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52,995 |
52995_I3M5VUMM
| 11 | 1,003 |
Gutenberg
|
Spaceman on a Spree
|
1961.0
|
Reynolds, Mack
|
PS; Short stories; Astronauts -- Fiction; Science fiction
|
SPACEMAN ON A SPREE
BY MACK REYNOLDS
Illustrated by Nodel
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of Tomorrow June 1963
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
What's more important—Man's conquest
of space, or one spaceman's life?
I
They gave him a gold watch. It was meant to be symbolical, of course.
In the old tradition. It was in the way of an antique, being one of the
timepieces made generations past in the Alpine area of Eur-Asia. Its
quaintness lay in the fact that it was wound, not electronically by
power-radio, but by the actual physical movements of the bearer, a free
swinging rotor keeping the mainspring at a constant tension.
They also had a banquet for him, complete with speeches by such
bigwigs of the Department of Space Exploration as Academician Lofting
Gubelin and Doctor Hans Girard-Perregaux. There was also somebody
from the government who spoke, but he was one of those who were
pseudo-elected and didn't know much about the field of space travel
nor the significance of Seymour Pond's retirement. Si didn't bother to
remember his name. He only wondered vaguely why the cloddy had turned
up at all.
In common with recipients of gold watches of a score of generations
before him, Si Pond would have preferred something a bit more tangible
in the way of reward, such as a few shares of Variable Basic to add to
his portfolio. But that, he supposed, was asking too much.
The fact of the matter was, Si knew that his retiring had set them
back. They hadn't figured he had enough shares of Basic to see him
through decently. Well, possibly he didn't, given their standards.
But Space Pilot Seymour Pond didn't have their standards. He'd had
plenty of time to think it over. It was better to retire on a limited
crediting, on a confoundedly limited crediting, than to take the two or
three more trips in hopes of attaining a higher standard.
He'd had plenty of time to figure it out, there alone in space on the
Moon run, there on the Venus or Mars runs. There on the long, long
haul to the Jupiter satellites, fearfully checking the symptoms of
space cafard, the madness compounded of claustrophobia, monotony,
boredom and free fall. Plenty of time. Time to decide that a one
room mini-auto-apartment, complete with an autochair and built-in
autobar, and with one wall a teevee screen, was all he needed to
find contentment for a mighty long time. Possibly somebody like
Doc Girard-Perregaux might be horrified at the idea of living in a
mini-auto-apartment ... not realizing that to a pilot it was roomy
beyond belief compared to the conning tower of a space craft.
No. Even as Si listened to their speeches, accepted the watch and
made a halting little talk of his own, he was grinning inwardly. There
wasn't anything they could do. He had them now. He had enough Basic to
keep him comfortably, by his standards, for the rest of his life. He
was never going to subject himself to space cafard again. Just thinking
about it, now, set the tic to going at the side of his mouth.
They could count down and blast off, for all he gave a damn.
The gold watch idea had been that of Lofting Gubelin, which was
typical, he being in the way of a living anachronism himself. In fact,
Academician Gubelin was possibly the only living man on North America
who still wore spectacles. His explanation was that a phobia against
having his eyes touched prohibited either surgery to remould his
eyeballs and cure his myopia, or contact lenses.
That was only an alibi so far as his closest associate, Hans
Girard-Perregaux, was concerned. Doctor Girard-Perregaux was convinced
Gubelin would have even worn facial hair, had he but a touch more
courage. Gubelin longed for yesteryear, a seldom found phenomenon under
the Ultrawelfare State.
Slumped in an autochair in the escape room of his Floridian home,
Lofting Gubelin scowled at his friend. He said, acidly, "Any more
bright schemes, Hans? I presume you now acknowledge that appealing to
the cloddy's patriotism, sentiment and desire for public acclaim have
miserably failed."
Girard-Perregaux said easily, "I wouldn't call Seymour Pond a cloddy.
In his position, I am afraid I would do the same thing he has."
"That's nonsense, Hans. Zoroaster! Either you or I would gladly take
Pond's place were we capable of performing the duties for which he has
been trained. There aren't two men on North America—there aren't two
men in the world!—who better realize the urgency of continuing our
delving into space." Gubelin snapped his fingers. "Like that, either of
us would give our lives to prevent man from completely abandoning the
road to his destiny."
His friend said drily, "Either of us could have volunteered for pilot
training forty years ago, Lofting. We didn't."
