he’d be late for milking if he didn’t look sharp. Without even thinking, he chose the baby blue overalls with pink piping from his wardrobe, jammed a blue straw hat on his head, and loped out to the kitchen.
His pail was by the door. It was a silver one today – yesterday it had been gold. He decided he liked the silver better, for it made the milk look cool and white.
The kitchen door wouldn’t budge, and Lloyd realized it meant for him to put on his shoes. Damnit, he’d of liked to go barefoot. Damnit, he would of.
He would of liked to do his own milking, too, but They had explained how dangerous it was. Why, you could get kicked in the head before you knew it! Reluctantly, the Machines allowed him to milk, each morning, one cow that had been tranquillized and all its legs fastened in a steel frame.
He slipped on his comfortable blue brogans and picked up his pail again. This time the kitchen door opened easily, and as it did, a rooster crowed in the distance.
Yes, there had been a lot of doors closed in Lloyd’s face. Enough to have made a bitter man of him, but for Them. He knew They could be trusted, even if they had done him out of his job in nineteen and seventy. For ten years, he had just bummed around, trying to get factory work, anything. At the end of his rope, until they saved him.
In the barn, Betsy, his favourite Jersey, had been knocked out and shackled by the time he arrived. The Muzik played a bouncy, lighthearted tune, perfect for milking.
No, it wasn’t Machines that did you dirt, he knew. It was people. People and animals, live things always trying to kick you in the head. As much as he liked Joe and Betsy, which was more than he liked people, he didn’t really trust ’em.
You could trust Machines. They took good care of you. The only trouble with Them was—well, they
knew
so much. They were always so damned smart and busy, They made you feel kind of useless. Almost like you were standing in their light.
It was altogether an enjoyable ten minutes, and when he stepped into the cool milkhouse to empty the pail into a receptacle that led God knewwhere, Lloyd had a strange impulse. He wanted to taste the warm milk, something he’d promised not to do. They had warned him about diseases, but he just felt too good to worry this morning. He tilted the silver pail to his lips –
And a bolt of lightning knocked it away, slamming him to the floor. At least it felt like a bolt of lightning. He tried to get up and found he couldn’t move. A green mist began spraying from the ceiling. Now what the hell was that? he wondered, and drifted off to sleep in the puddle of spilled milk.
The first MED unit reported no superficial injuries. Lloyd C. Young, AAAAMTL-RH 01 AB was resting well, pulse high, resp normal. MED 8 disinfected the area thoroughly and destroyed all traces of the raw milk. While MED 19 pumped his stomach and swabbed nose, throat, oesophagus and trachea, MED 8 cut away and destroyed all his clothing. An emergency heating unit warmed him until fresh clothing could be constructed. Despite the cushioned floor, the patient had broken a toe in falling. It was decided not to move him, but to erect bed and traction on the spot. MED 19 recommended therapeutic punishment.
When Lloyd awoke, the television came to life, showing an amiable-looking man with white hair.
‘You have my sympathy,’ the man said. ‘You have just survived what we call a “Number-One Killer Accident”, a bad fall in your home. Our machines were in part responsible for this, in the course of saving your life from –’ The man hesitated, while a sign flashed behind him: ‘B ACTERIAL P OISONING .’ Then he went on, ‘– by physically removing you from the danger. Since this was the only course open to us, your injury could not have been avoided.
‘
Except by you
. Only
you
can save your life, finally.’ The man pointed at Lloyd. ‘Only you can make all of modern science worthwhile. And only you can help
His pail was by the door. It was a silver one today – yesterday it had been gold. He decided he liked the silver better, for it made the milk look cool and white.
The kitchen door wouldn’t budge, and Lloyd realized it meant for him to put on his shoes. Damnit, he’d of liked to go barefoot. Damnit, he would of.
He would of liked to do his own milking, too, but They had explained how dangerous it was. Why, you could get kicked in the head before you knew it! Reluctantly, the Machines allowed him to milk, each morning, one cow that had been tranquillized and all its legs fastened in a steel frame.
He slipped on his comfortable blue brogans and picked up his pail again. This time the kitchen door opened easily, and as it did, a rooster crowed in the distance.
Yes, there had been a lot of doors closed in Lloyd’s face. Enough to have made a bitter man of him, but for Them. He knew They could be trusted, even if they had done him out of his job in nineteen and seventy. For ten years, he had just bummed around, trying to get factory work, anything. At the end of his rope, until they saved him.
In the barn, Betsy, his favourite Jersey, had been knocked out and shackled by the time he arrived. The Muzik played a bouncy, lighthearted tune, perfect for milking.
No, it wasn’t Machines that did you dirt, he knew. It was people. People and animals, live things always trying to kick you in the head. As much as he liked Joe and Betsy, which was more than he liked people, he didn’t really trust ’em.
You could trust Machines. They took good care of you. The only trouble with Them was—well, they
knew
so much. They were always so damned smart and busy, They made you feel kind of useless. Almost like you were standing in their light.
It was altogether an enjoyable ten minutes, and when he stepped into the cool milkhouse to empty the pail into a receptacle that led God knewwhere, Lloyd had a strange impulse. He wanted to taste the warm milk, something he’d promised not to do. They had warned him about diseases, but he just felt too good to worry this morning. He tilted the silver pail to his lips –
And a bolt of lightning knocked it away, slamming him to the floor. At least it felt like a bolt of lightning. He tried to get up and found he couldn’t move. A green mist began spraying from the ceiling. Now what the hell was that? he wondered, and drifted off to sleep in the puddle of spilled milk.
The first MED unit reported no superficial injuries. Lloyd C. Young, AAAAMTL-RH 01 AB was resting well, pulse high, resp normal. MED 8 disinfected the area thoroughly and destroyed all traces of the raw milk. While MED 19 pumped his stomach and swabbed nose, throat, oesophagus and trachea, MED 8 cut away and destroyed all his clothing. An emergency heating unit warmed him until fresh clothing could be constructed. Despite the cushioned floor, the patient had broken a toe in falling. It was decided not to move him, but to erect bed and traction on the spot. MED 19 recommended therapeutic punishment.
When Lloyd awoke, the television came to life, showing an amiable-looking man with white hair.
‘You have my sympathy,’ the man said. ‘You have just survived what we call a “Number-One Killer Accident”, a bad fall in your home. Our machines were in part responsible for this, in the course of saving your life from –’ The man hesitated, while a sign flashed behind him: ‘B ACTERIAL P OISONING .’ Then he went on, ‘– by physically removing you from the danger. Since this was the only course open to us, your injury could not have been avoided.
‘
Except by you
. Only
you
can save your life, finally.’ The man pointed at Lloyd. ‘Only you can make all of modern science worthwhile. And only you can help
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