he was unconscious, before the automatic staff rushed to help, someone might have switched papers with him. Someone named Fowler, say. By the time the staff gave him treatment for his fall and shots this Efficiency Detail man would be pretty confused. The equipment here, a lot of it anyway, is old and erratic and they might easily get him mixed up with one of these old fellows. One on his way to a termination waiting room.”
“Oh, that’s very unlikely,” said Penrose.
“I was a rich fuel speculator,” said Carlisle. “Before I got mixed up with this wild bunch here. Youngest fellow in my profession. How about you?” he called out to Penrose.
“I can’t,” he said, “quite remember.”
“Does it start with a W?”
The chairs retracted and it was time for naps, the wall told them.
Harrison fro
wned. “Penrose was with the Efficiency Detail.”
Penrose was put to sleep before he could say anything to Harrison.
The Year's Best Science Fiction 11 - [Anthology] Page 10