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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/30416-0.txt b/30416-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..af21f80 --- /dev/null +++ b/30416-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,365 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 30416 *** + +[Illustration: _Illustrated by Kelly Freas_] + + +WASTE NOT, WANT + + _Eat your spinach, little man! It's good for you. Stuff yourself + with it. Be a good little consumer, or the cops will get you.... For + such is the law of supply and demand!_ + +BY DAVE DRYFOOS + + +Panic roused him--the black imp of panic that lived under the garish rug +of this unfamiliar room and crawled out at dawn to nudge him awake and +stare from the blank space to his left where Tillie's gray head should +have been. + +His fists clenched in anger--at himself. He'd never been the sort to +make allowance for his own weakness and didn't propose to begin doing so +now, at age eighty-six. Tillie'd been killed in that crash well over a +year ago and it was time he got used to his widowerhood and quit +searching for her every morning. + +But even after he gave himself the bawling out, orientation came slowly. +The surroundings looked so strange. No matter what he told himself it +was hard to believe that he was indeed Fred Lubway, mechanical engineer, +and had a right to be in this single bed, alone in this house his Tillie +had never seen. + +The right to be there was all wrong. He disliked the house and hated all +its furnishings. + +The cybernetic cooker in the kitchen; the magnetically-suspended divans +in the living room; the three-dimensional color broadcasts he could so +readily project to any wall or ceiling; the solartropic machinery that +would turn any face of the pentagonal house into the sun or the shade or +the breeze; the lift that would raise the entire building a hundred feet +into the air to give him a wider view and more privacy--all left him +dissatisfied. + +They were new. None had been shared with Tillie. He used them only to +the extent required by law to fulfill his duty as a consumer. + +"You must change your home because of the change in your family +composition," the Ration Board's bright young female had explained, +right after Tillie's funeral. "Your present furnishings are obsolete. +You must replace them." + +"And if I don't?" He'd been truculent. + +"I doubt we'd have to invoke the penalties for criminal +underconsumption," she'd explained airily. "There are plenty of other +possible courses of action. Maybe we'd just get a decision that you're +prematurely senile and unable to care for yourself. Then you'd go to a +home for the aged where they'd _help_ you consume--with forced feedings +and such." + +So here he was, in this home-of-his-own that seemed to belong to someone +else. Well, at least he wasn't senile, even if he did move a little +slowly, now, getting out of bed. He'd warm up soon. All by himself. With +no one's help. + +And as far as these newfangled gadgets in the bathroom were concerned, +he could follow any well-written set of directions. He'd scalded himself +that time only because the printed instructions were so confusing. + +He took a cold shower this time. + +When the airtowel had finished blowing and he was half dry--not wholly +dry because the machine wasn't adapted to people who took ice-cold +showers--he went in to the clothing machine. He punched the same few +holes in its tape that he put there every day, stood in the right place, +and in due course emerged with his long, rawboned frame covered by +magenta tights having an excessively baggy seat. + +He knew the costume was neither pretty nor fashionable and that its +design, having been wholly within his control when he punched the tape, +revealed both his taste and his mood. He didn't care; there was no one +in the world whom he wanted to impress. + +He looked in the dressing room mirror not to inspect the tights but to +examine his face and see if it needed shaving. Too late he remembered +that twenty years had elapsed since the permanent depilatories were +first invented and ten since he'd used one and stopped having to shave. + +There were too many changes like that in this gadget-mad world; too many +new ways of doing old things. Life had no stability. + +He stalked into the kitchen wishing he could skip breakfast--anger +always unsettled his stomach. But everyone was required to eat at least +three meals a day. The vast machine-records system that kept track of +each person's consumption would reveal to the Ration Board any failure +to use his share of food, so he dialed Breakfast Number Three--tomato +juice, toast, and coffee. + +The signal-panel flashed "Under-Eating" and he knew the state +machine-records system had advised his cybernetic cooker to increase the +amount of his consumption. Chin in hands, he sat hopelessly at the +kitchen table awaiting his meal, and in due course was served prunes, +waffles, bacon, eggs, toast, and tea--none of which he liked, except for +toast. + +He ate dutifully nevertheless, telling himself he wasn't afraid of the +ration-cops who were always suspecting him of underconsumption because +he was the tall skinny type and never got fat like most people, but that +he ate what the cooker had given him because his father had been +unemployed for a long time during the depression seventy-five years +before, so he'd never been able to bring himself to throw food away. + +Failure to consume had in the old days been called "overproduction" and +by any name it was bad. So was war--he'd read enough about war to be +glad that form of consumption had finally been abolished. + +Still it was a duty and not a pleasure to eat so much, and a relief to +get up and put the dirty dishes into the disposal machine and go up +topside to his gyro. + + * * * * * + +Disgustingly, he had a long wait before departure. After climbing into +the gyro and transmitting his flight plan, he had to sit seething for +all of fifteen minutes before the Mount Diablo Flight Control Center +deigned to lift his remote-controlled gyro into the air. And when the +signal came, ascent was so awkwardly abrupt it made his ears pop. + +He couldn't even complain. The Center was mechanical, and unequipped to +hear complaints. + +It routed him straight down the San Joaquin Valley--a beautiful sight +from fifteen thousand feet, but over-familiar. He fell asleep and +awakened only when unexpectedly brought down at Bakersfield Field. + +Above his instrument panel the printing-receiver said "Routine Check of +Equipment and Documents. Not Over Five Minutes' Delay." + +But it could take longer. And tardiness was subject to official +punishments as a form of unproductiveness. He called George Harding at +the plant. + +Harding apparently had been expecting the call. His round bluff face +wore a scowl of annoyance. + +"Don't you ever watch the newscasts?" he demanded angrily. "They began +this 'Routine Check' you're in at five this morning, and were +broadcasting pictures of the resulting traffic jam by six. If you'd +filed a flight plan for Santa Barbara and come on down the coast you'd +have avoided all this." + +"I'm not required to listen to newscasts," Fred replied tartly. "I own +the requisite number of receivers and--" + +"Now, listen, Fred," Harding interrupted. "We need you down here so +hurry up!" + +Fred heard him switch off and sat for a moment trembling with rage. But +he ended by grinning wryly. Everyone was in the same boat, of course. +For the most part, people avoided thinking about it. But he could now +see himself as if from above, spending his life flitting back and forth +between home and plant, plant and home; wracking his brain to devise +labor-saving machines while at the plant, then rushing home to struggle +with the need to consume their tremendous output. + +Was he a man? Or was he a caged squirrel racing in an exercise-wheel, +running himself ragged and with