weather and sports. In fact, he’d stopped reading the newspaper when the M.D. Employment Wanted ads began to appear.
There were no jobs, only Happiness Jobs – make-work invented by the Machines. In such a job, one could never find an insoluble, or even difficult problem. One finished one’s daily quota without tiring one’s mind or body. Work was no longer work, it was therapy, and, as such, it was constantly rewarding.
Happiness, normality. James saw the personalities of all people drifting downward, like so many different snowflakes falling at last intothe common, shapeless mound.
‘I’m drunk, that’s all,’ he said aloud. ‘Alcohol’s a depressant. Need another drink.’
He lurched slightly as he crossed the room to the niche. The floor must have detected it, for instead of a martini, his pressing the button drew blood from his thumb. In a second, the wall had analysed his blood and presented him with a glass of liquid. A sign lit: ‘Drink this down at once. Replace glass on sink.’
He drained the pleasant-tasting liquid and at once felt drowsy and warm. Somehow he found his way to the bedroom, the door moving to accommodate him, and he fell into bed.
As soon as James R. Fairchild, AAAAGTR-RHOLA was asleep, mechanisms went into action to save his life. That is, he was in no immediate danger, but MED 8 reported his decrease in life expectancy by .00005 years as a result of over-indulgence, and MED 19 evaluated his behaviour, recorded on magnetic tape, as increasing his suicide index by a dangerous 15 points. A diagnostic unit detached itself from the bathroom wall and careered into the bedroom, halting silently and precisely by his side. It drew more blood, checked pulse, temp, resp, heart and brain-wave pattern, and x-rayed his abdomen. Not instructed to go on to patcolar reflexes, it packed up and zoomed away.
In the living-room, a housekeeper buzzed about its work, destroying the orange cushions, the sculpture, the couch and the carpet. The walls took on an almost imperceptibly warmer tone. The new carpet matched them.
The furniture – chosen and delivered without the sleeping man’s knowledge – was Queen Anne, enough to crowd the room. Its polyethylene wraps were left on while the room was disinfected.
In the kitchen, PHARMO 9 ordered and received a new supply of anti-depressants.
It was always the sound of a tractor that awoke Lloyd Young, and though he knew it was an artificial sound, it cheered him all the same. Almost made his day start right. He lay and listened to it awhile before opening his eyes.
Hell, the real tractors didn’t make no sound at all. They worked in the night, burrowing along and plowing a field in one hour that would take a man twelve. Machines pumped strange new chemicals into the soil, and applied heat, to force two full crops of corn in one short Minnesota summer.
There wasn’t much use being a farmer, but he’d always wanted to have a farm, and the Machines said you could have what you wanted. Lloyd was about the only man in these parts still living in the country by now, just him and twelve cows and a half-blind dog, Joe. There wasn’t much to do, with Them running it all. He could go watch his cows being milked, or walk down with Joe to fetch the mail, or watch TV. But it wasquiet and peaceful, the way he liked it.
Except for Them and Their pesky ways. They’d wanted to give Joe a new set of machine eyes, but Lloyd said no, if the good Lord wanted him to see, he’d never have blinded him. That was just the way he’d answered Them about the heart operation, too. Seemed almost like They didn’t have enough to keep ’em busy, or something. They was always worrying about him, him who took real good care of himself all through M.I.T. and twenty years of engineering.
When They’d automated, he’d been done out of a job, but he couldn’t hold that against Them. If Machines was better engineers than him, well, shoot – !
He opened his eyes and saw
There were no jobs, only Happiness Jobs – make-work invented by the Machines. In such a job, one could never find an insoluble, or even difficult problem. One finished one’s daily quota without tiring one’s mind or body. Work was no longer work, it was therapy, and, as such, it was constantly rewarding.
Happiness, normality. James saw the personalities of all people drifting downward, like so many different snowflakes falling at last intothe common, shapeless mound.
‘I’m drunk, that’s all,’ he said aloud. ‘Alcohol’s a depressant. Need another drink.’
He lurched slightly as he crossed the room to the niche. The floor must have detected it, for instead of a martini, his pressing the button drew blood from his thumb. In a second, the wall had analysed his blood and presented him with a glass of liquid. A sign lit: ‘Drink this down at once. Replace glass on sink.’
He drained the pleasant-tasting liquid and at once felt drowsy and warm. Somehow he found his way to the bedroom, the door moving to accommodate him, and he fell into bed.
As soon as James R. Fairchild, AAAAGTR-RHOLA was asleep, mechanisms went into action to save his life. That is, he was in no immediate danger, but MED 8 reported his decrease in life expectancy by .00005 years as a result of over-indulgence, and MED 19 evaluated his behaviour, recorded on magnetic tape, as increasing his suicide index by a dangerous 15 points. A diagnostic unit detached itself from the bathroom wall and careered into the bedroom, halting silently and precisely by his side. It drew more blood, checked pulse, temp, resp, heart and brain-wave pattern, and x-rayed his abdomen. Not instructed to go on to patcolar reflexes, it packed up and zoomed away.
In the living-room, a housekeeper buzzed about its work, destroying the orange cushions, the sculpture, the couch and the carpet. The walls took on an almost imperceptibly warmer tone. The new carpet matched them.
The furniture – chosen and delivered without the sleeping man’s knowledge – was Queen Anne, enough to crowd the room. Its polyethylene wraps were left on while the room was disinfected.
In the kitchen, PHARMO 9 ordered and received a new supply of anti-depressants.
It was always the sound of a tractor that awoke Lloyd Young, and though he knew it was an artificial sound, it cheered him all the same. Almost made his day start right. He lay and listened to it awhile before opening his eyes.
Hell, the real tractors didn’t make no sound at all. They worked in the night, burrowing along and plowing a field in one hour that would take a man twelve. Machines pumped strange new chemicals into the soil, and applied heat, to force two full crops of corn in one short Minnesota summer.
There wasn’t much use being a farmer, but he’d always wanted to have a farm, and the Machines said you could have what you wanted. Lloyd was about the only man in these parts still living in the country by now, just him and twelve cows and a half-blind dog, Joe. There wasn’t much to do, with Them running it all. He could go watch his cows being milked, or walk down with Joe to fetch the mail, or watch TV. But it wasquiet and peaceful, the way he liked it.
Except for Them and Their pesky ways. They’d wanted to give Joe a new set of machine eyes, but Lloyd said no, if the good Lord wanted him to see, he’d never have blinded him. That was just the way he’d answered Them about the heart operation, too. Seemed almost like They didn’t have enough to keep ’em busy, or something. They was always worrying about him, him who took real good care of himself all through M.I.T. and twenty years of engineering.
When They’d automated, he’d been done out of a job, but he couldn’t hold that against Them. If Machines was better engineers than him, well, shoot – !
He opened his eyes and saw
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