"At that time there wasn't such a blistering percentage of funkers
throughout this whole blistering Ultrawelfare State! Who could
foresee that eventually our whole program would face ending due to
lack of courageous young men willing to take chances, willing to face
adventure, willing to react to the stimulus of danger in the manner our
ancestors did?"
Girard-Perregaux grunted his sarcasm and dialed a glass of iced tea
and tequila. He said, "Nevertheless, both you and I conform with the
present generation in finding it far more pleasant to follow one's
way of life in the comfort of one's home than to be confronted with
the unpleasantness of facing nature's dangers in more adventurous
pastimes."
Gubelin, half angry at his friend's argument, leaned forward to snap
rebuttal, but the other was wagging a finger at him negatively. "Face
reality, Lofting. Don't require or expect from Seymour Pond more
than is to be found there. He is an average young man. Born in our
Ultrawelfare State, he was guaranteed his fundamental womb-to-tomb
security by being issued that minimum number of Basic shares in our
society that allows him an income sufficient to secure the food,
clothing, shelter, medical care and education to sustain a low level
of subsistence. Percentages were against his ever being drafted
into industry. Automation being what it is, only a fraction of the
population is ever called up. But Pond was. His industrial aptitude
dossier revealed him a possible candidate for space pilot, and it was
you yourself who talked him into taking the training ... pointing out
the more pragmatic advantages such as complete retirement after but six
trips, added shares of Basic so that he could enjoy a more comfortable
life than most and the fame that would accrue to him as one of the
very few who still participate in travel to the planets. Very well.
He was sold. Took his training, which, of course, required long years
of drudgery to him. Then, performing his duties quite competently, he
made his six trips. He is now legally eligible for retirement. He was
drafted into the working force reserves, served his time, and is now
free from toil for the balance of his life. Why should he listen to
our pleas for a few more trips?"
"But has he no spirit of adventure? Has he no feeling for...."
Girard-Perregaux was wagging his finger again, a gesture that,
seemingly mild though it was, had an astonishing ability to break off
the conversation of one who debated with the easy-seeming, quiet spoken
man.
He said, "No, he hasn't. Few there are who have, nowadays. Man has
always paid lip service to adventure, hardships and excitement, but in
actuality his instincts, like those of any other animal, lead him to
the least dangerous path. Today we've reached the point where no one
need face danger—ever. There are few who don't take advantage of the
fact. Including you and me, Lofting, and including Seymour Pond."
His friend and colleague changed subjects abruptly, impatiently. "Let's
leave this blistering jabber about Pond's motivation and get to the
point. The man is the only trained space pilot in the world. It will
take months, possibly more than a year, to bring another novitiate
pilot to the point where he can safely be trusted to take our next
explorer craft out. Appropriations for our expeditions have been
increasingly hard to come by—even though in
our
minds, Hans, we are
near important breakthroughs, breakthroughs which might possibly so
spark the race that a new dream to push man out to the stars will take
hold of us. If it is admitted that our organization has degenerated
to the point that we haven't a single pilot, then it might well be
that the Economic Planning Board, and especially those cloddies
on Appropriations, will terminate the whole Department of Space
Exploration."
"So...." Girard-Perregaux said gently.
"So some way we've got to bring Seymour Pond out of his retirement!"
"Now we are getting to matters." Girard-Perregaux nodded his agreement.
Looking over the rim of his glass, his eyes narrowed in thought as his
face took on an expression of Machiavellianism. "And do not the ends
justify the means?"
Gubelin blinked at him.
The other chuckled. "The trouble with you, Lofting, is that you have
failed to bring history to bear on our problem. Haven't you ever read
of the sailor and his way of life?"
"Sailor? What in the name of the living Zoroaster has the sailor got to
do with it?"
"You must realize, my dear Lofting, that our Si Pond is nothing more
than a latter-day sailor, with many of the problems and view-points,
tendencies and weaknesses of the voyager of the past. Have you never
heard of the seaman who dreamed of returning to the village of his
birth and buying a chicken farm or some such? All the long months at
sea—and sometimes the tramp freighters or whaling craft would be out
for years at a stretch before returning to home port—he would talk
of his retirement and his dream. And then? Then in port, it would be
one short drink with the boys, before taking his accumulated pay and
heading home. The one short drink would lead to another. And morning
would find him, drunk, rolled, tattooed and possibly sleeping it off in
jail. So back to sea he'd have to go."