great effort producing absolutely +nothing? + +He wasn't going to do it any longer, by golly! He was going to-- + +"Good morning!" A chubby young man in the pea-green uniform of a +ration-cop opened the door and climbed uninvited into the cockpit. "May +I check the up-to-dateness of your ship's equipment, please?" + +Fred didn't answer. He didn't have to. The young officer was already in +the manual pilot's seat, checking the secondary controls. + +In swift routine he tried motor and instruments, and took the craft +briefly aloft. Down again, he demanded Fred's papers. + +The licenses that pertained to the gyro were in order, but there was +trouble over Fred's personal documents: his ration-book contained far +too few sales-validations. + +"You're not doing your share of consuming, Oldtimer," the young cop said +mildly. "Look at all these unused food allotments! Want to cause a +depression?" + +"No." + +"Man, if you don't eat more than this, we'll have mass starvation!" + +"I know the slogans." + +"Yes, but do you know the penalties? Forced feeding, compulsory +consumption--do you think they're fun?" + +"No." + +"Well, you can file your flight plan and go, but if you don't spend +those tickets before their expiration dates, Mister, you'll have cause +to 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 the +identification, tipped his cap, and swaggered off, his thick neck red +above his green collar. + +Fred found he'd had more than enough of swaggering young men with beefy +red necks. That added to his disgust with the constant struggle to +produce and consume, consume and produce. Vague, wishful threats froze +as 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 due +course arrived there. + +The phone rang in his ears as he opened the cockpit. He didn't want to +answer, and he stayed on the roof securing the gyro and plugging in its +battery-charger. But he couldn't ignore the bell's insistent clamor. + +When he went downstairs and switched on the phone, George Harding's +round face splashed on the wall. + +"Fred," he said, "when we talked a few hours ago, you forgot to say you +were sick. I phoned to confirm that for the Attendance Report. Did this +call get you out of bed?" + +He could see it hadn't. Therefore Fred knew he must be recording the +audio only, and not the video; trying to give him a break with the +Attendance people and coach him on the most appeasing answers. + +A well-meant gesture, but a false one. And Fred was fed up with the +false. "I forgot nothing," he said bluntly. "I'm perfectly well and +haven'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. "This +business of producing to consume and consuming to produce has got me +down. It's beyond all reason!" + +"No, it isn't. You're an excellent mechanical engineer, Fred, but you're +not an economist. That's why you don't understand. Just excuse me for a +minute, 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 with +his 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 a +form of consumption, too--even the production of machine-tools and +labor-saving devices. So there's nothing inconsistent--" + +"What are you trying to do?" Fred demanded. "Don't lecture me--I know as +much econ as you do!" + +"But you've got to come back to work, Fred! I want you to use your +rations, put your shoulder to the wheel, and conform generally. The +policing's too strict for you to try anything else, fella--and I like +you too well to want to see you--" + +"I don't need you to protect me, George," Fred said stiffly. "I guess +you mean well enough. But goodbye." He switched off. + + * * * * * + +The silence struck him. Not a sound stirred the air in that lonely new +house except the slight wheeze of his breathing. + +He felt tired. Bone weary. As if all the fatigues of his eighty-six +years were accumulated within him. + +He stood by a window and stared blindly out. Everyone seemed to have +been heckling him, shoving him around, making him change all his ways +every minute. He didn't want to change. He didn't want to be forever +adapting 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't +be 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 much +about the starvation, pestilence, peonage and other ills plaguing those +Indian villagers. They didn't have life licked, either. + +The Indians had not enough, the Americans, too much. One was as bad as +the other. + +And he was in the middle. + +He left the window he'd been staring from unseeingly and walked to the +foyer control-panel. There he pushed the button that would cause the +house to rear a hundred feet into the air on its titanium-aluminum +plunger. + +Then he went back to the window to watch the ground recede. He felt a +hand on his shoulder. He decided the sensation was an illusion--a part +of 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't +smile. He was confronted by another ration-cop. + +This one was a tall young man, dark and hefty. He seemed very kindly, in +his official sort of way. + +"Mr. George Harding sent me," he explained. "He asked us to look you up +and see if we could help." + +"Yes?" + +"You seem to have been a little unhappy this morning. I +mean--well--staring out that window while your house rises dangerously +high. Mr. George Harding didn't like the mood you're in, and neither do +I, Mr. Lubway. I'm afraid you'll have to come to the hospital. We can't +have a valuable citizen like you falling out that window, can we?" + +"What do you mean, 'valuable citizen'? I'm no use to anybody. There's +plenty of engineers, and more being graduated every semester. You don't +need me." + +"Oh, yes, we do!" Shaking his head, the young ration-cop took a firm +grip on Fred's right biceps. "You've got to come along with me till your +outlook changes, Mr. Lubway." + +"Now, see here!" Fred objected, trying unsuccessfully to twist free of +the officer's grip. "You've no call to treat me like a criminal. Nor to +talk to me as if I were senile. My outlook won't change, and you know +it!" + +"Oh, yes, it will! And since you're neither criminal nor senile, that's +what 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 without +a 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. I +can'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. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Waste Not, Want, by Dave Dryfoos + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 30416 *** diff --git a/30416-h/30416-h.htm b/30416-h/30416-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6cffd68 --- /dev/null +++ b/30416-h/30416-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,622 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of Waste Not, Want, by Dave Dryfoos + </title> + <style type="text/css"> + + p {margin-top: .75em; text-align: justify; margin-bottom: .75em;} + h1,h2,.bk1 {text-align: center;} + h2 {margin-bottom: 2em;} + hr {width: 45%; margin: 2em auto; visibility: hidden;} + body {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .figc {margin: 0 auto; text-align: right; width: 532px;} + img {border: none;} + a:link,a:visited {text-decoration: none;} + p.cap:first-letter {float: left; margin-right: .05em; padding-top: .05em; font-size: 300%; line-height: .8em; width: auto;} + .dcap {text-transform: uppercase;} + .figt {float: left; clear: left; margin: 15px; padding: 0; width: 142px;} + .trn {border: solid 1px; margin: 3em 15%; min-height: 230px;} + .trn p {margin: 15px;} + .bk1 {margin: 1em auto; line-height: 1.5;} + .sp1 {font-size: 125%;} + + </style> + </head> +<body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 30416 ***</div> + +<div class="figc"><img src="images/001.png" width="532" height="500" alt="" title="" /> +<i>Illustrated by Kelly Freas</i></div> + +<h1><span class="sp1">WASTE NOT, WANT</span></h1> + +<div class="bk1"><big><i>Eat your spinach, little man! It's good for you. Stuff yourself<br /> +with it. Be a good little consumer, or the<br /> +cops will get you.... For such is the law of supply and demand!