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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> |