Gubelin grunted bitterly. "Unfortunately, our present-day sailor
can't be separated from his money quite so easily. If he could, I'd
personally be willing to lure him down some dark alley, knock him over
the head and roll him myself. Just to bring him back to his job again."
He brought his wallet from his pocket, and flicked it open to his
universal credit card. "The ultimate means of exchange," he grunted.
"Nobody can spend your money, but you, yourself. Nobody can steal it,
nobody can, ah,
con
you out of it. Just how do you expect to sever
our present-day sailor and his accumulated nest egg?"
The other chuckled again. "It is simply a matter of finding more modern
methods, my dear chap."
II
Si Pond was a great believer in the institution of the spree. Any
excuse would do. Back when he had finished basic education at the age
of twenty-five and was registered for the labor draft, there hadn't
been a chance in a hundred that he'd have the bad luck to have his
name pulled. But when it had been, Si had celebrated.
When he had been informed that his physical and mental qualifications
were such that he was eligible for the most dangerous occupation in
the Ultrawelfare State and had been pressured into taking training
for space pilot, he had celebrated once again. Twenty-two others had
taken the training with him, and only he and Rod Cameroon had passed
the finals. On this occasion, he and Rod had celebrated together. It
had been quite a party. Two weeks later, Rod had burned on a faulty
take-off on what should have been a routine Moon run.
Each time Si returned from one of his own runs, he celebrated. A spree,
a bust, a bat, a wing-ding, a night on the town. A commemoration of
dangers met and passed.
Now it was all over. At the age of thirty he was retired. Law prevented
him from ever being called up for contributing to the country's labor
needs again. And he most certainly wasn't going to volunteer.
He had taken his schooling much as had his contemporaries. There wasn't
any particular reason for trying to excell. You didn't want to get the
reputation for being a wise guy, or a cloddy either. Just one of the
fellas. You could do the same in life whether you really studied or
not. You had your Inalienable Basic stock, didn't you? What else did
you need?
It had come as a surprise when he'd been drafted for the labor force.
In the early days of the Ultrawelfare State, they had made a mistake
in adapting to the automation of the second industrial revolution.
They had attempted to give everyone work by reducing the number of
working hours in the day, and the number of working days in the week.
It finally became ludicrous when employees of industry were working
but two days a week, two hours a day. In fact, it got chaotic. It
became obvious that it was more practical to have one worker putting in
thirty-five hours a week and getting to know his job well, than it was
to have a score of employees, each working a few hours a week and none
of them ever really becoming efficient.
The only fair thing was to let the technologically unemployed remain
unemployed, with their Inalienable Basic stock as the equivalent of
unemployment insurance, while the few workers still needed put in a
reasonable number of hours a day, a reasonable number of weeks a year
and a reasonable number of years in a life time. When new employees
were needed, a draft lottery was held.
All persons registered in the labor force participated. If you
were drawn, you must need serve. The dissatisfaction those chosen
might feel at their poor luck was offset by the fact that they were
granted additional Variable Basic shares, according to the tasks
they fulfilled. Such shares could be added to their portfolios, the
dividends becoming part of their current credit balance, or could be
sold for a lump sum on the market.
Yes, but now it was all over. He had his own little place, his own
vacuum-tube vehicle and twice the amount of shares of Basic that most
of his fellow citizens could boast. Si Pond had it made. A spree was
obviously called for.
He was going to do this one right. This was the big one. He'd
accumulated a lot of dollars these past few months and he intended
to blow them, or at least a sizeable number of them. His credit card
was burning a hole in his pocket, as the expression went. However, he
wasn't going to rush into things. This had to be done correctly.
Too many a spree was played by ear. You started off with a few drinks,
fell in with some second rate mopsy and usually wound up in a third
rate groggery where you spent just as much as though you'd been in the
classiest joint in town. Came morning and you had nothing to show for
all the dollars that had been spent but a rum-head.
Thus, Si was vaguely aware, it had always been down through the
centuries since the Phoenecian sailor, back from his year-long trip to
the tin mines of Cornwall, blew his hard earned share of the voyage's
profits in a matter of days in the wine shops of Tyre. Nobody gets
quite so little for his money as that loneliest of all workers, he who
must leave his home for distant lands, returning only periodically and
usually with the salary of lengthy, weary periods of time to be spent
hurriedly in an attempt to achieve the pleasure and happiness so long
denied him.
Si was going to do it differently this time.
Nothing but the best. Wine, women, song, food, entertainment. The
works. But nothing but the best.