</i></big></div> + +<h2>BY DAVE DRYFOOS</h2> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">Panic</span> roused him—the black +imp of panic that lived under +the garish rug of this unfamiliar +room and crawled out at dawn to +nudge him awake and stare from +the blank space to his left where +Tillie's gray head should have +been.</p> + +<p>His fists clenched in anger—at +himself. He'd never been the sort +to make allowance for his own +weakness and didn't propose to begin +doing so now, at age eighty-six. +Tillie'd been killed in that +crash well over a year ago and it +was time he got used to his widowerhood +and quit searching for +her every morning.</p> + +<p>But even after he gave himself +the bawling out, orientation came +slowly. The surroundings looked +so strange. No matter what he told +himself it was hard to believe that +he was indeed Fred Lubway, mechanical +engineer, and had a right +to be in this single bed, alone in +this house his Tillie had never +seen.</p> + +<p>The right to be there was all +wrong. He disliked the house and +hated all its furnishings.</p> + +<p>The cybernetic cooker in the +kitchen; the magnetically-suspended +divans in the living room; +the three-dimensional color broadcasts +he could so readily project +to any wall or ceiling; the solartropic +machinery that would turn +any face of the pentagonal house +into the sun or the shade or the +breeze; the lift that would raise +the entire building a hundred feet +into the air to give him a wider +view and more privacy—all left +him dissatisfied.</p> + +<p>They were new. None had been +shared with Tillie. He used them +only to the extent required by law +to fulfill his duty as a consumer.</p> + +<p>"You must change your home +because of the change in your family +composition," the Ration +Board's bright young female had +explained, right after Tillie's funeral. +"Your present furnishings +are obsolete. You must replace +them."</p> + +<p>"And if I don't?" He'd been +truculent.</p> + +<p>"I doubt we'd have to invoke +the penalties for criminal underconsumption," +she'd explained +airily. "There are plenty of other +possible courses of action. Maybe +we'd just get a decision that you're +prematurely senile and unable to +care for yourself. Then you'd go +to a home for the aged where +they'd <i>help</i> you consume—with +forced feedings and such."</p> + +<p>So here he was, in this home-of-his-own +that seemed to belong +to someone else. Well, at least he +wasn't senile, even if he did move +a little slowly, now, getting out of +bed. He'd warm up soon. All by +himself. With no one's help.</p> + +<p>And as far as these newfangled +gadgets in the bathroom were concerned, +he could follow any well-written +set of directions. He'd +scalded himself that time only because +the printed instructions +were so confusing.</p> + +<p>He took a cold shower this time.</p> + +<p>When the airtowel had finished +blowing and he was half dry—not +wholly dry because the machine +wasn't adapted to people +who took ice-cold showers—he +went in to the clothing machine. +He punched the same few holes +in its tape that he put there every +day, stood in the right place, and +in due course emerged with his +long, rawboned frame covered by +magenta tights having an excessively +baggy seat.</p> + +<p>He knew the costume was +neither pretty nor fashionable and +that its design, having been wholly +within his control when he punched +the tape, revealed both his taste +and his mood. He didn't care; +there was no one in the world +whom he wanted to impress.</p> + +<p>He looked in the dressing room +mirror not to inspect the tights but +to examine his face and see if it +needed shaving. Too late he remembered +that twenty years had +elapsed since the permanent depilatories +were first invented and +ten since he'd used one and +stopped having to shave.</p> + +<p>There were too many changes +like that in this gadget-mad +world; too many new ways of doing +old things. Life had no stability.</p> + +<p>He stalked into the kitchen +wishing he could skip breakfast—anger +always unsettled his stomach. +But everyone was required to +eat at least three meals a day. The +vast machine-records system that +kept track of each person's consumption +would reveal to the Ration +Board any failure to use his +share of food, so he dialed Breakfast +Number Three—tomato juice, +toast, and coffee.</p> + +<p>The signal-panel flashed "Under-Eating" +and he knew the state +machine-records system had advised +his cybernetic cooker to increase +the amount of his consumption. +Chin in hands, he sat hopelessly +at the kitchen table awaiting +his meal, and in due course +was served prunes, waffles, bacon, +eggs, toast, and tea—none of +which he liked, except for toast.</p> + +<p>He ate dutifully nevertheless, +telling himself he wasn't afraid of +the ration-cops who were always +suspecting him of underconsumption +because he was the tall skinny +type and never got fat like most +people, but that he ate what the +cooker had given him because his +father had been unemployed for a +long time during the depression +seventy-five years before, so he'd +never been able to bring himself to +throw food away.</p> + +<p>Failure to consume had in the +old days been called "overproduction" +and by any name it was bad. +So was war—he'd read enough +about war to be glad that form of +consumption had finally been +abolished.</p> + +<p>Still it was a duty and not a +pleasure to eat so much, and a relief +to get up and put the dirty +dishes into the disposal machine +and go up topside to his gyro.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">Disgustingly</span>, he had a long +wait before departure. After +climbing into the gyro and transmitting +his flight plan, he had to +sit seething for all of fifteen minutes +before the Mount Diablo +Flight Control Center deigned to +lift his remote-controlled gyro into +the air. And when the signal +came, ascent was so awkwardly +abrupt it made his ears pop.</p> + +<p>He couldn't even complain. The +Center was mechanical, and unequipped +to hear complaints.</p> + +<p>It routed him straight down the +San Joaquin Valley—a beautiful +sight from fifteen thousand feet, +but over-familiar. He fell asleep +and awakened only when unexpectedly +brought down at Bakersfield +Field.</p> + +<p>Above his instrument panel the +printing-receiver said "Routine +Check of Equipment and Documents. +Not Over Five Minutes' +Delay."</p> + +<p>But it could take longer. And +tardiness was subject to official +punishments as a form of unproductiveness. +He called George +Harding at the plant.</p> + +<p>Harding apparently had been +expecting the call. His round bluff +face wore a scowl of annoyance.</p> + +<p>"Don't you ever watch the newscasts?" +he demanded angrily. +"They began this 'Routine Check' +you're in at five this morning, and +were broadcasting pictures of the +resulting traffic jam by six. If you'd +filed a flight plan for Santa Barbara +and come on down the coast +you'd have avoided all this."</p> + +<p>"I'm not required to listen to +newscasts," Fred replied tartly. "I +own the requisite number of receivers +and—"</p> + +<p>"Now, listen, Fred," Harding interrupted. +"We need you down +here so hurry up!"</p> + +<p>Fred heard him switch off and +sat for a moment trembling with +rage. But he ended by grinning +wryly. Everyone was in the same +boat, of course. For the most part, +people avoided thinking about it. +But he could now see himself as if +from above, spending his life flitting +back and forth between home +and plant, plant and home; wracking +his brain to devise labor-saving +machines while at the plant, then +rushing home to struggle with the +need to consume their tremendous +output.</p> + +<p>Was he a man? Or was he a +caged squirrel racing in an exercise-wheel, +running himself ragged +and with great effort producing +absolutely nothing?</p> + +<p>He wasn't going to do it any +longer, by golly! He was going +to—</p> + +<p>"Good morning!" A chubby +young man in the pea-green uniform +of a ration-cop opened the +door and climbed uninvited into +the cockpit. "May I check the up-to-dateness +of your ship's equipment, +please?"</p> + +<p>Fred didn't answer. He didn't +have to. The young officer was already +in the manual pilot's seat, +checking the secondary controls.</p> + +<p>In swift routine he tried motor +and instruments, and took the craft +briefly aloft. Down again, he demanded +Fred's papers.</p> + +<p>The licenses that pertained to +the gyro were in order, but there +was trouble over Fred's personal +documents: his ration-book contained +far too few sales-validations.</p> + +<p>"You're not doing your share of +consuming, Oldtimer," the young +cop said mildly. "Look at all these +unused food allotments! Want to +cause a depression?"</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"Man, if you don't eat more +than this, we'll have mass starvation!"</p> + +<p>"I know the slogans."</p> + +<p>"Yes, but do you know the penalties? +Forced feeding, compulsory +consumption—do you think they're +fun?"</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"Well, you can file your flight +plan and go, but if you don't spend +those tickets before their expiration +dates, Mister, you'll have +cause to regret it."</p> + +<p>With a special pencil, he sense-marked +the card's margins.</p> + +<p>Fred felt that each stroke of the +pencil was a black mark against +him. He watched in apprehensive +silence.</p> + +<p>The young cop was also silent. +When finished he wordlessly returned +the identification, tipped +his cap, and swaggered off, his +thick neck red above his green +collar.</p> + +<p>Fred found he'd had more than +enough of swaggering young men +with beefy red necks. That added +to his disgust with the constant +struggle to produce and consume, +consume and produce. Vague, +wishful threats froze as determination: +he absolutely wasn't going +through any more of it.</p> + +<p>He filed a flight plan that would +return him to his home, and in +due course arrived there.</p> + +<p>The phone rang in his ears as +he opened the cockpit. He didn't +want to answer, and he stayed on +the roof securing the gyro and +plugging in its battery-charger. But +he couldn't ignore the bell's insistent +clamor.</p> + +<p>When he went downstairs and +switched on the phone, George +Harding's round face splashed on +the wall.</p> + +<p>"Fred," he said, "when we +talked a few hours ago, you forgot +to say you were sick. I phoned to +confirm that for the Attendance +Report. Did this call get you out +of bed?"</p> + +<p>He could see it hadn't. Therefore +Fred knew he must be recording +the audio only, and not +the video; trying to give him a +break with the Attendance people +and coach him on the most appeasing +answers.</p> + +<p>A well-meant gesture, but a +false one. And Fred was fed up +with the false. "I forgot nothing," +he said bluntly. "I'm perfectly +well and haven't been near bed."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"George, I'm not going to play +along with you," Fred insisted. +"This business of producing to +consume and consuming to produce +has got me down. It's beyond +all reason!"</p> + +<p>"No, it isn't. You're an excellent +mechanical engineer, Fred, but +you're not an economist. That's +why you don't understand. Just excuse +me for a minute, and I'll +show you."</p> + +<p>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 with his time.</p> + +<p>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 a form of consumption, +too—even the production of +machine-tools and labor-saving devices. +So there's nothing inconsistent—"</p> + +<p>"What are you trying to do?" +Fred demanded. "Don't lecture me—I +know as much econ as you +do!"</p> + +<p>"But you've got to come back to +work, Fred! I want you to use your +rations, put your shoulder to the +wheel, and conform generally. The +policing's too strict for you to try +anything else, fella—and I like you +too well to want to see you—"</p> + +<p>"I don't need you to protect me, +George," Fred said stiffly. "I guess +you mean well enough. But goodbye." +He switched off.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">The silence</span> struck him. +Not a sound stirred the air in +that lonely new house except the +slight wheeze of his breathing.</p> + +<p>He felt tired. Bone weary. As if +all the fatigues of his eighty-six +years were accumulated within +him.</p> + +<p>He stood by a window and +stared blindly out. Everyone +seemed to have been heckling him, +shoving him around, making him +change all his ways every minute. +He didn't want to change. He +didn't want to be forever adapting +to new gadgets, new fads, new +ways of doing things.</p> + +<p>He thought of the villages of +India, substantially unchanged for +three, four, five thousand years. +The villagers had no money, so +they couldn't be consumers. Maybe +they had the natural way to +live. Statically. Also, frugally.</p> + +<p>But no. It was too frugal, too +static. He'd heard and read too +much about the starvation, pestilence, +peonage and other ills +plaguing those Indian villagers. +They didn't have life licked, +either.</p> + +<p>The Indians had not enough, +the Americans, too much. One was +as bad as the other.</p> + +<p>And he was in the middle.</p> + +<p>He left the window he'd been +staring from unseeingly and walked +to the foyer control-panel. There +he pushed the button that would +cause the house to rear a hundred +feet into the air on its titanium-aluminum +plunger.</p> + +<p>Then he went back to the window +to watch the ground recede. +He felt a hand on his shoulder. He +decided the sensation was an illusion—a +part of his state of mind.</p> + +<p>A young man's voice said, "Mr. +Lubway, we need you."</p> + +<p>That was a nice thing to hear, +so Fred turned, ready to smile. He +didn't smile. He was confronted +by another ration-cop.</p> + +<p>This one was a tall young man, +dark and hefty. He seemed very +kindly, in his official sort of way.</p> + +<p>"Mr. George Harding sent me," +he explained. "He asked us to look +you up and see if we could help."</p> + +<p>"Yes?"</p> + +<p>"You seem to have been a little +unhappy this morning. I mean—well—staring +out that window +while your house rises dangerously +high. Mr. George Harding +didn't like the mood you're in, and +neither do I, Mr. Lubway. I'm +afraid you'll have to come to the +hospital. We can't have a valuable +citizen like you falling out that +window, can we?"</p> + +<p>"What do you mean, 'valuable +citizen'? I'm no use to anybody. +There's plenty of engineers, and +more being graduated every semester. +You don't need me."</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes, we do!" Shaking his +head, the young ration-cop took +a firm grip on Fred's right biceps. +"You've got to come along with +me till your outlook changes, Mr. +Lubway."</p> + +<p>"Now, see here!" Fred objected, +trying unsuccessfully to twist free +of the officer's grip. "You've no +call to treat me like a criminal. +Nor to talk to me as if I were +senile. My outlook won't change, +and you know it!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes, it will! And since +you're neither criminal nor senile, +that's what has to be done.</p> + +<p>"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 without a care in the +world. Yes, sir, we'll change your +outlook!</p> + +<p>"Now, you mustn't try to twist +away from me like that, Mr. Lubway. +I can't let you go. We need +every consumer we can get."</p> + +<div class="trn"><div class="figt"><a href="images/002-2.jpg"><img src="images/002-1.jpg" width="142" height="200" alt="" title="" /></a></div> + +<p><big><b>Transcriber's Note:</b></big></p> + +<p>This etext was produced from <i>If Worlds of Science Fiction</i> 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.</p></div> + +<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 30416 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/30416-h/images/001.png b/30416-h/images/001.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..a564a99 --- /dev/null +++ b/30416-h/images/001.png diff --git a/30416-h/images/002-1.jpg b/30416-h/images/002-1.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..aeaf7f2 --- /dev/null +++ b/30416-h/images/002-1.jpg diff --git a/30416-h/images/002-2.jpg b/30416-h/images/002-2.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..a2add91 --- /dev/null +++ b/30416-h/images/002-2.jpg diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Waste Not, Want + +Author: Dave Dryfoos + +Illustrator: Kelly Freas + +Release Date: November 7, 2009 [EBook #30416] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WASTE NOT, WANT *** + + + + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<div class="figc"><img src="images/001.png" width="532" height="500" alt="" title="" /> +<i>Illustrated by Kelly Freas</i></div> + +<h1><span class="sp1">WASTE NOT, WANT</span></h1> + +<div class="bk1"><big><i>Eat your spinach, little man! It's good for you. Stuff yourself<br /> +with it. Be a good little consumer, or the<br /> +cops will get you.... For such is the law of supply and demand!</i></big></div> + +<h2>BY DAVE DRYFOOS</h2> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">Panic</span> roused him—the black +imp of panic that lived under +the garish rug of this unfamiliar +room and crawled out at dawn to +nudge him awake and stare from +the blank space to his left where +Tillie's gray head should have +been.</p> + +<p>His fists clenched in anger—at +himself. He'd never been the sort +to make allowance for his own +weakness and didn't propose to begin +doing so now, at age eighty-six. +Tillie'd been killed in that +crash well over a year ago and it +was time he got used to his widowerhood +and quit searching for +her every morning.</p> + +<p>But even after he gave himself +the bawling out, orientation came +slowly. The surroundings looked +so strange. No matter what he told +himself it was hard to believe that +he was indeed Fred Lubway, mechanical +engineer, and had a right +to be in this single bed, alone in +this house his Tillie had never +seen.</p> + +<p>The right to be there was all +wrong. He disliked the house and +hated all its furnishings.</p> + +<p>The cybernetic cooker in the +kitchen; the magnetically-suspended +divans in the living room; +the three-dimensional color broadcasts +he could so readily project +to any wall or ceiling; the solartropic +machinery that would turn +any face of the pentagonal house +into the sun or the shade or the +breeze; the lift that would raise +the entire building a hundred feet +into the air to give him a wider +view and more privacy—all left +him dissatisfied.</p> + +<p>They were new. None had been +shared with Tillie. He used them +only to the extent required by law +to fulfill his duty as a consumer.</p> + +<p>"You must change your home +because of the change in your family +composition," the Ration +Board's bright young female had +explained, right after Tillie's funeral. +"Your present furnishings +are obsolete. You must replace +them."</p> + +<p>"And if I don't?" He'd been +truculent.</p> + +<p>"I doubt we'd have to invoke +the penalties for criminal underconsumption," +she'd explained +airily. "There are plenty of other +possible courses of action. Maybe +we'd just get a decision that you're +prematurely senile and unable to +care for yourself. Then you'd go +to a home for the aged where +they'd <i>help</i> you consume—with +forced feedings and such."</p> + +<p>So here he was, in this home-of-his-own +that seemed to belong +to someone else. Well, at least he +wasn't senile, even if he did move +a little slowly, now, getting out of +bed. He'd warm up soon. All by +himself. With no one's help.</p> + +<p>And as far as these newfangled +gadgets in the bathroom were concerned, +he could follow any well-written +set of directions. He'd +scalded himself that time only because +the printed instructions +were so confusing.</p> + +<p>He took a cold shower this time.</p> + +<p>When the airtowel had finished +blowing and he was half dry—not +wholly dry because the machine +wasn't adapted to people +who took ice-cold showers—he +went in to the clothing machine. +He punched the same few holes +in its tape that he put there every +day, stood in the right place, and +in due course emerged with his +long, rawboned frame covered by +magenta tights having an excessively +baggy seat.</p> + +<p>He knew the costume was +neither pretty nor fashionable and +that its design, having been wholly +within his control when he punched +the tape, revealed both his taste +and his mood. He didn't care; +there was no one in the world +whom he wanted to impress.</p> + +<p>He looked in the dressing room +mirror not to inspect the tights but +to examine his face and see if it +needed shaving. Too late he remembered +that twenty years had +elapsed since the permanent depilatories +were first invented and +ten since he'd used one and +stopped having to shave.</p> + +<p>There were too many changes +like that in this gadget-mad +world; too many new ways of doing +old things. Life had no stability.</p> + +<p>He stalked into the kitchen +wishing he could skip breakfast—anger +always unsettled his stomach. +But everyone was required to +eat at least three meals a day. The +vast machine-records system that +kept track of each person's consumption +would reveal to the Ration +Board any failure to use his +share of food, so he dialed Breakfast +Number Three—tomato juice, +toast, and coffee.</p> + +<p>The signal-panel flashed "Under-Eating" +and he knew the state +machine-records system had advised +his cybernetic cooker to increase +the amount of his consumption. +Chin in hands, he sat hopelessly +at the kitchen table awaiting +his meal, and in due course +was served prunes, waffles, bacon, +eggs, toast, and tea—none of +which he liked, except for toast.</p> + +<p>He ate dutifully nevertheless, +telling himself he wasn't afraid of +the ration-cops who were always +suspecting him of underconsumption +because he was the tall skinny +type and never got fat like most +people, but that he ate what the +cooker had given him because his +father had been unemployed for a +long time during the depression +seventy-five years before, so he'd +never been able to bring himself to +throw food away.</p> + +<p>Failure to consume had in the +old days been called "overproduction" +and by any name it was bad. +So was war—he'd read enough +about war to be glad that form of +consumption had finally been +abolished.</p> + +<p>Still it was a duty and not a +pleasure to eat so much, and a relief +to get up and put the dirty +dishes into the disposal machine +and go up topside to his gyro.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">Disgustingly</span>, he had a long +wait before departure. After +climbing into the gyro and transmitting +his flight plan, he had to +sit seething for all of fifteen minutes +before the Mount Diablo +Flight Control Center deigned to +lift his remote-controlled gyro into +the air. And when the signal +came, ascent was so awkwardly +abrupt it made his ears pop.</p> + +<p>He couldn't even complain. The +Center was mechanical, and unequipped +to hear complaints.</p> + +<p>It routed him straight down the +San Joaquin Valley—a beautiful +sight from fifteen thousand feet, +but over-familiar. He fell asleep +and awakened only when unexpectedly +brought down at Bakersfield +Field.</p> + +<p>Above his instrument panel the +printing-receiver said "Routine +Check of Equipment and Documents. +Not Over Five Minutes' +Delay."</p> + +<p>But it could take longer. And +tardiness was subject to official +punishments as a form of unproductiveness. +He called George +Harding at the plant.</p> + +<p>Harding apparently had been +expecting the call. His round bluff +face wore a scowl of annoyance.</p> + +<p>"Don't you ever watch the newscasts?" +he demanded angrily. +"They began this 'Routine Check' +you're in at five this morning, and +were broadcasting pictures of the +resulting traffic jam by six. If you'd +filed a flight plan for Santa Barbara +and come on down the coast +you'd have avoided all this."</p> + +<p>"I'm not required to listen to +newscasts," Fred replied tartly. "I +own the requisite number of receivers +and—"</p> + +<p>"Now, listen, Fred," Harding interrupted. +"We need you down +here so hurry up!"</p> + +<p>Fred heard him switch off and +sat for a moment trembling with +rage. But he ended by grinning +wryly. Everyone was in the same +boat, of course. For the most part, +people avoided thinking about it. +But he could now see himself as if +from above, spending his life flitting +back and forth between home +and plant, plant and home; wracking +his brain to devise labor-saving +machines while at the plant, then +rushing home to struggle with the +need to consume their tremendous +output.</p> + +<p>Was he a man? Or was he a +caged squirrel racing in an exercise-wheel, +running himself ragged +and with great effort producing +absolutely nothing?</p> + +<p>He wasn't going to do it any +longer, by golly! He was going +to—</p> + +<p>"Good morning!" A chubby +young man in the pea-green uniform +of a ration-cop opened the +door and climbed uninvited into +the cockpit. "May I check the up-to-dateness +of your ship's equipment, +please?"</p> + +<p>Fred didn't answer. He didn't +have to. The young officer was already +in the manual pilot's seat, +checking the secondary controls.</p> + +<p>In swift routine he tried motor +and instruments, and took the craft +briefly aloft. Down again, he demanded +Fred's papers.</p> + +<p>The licenses that pertained to +the gyro were in order, but there +was trouble over Fred's personal +documents: his ration-book contained +far too few sales-validations.</p> + +<p>"You're not doing your share of +consuming, Oldtimer," the young +cop said mildly. "Look at all these +unused food allotments! Want to +cause a depression?"</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"Man, if you don't eat more +than this, we'll have mass starvation!"</p> + +<p>"I know the slogans."</p> + +<p>"Yes, but do you know the penalties? +Forced feeding, compulsory +consumption—do you think they're +fun?"</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"Well, you can file your flight +plan and go, but if you don't spend +those tickets before their expiration +dates, Mister, you'll have +cause to regret it."</p> + +<p>With a special pencil, he sense-marked +the card's margins.</p> + +<p>Fred felt that each stroke of the +pencil was a black mark against +him. He watched in apprehensive +silence.</p> + +<p>The young cop was also silent. +When finished he wordlessly returned +the identification, tipped +his cap, and swaggered off, his +thick neck red above his green +collar.</p> + +<p>Fred found he'd had more than +enough of swaggering young men +with beefy red necks. That added +to his disgust with the constant +struggle to produce and consume, +consume and produce. Vague, +wishful threats froze as determination: +he absolutely wasn't going +through any more of it.</p> + +<p>He filed a flight plan that would +return him to his home, and in +due course arrived there.</p> + +<p>The phone rang in his ears as +he opened the cockpit. He didn't +want to answer, and he stayed on +the roof securing the gyro and +plugging in its battery-charger. But +he couldn't ignore the bell's insistent +clamor.</p> + +<p>When he went downstairs and +switched on the phone, George +Harding's round face splashed on +the wall.</p> + +<p>"Fred," he said, "when we +talked a few hours ago, you forgot +to say you were sick. I phoned to +confirm that for the Attendance +Report. Did this call get you out +of bed?"</p> + +<p>He could see it hadn't. Therefore +Fred knew he must be recording +the audio only, and not +the video; trying to give him a +break with the Attendance people +and coach him on the most appeasing +answers.</p> + +<p>A well-meant gesture, but a +false one. And Fred was fed up +with the false. "I forgot nothing," +he said bluntly. "I'm perfectly +well and haven't been near bed."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"George, I'm not going to play +along with you," Fred insisted. +"This business of producing to +consume and consuming to produce +has got me down. It's beyond +all reason!"</p> + +<p>"No, it isn't. You're an excellent +mechanical engineer, Fred, but +you're not an economist. That's +why you don't understand. Just excuse +me for a minute, and I'll +show you."</p> + +<p>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 with his time.</p> + +<p>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 a form of consumption, +too—even the production of +machine-tools and labor-saving devices. +So there's nothing inconsistent—"</p> + +<p>"What are you trying to do?" +Fred demanded. "Don't lecture me—I +know as much econ as you +do!"</p> + +<p>"But you've got to come back to +work, Fred! I want you to use your +rations, put your shoulder to the +wheel, and conform generally. The +policing's too strict for you to try +anything else, fella—and I like you +too well to want to see you—"</p> + +<p>"I don't need you to protect me, +George," Fred said stiffly. "I guess +you mean well enough. But goodbye." +He switched off.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">The silence</span> struck him. +Not a sound stirred the air in +that lonely new house except the +slight wheeze of his breathing.</p> + +<p>He felt tired. Bone weary. As if +all the fatigues of his eighty-six +years were accumulated within +him.</p> + +<p>He stood by a window and +stared blindly out. Everyone +seemed to have been heckling him, +shoving him around, making him +change all his ways every minute. +He didn't want to change. He +didn't want to be forever adapting +to new gadgets, new fads, new +ways of doing things.</p> + +<p>He thought of the villages of +India, substantially unchanged for +three, four, five thousand years. +The villagers had no money, so +they couldn't be consumers. Maybe +they had the natural way to +live. Statically. Also, frugally.</p> + +<p>But no. It was too frugal, too +static. He'd heard and read too +much about the starvation, pestilence, +peonage and other ills +plaguing those Indian villagers. +They didn't have life licked, +either.</p> + +<p>The Indians had not enough, +the Americans, too much. One was +as bad as the other.</p> + +<p>And he was in the middle.</p> + +<p>He left the window he'd been +staring from unseeingly and walked +to the foyer control-panel. There +he pushed the button that would +cause the house to rear a hundred +feet into the air on its titanium-aluminum +plunger.</p> + +<p>Then he went back to the window +to watch the ground recede. +He felt a hand on his shoulder. He +decided the sensation was an illusion—a +part of his state of mind.</p> + +<p>A young man's voice said, "Mr. +Lubway, we need you."</p> + +<p>That was a nice thing to hear, +so Fred turned, ready to smile. He +didn't smile. He was confronted +by another ration-cop.</p> + +<p>This one was a tall young man, +dark and hefty. He seemed very +kindly, in his official sort of way.</p> + +<p>"Mr. George Harding sent me," +he explained. "He asked us to look +you up and see if we could help."</p> + +<p>"Yes?"</p> + +<p>"You seem to have been a little +unhappy this morning. I mean—well—staring +out that window +while your house rises dangerously +high. Mr. George Harding +didn't like the mood you're in, and +neither do I, Mr. Lubway. I'm +afraid you'll have to come to the +hospital. We can't have a valuable +citizen like you falling out that +window, can we?"</p> + +<p>"What do you mean, 'valuable +citizen'? I'm no use to anybody. +There's plenty of engineers, and +more being graduated every semester. +You don't need me."</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes, we do!" Shaking his +head, the young ration-cop took +a firm grip on Fred's right biceps. +"You've got to come along with +me till your outlook changes, Mr. +Lubway."</p> + +<p>"Now, see here!" Fred objected, +trying unsuccessfully to twist free +of the officer's grip. "You've no +call to treat me like a criminal. +Nor to talk to me as if I were +senile. My outlook won't change, +and you know it!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes, it will! And since +you're neither criminal nor senile, +that's what has to be done.</p> + +<p>"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 without a care in the +world. Yes, sir, we'll change your +outlook!</p> + +<p>"Now, you mustn't try to twist +away from me like that, Mr. Lubway. +I can't let you go. We need +every consumer we can get."</p> + +<div class="trn"><div class="figt"><a href="images/002-2.jpg"><img src="images/002-1.jpg" width="142" height="200" alt="" title="" /></a></div> + +<p><big><b>Transcriber's Note:</b></big></p> + +<p>This etext was produced from <i>If Worlds of Science Fiction</i> 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.</p></div> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Waste Not, Want, by Dave Dryfoos + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WASTE NOT, WANT *** + +***** This file should be named 30416-h.htm or 30416-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/0/4/1/30416/ + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Waste Not, Want + +Author: Dave Dryfoos + +Illustrator: Kelly Freas + +Release Date: November 7, 2009 [EBook #30416] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WASTE NOT, WANT *** + + + + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + +[Illustration: _Illustrated by Kelly Freas_] + + +WASTE NOT, WANT + + _Eat your spinach, little man! It's good for you. Stuff yourself + with it. Be a good little consumer, or the cops will get you.... For + such is the law of supply and demand!_ + +BY DAVE DRYFOOS + + +Panic roused him--the black imp of panic that lived under the garish rug +of this unfamiliar room and crawled out at dawn to nudge him awake and +stare from the blank space to his left where Tillie's gray head should +have been. + +His fists clenched in anger--at himself. He'd never been the sort to +make allowance for his own weakness and didn't propose to begin doing so +now, at age eighty-six. Tillie'd been killed in that crash well over a +year ago and it was time he got used to his widowerhood and quit +searching for her every morning. + +But even after he gave himself the bawling out, orientation came slowly. +The surroundings looked so strange. No matter what he told himself it +was hard to believe that he was indeed Fred Lubway, mechanical engineer, +and had a right to be in this single bed, alone in this house his Tillie +had never seen. + +The right to be there was all wrong. He disliked the house and hated all +its furnishings. + +The cybernetic cooker in the kitchen; the magnetically-suspended divans +in the living room; the three-dimensional color broadcasts he could so +readily project to any wall or ceiling; the solartropic machinery that +would turn any face of the pentagonal house into the sun or the shade or +the breeze; the lift that would raise the entire building a hundred feet +into the air to give him a wider view and more privacy--all left him +dissatisfied. + +They were new. None had been shared with Tillie. He used them only to +the extent required by law to fulfill his duty as a consumer. + +"You must change your home because of the change in your family +composition," the Ration Board's bright young female had explained, +right after Tillie's funeral. "Your present furnishings are obsolete. +You must replace them." + +"And if I don't?" He'd been truculent. + +"I doubt we'd have to invoke the penalties for criminal +underconsumption," she'd explained airily. "There are plenty of other +possible courses of action. Maybe we'd just get a decision that you're +prematurely senile and unable to care for yourself. Then you'd go to a +home for the aged where they'd _help_ you consume--with forced feedings +and such." + +So here he was, in this home-of-his-own that seemed to belong to someone +else. Well, at least he wasn't senile, even if he did move a little +slowly, now, getting out of bed. He'd warm up soon. All by himself. With +no one's help. + +And as far as these newfangled gadgets in the bathroom were concerned, +he could follow any well-written set of directions. He'd scalded himself +that time only because the printed instructions were so confusing. + +He took a cold shower this time. + +When the airtowel had finished blowing and he was half dry--not wholly +dry because the machine wasn't adapted to people who took ice-cold +showers--he went in to the clothing machine. He punched the same few +holes in its tape that he put there every day, stood in the right place, +and in due course emerged with his long, rawboned frame covered by +magenta tights having an excessively baggy seat. + +He knew the costume was neither pretty nor fashionable and that its +design, having been wholly within his control when he punched the tape, +revealed both his taste and his mood. He didn't care; there was no one +in the world whom he wanted to impress. + +He looked in the dressing room mirror not to inspect the tights but to +examine his face and see if it needed shaving. Too late he remembered +that twenty years had elapsed since the permanent depilatories were +first invented and ten since he'd used one and stopped having to shave. + +There were too many changes like that in this gadget-mad world; too many +new ways of doing old things. Life had no stability. + +He stalked into the kitchen wishing he could skip breakfast--anger +always unsettled his stomach. But everyone was required to eat at least +three meals a day. The vast machine-records system that kept track of +each person's consumption would reveal to the Ration Board any failure +to use his share of food, so he dialed Breakfast Number Three--tomato +juice, toast, and coffee. + +The signal-panel flashed "Under-Eating" and he knew the state +machine-records system had advised his cybernetic cooker to increase the +amount of his consumption. Chin in hands, he sat hopelessly at the +kitchen table awaiting his meal, and in due course was served prunes, +waffles, bacon, eggs, toast, and tea--none of which he liked, except for +toast. + +He ate dutifully nevertheless, telling himself he wasn't afraid of the +ration-cops who were always suspecting him of underconsumption because +he was the tall skinny type and never got fat like most people, but that +he ate what the cooker had given him because his father had been +unemployed for a long time during the depression seventy-five years +before, so he'd never been able to bring himself to throw food away. + +Failure to consume had in the old days been called "overproduction" and +by any name it was bad. So was war--he'd read enough about war to be +glad that form of consumption had finally been abolished. + +Still it was a duty and not a pleasure to eat so much, and a relief to +get up and put the dirty dishes into the disposal machine and go up +topside to his gyro. + + * * * * * + +Disgustingly, he had a long wait before departure. After climbing into +the gyro and transmitting his flight plan, he had to sit seething for +all of fifteen minutes before the Mount Diablo Flight Control Center +deigned to lift his remote-controlled gyro into the air. And when the +signal came, ascent was so awkwardly abrupt it made his ears pop. + +He couldn't even complain. The Center was mechanical, and unequipped to +hear complaints. + +It routed him straight down the San Joaquin Valley--a beautiful sight +from fifteen thousand feet, but over-familiar. He fell asleep and +awakened only when unexpectedly brought down at Bakersfield Field. + +Above his instrument panel the printing-receiver said "Routine Check of +Equipment and Documents. Not Over Five Minutes' Delay." + +But it could take longer. And tardiness was subject to official +punishments as a form of unproductiveness. He called George Harding at +the plant. + +Harding apparently had been expecting the call. His round bluff face +wore a scowl of annoyance. + +"Don't you ever watch the newscasts?" he demanded angrily. "They began +this 'Routine Check' you're in at five this morning, and were +broadcasting pictures of the resulting traffic jam by six. If you'd +filed a flight plan for Santa Barbara and come on down the coast you'd +have avoided all this." + +"I'm not required to listen to newscasts," Fred replied tartly. "I own +the requisite number of receivers and--" + +"Now, listen, Fred," Harding interrupted. "We need you down here so +hurry up!" + +Fred heard him switch off and sat for a moment trembling with rage. But +he ended by grinning wryly. Everyone was in the same boat, of course. +For the most part, people avoided thinking about it. But he could now +see himself as if from above, spending his life flitting back and forth +between home and plant, plant and home; wracking his brain to devise +labor-saving machines while at the plant, then rushing home to struggle +with the need to consume their tremendous output. + +Was he a man? Or was he a caged squirrel racing in an exercise-wheel, +running himself ragged and with great effort producing absolutely +nothing? + +He wasn't going to do it any longer, by golly! He was going to-- + +"Good morning!" A chubby young man in the pea-green uniform of a +ration-cop opened the door and climbed uninvited into the cockpit. "May +I check the up-to-dateness of your ship's equipment, please?" + +Fred didn't answer. He didn't have to. The young officer was already in +the manual pilot's seat, checking the secondary controls. + +In swift routine he tried motor and instruments, and took the craft +briefly aloft. Down again, he demanded Fred's papers. + +The licenses that pertained to the gyro were in order, but there was +trouble over Fred's personal documents: his ration-book contained far +too few sales-validations. + +"You're not doing your share of consuming, Oldtimer," the young cop said +mildly. "Look at all these unused food allotments! Want to cause a +depression?" + +"No." + +"Man, if you don't eat more than this, we'll have mass starvation!" + +"I know the slogans." + +"Yes, but do you know the penalties? Forced feeding, compulsory +consumption--do you think they're fun?" + +"No." + +"Well, you can file your flight plan and go, but if you don't spend +those tickets before their expiration dates, Mister, you'll have cause +to 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 the +identification, tipped his cap, and swaggered off, his thick neck red +above his green collar. + +Fred found he'd had more than enough of swaggering young men with beefy +red necks. That added to his disgust with the constant struggle to +produce and consume, consume and produce. Vague, wishful threats froze +as 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 due +course arrived there. + +The phone rang in his ears as he opened the cockpit. He didn't want to +answer, and he stayed on the roof securing the gyro and plugging in its +battery-charger. But he couldn't ignore the bell's insistent clamor. + +When he went downstairs and switched on the phone, George Harding's +round face splashed on the wall. + +"Fred," he said, "when we talked a few hours ago, you forgot to say you +were sick. I phoned to confirm that for the Attendance Report. Did this +call get you out of bed?" + +He could see it hadn't. Therefore Fred knew he must be recording the +audio only, and not the video; trying to give him a break with the +Attendance people and coach him on the most appeasing answers. + +A well-meant gesture, but a false one. And Fred was fed up with the +false. "I forgot nothing," he said bluntly. "I'm perfectly well and +haven'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. "This +business of producing to consume and consuming to produce has got me +down. It's beyond all reason!" + +"No, it isn't. You're an excellent mechanical engineer, Fred, but you're +not an economist. That's why you don't understand. Just excuse me for a +minute, 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 with +his 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 a +form of consumption, too--even the production of machine-tools and +labor-saving devices. So there's nothing inconsistent--" + +"What are you trying to do?" Fred demanded. "Don't lecture me--I know as +much econ as you do!" + +"But you've got to come back to work, Fred! I want you to use your +rations, put your shoulder to the wheel, and conform generally. The +policing's too strict for you to try anything else, fella--and I like +you too well to want to see you--" + +"I don't need you to protect me, George," Fred said stiffly. "I guess +you mean well enough. But goodbye." He switched off. + + * * * * * + +The silence struck him. Not a sound stirred the air in that lonely new +house except the slight wheeze of his breathing. + +He felt tired. Bone weary. As if all the fatigues of his eighty-six +years were accumulated within him. + +He stood by a window and stared blindly out. Everyone seemed to have +been heckling him, shoving him around, making him change all his ways +every minute. He didn't want to change. He didn't want to be forever +adapting 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't +be 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 much +about the starvation, pestilence, peonage and other ills plaguing those +Indian villagers. They didn't have life licked, either. + +The Indians had not enough, the Americans, too much. One was as bad as +the other. + +And he was in the middle. + +He left the window he'd been staring from unseeingly and walked to the +foyer control-panel. There he pushed the button that would cause the +house to rear a hundred feet into the air on its titanium-aluminum +plunger. + +Then he went back to the window to watch the ground recede. He felt a +hand on his shoulder. He decided the sensation was an illusion--a part +of 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't +smile. He was confronted by another ration-cop. + +This one was a tall young man, dark and hefty. He seemed very kindly, in +his official sort of way. + +"Mr. George Harding sent me," he explained. "He asked us to look you up +and see if we could help." + +"Yes?" + +"You seem to have been a little unhappy this morning. I +mean--well--staring out that window while your house rises dangerously +high. Mr. George Harding didn't like the mood you're in, and neither do +I, Mr. Lubway. I'm afraid you'll have to come to the hospital. We can't +have a valuable citizen like you falling out that window, can we?" + +"What do you mean, 'valuable citizen'? I'm no use to anybody. There's +plenty of engineers, and more being graduated every semester. You don't +need me." + +"Oh, yes, we do!" Shaking his head, the young ration-cop took a firm +grip on Fred's right biceps. "You've got to come along with me till your +outlook changes, Mr. Lubway." + +"Now, see here!" Fred objected, trying unsuccessfully to twist free of +the officer's grip. "You've no call to treat me like a criminal. Nor to +talk to me as if I were senile. My outlook won't change, and you know +it!" + +"Oh, yes, it will! And since you're neither criminal nor senile, that's +what 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 without +a 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. I +can'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. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Waste Not, Want, by Dave Dryfoos + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WASTE NOT, WANT *** + +***** This file should be named 30416.txt or 30416.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/0/4/1/30416/ + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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