To start off, he dressed with great care in the honorable
retirement-rank suit he had so recently purchased. His space pin he
attached carefully to the lapel. That was a good beginning, he decided.
A bit of prestige didn't hurt you when you went out on the town. In
the Ultrawelfare State hardly one person in a hundred actually ever
performed anything of value to society. The efforts of most weren't
needed. Those few who did contribute were awarded honors, decorations,
titles.
Attired satisfactorily, Si double-checked to see that his credit
card was in his pocket. As an after-thought, he went over to the
auto-apartment's teevee-phone, flicked it on, held the card to the
screen and said, "Balance check, please."
In a moment, the teevee-phone's robot voice reported, "Ten shares of
Inalienable Basic. Twelve shares of Variable Basic, current value, four
thousand, two hundred and thirty-three dollars and sixty-two cents
apiece. Current cash credit, one thousand and eighty-four dollars." The
screen went dead.
One thousand and eighty-four dollars. That was plenty. He could safely
spend as much as half of it, if the spree got as lively as he hoped it
would. His monthly dividends were due in another week or so, and he
wouldn't have to worry about current expenses. Yes, indeedy, Si Pond
was as solvent as he had ever been in his thirty years.
He opened the small, closet-like door which housed his vacuum-tube
two-seater, and wedged himself into the small vehicle. He brought down
the canopy, dropped the pressurizer and considered the dial. Only one
place really made sense. The big city.
He considered for a moment, decided against the boroughs of Baltimore
and Boston, and selected Manhattan instead. He had the resources. He
might as well do it up brown.
He dialed Manhattan and felt the sinking sensation that presaged his
car's dropping to tube level. While it was being taken up by the robot
controls, being shuttled here and there preparatory to the shot to his
destination, he dialed the vehicle's teevee-phone for information on
the hotels of the island of the Hudson. He selected a swank hostelry
he'd read about and seen on the teevee casts of society and celebrity
gossip reporters, and dialed it on the car's destination dial.
"Nothing too good for ex-Space Pilot Si Pond," he said aloud.
The car hesitated for a moment, that brief hesitation before the
shot, and Si took the involuntary breath from which only heroes could
refrain. He sank back slowly into the seat. Moments passed, and the
direction of the pressure was reversed.
Manhattan. The shuttling began again, and one or two more traversing
sub-shots. Finally, the dash threw a green light and Si opened the
canopy and stepped into his hotel room.
A voice said gently, "If the quarters are satisfactory, please present
your credit card within ten minutes."
Si took his time. Not that he really needed it. It was by far the most
swank suite he had ever seen. One wall was a window of whatever size
the guest might desire and Si touched the control that dilated it to
the full. His view opened in such wise that he could see both the
Empire State Building Museum and the Hudson. Beyond the river stretched
the all but endless city which was Greater Metropolis.
He didn't take the time to flick on the menu, next to the auto-dining
table, nor to check the endless potables on the autobar list. All that,
he well knew, would be superlative. Besides, he didn't plan to dine
or do much drinking in his suite. He made a mock leer. Not unless he
managed to acquire some feminine companionship, that was.
He looked briefly into the swimming pool and bath, then flopped
himself happily onto the bed. It wasn't up to the degree of softness
he presently desired, and he dialed the thing to the ultimate in that
direction so that with a laugh he sank almost out of sight into the
mattress.
He came back to his feet, gave his suit a quick patting so that it
fell into press and, taking his credit card from his pocket, put it
against the teevee-phone screen and pressed the hotel button so that
registration could be completed.
For a moment he stood in the center of the floor, in thought. Take it
easy, Si Pond, take it all easy, this time. No throwing his dollars
around in second-class groggeries, no eating in automated luncheterias.
This time, be it the only time in his life, he was going to frolic in
the grand manner. No cloddy was Si Pond.
He decided a drink was in order to help him plan his strategy. A drink
at the hotel's famous Kudos Room where celebrities were reputed to be a
dime a dozen.
He left the suite and stepped into one of the elevators. He said,
"Kudos Room."
The auto-elevator murmured politely, "Yes, sir, the Kudos Room."
At the door to the famous rendezvous of the swankiest set, Si paused a
moment and looked about. He'd never been in a place like this, either.
However, he stifled his first instinct to wonder about what this was
going to do to his current credit balance with an inner grin and made
his way to the bar.
There was actually a bartender.
Si Pond suppressed his astonishment and said, offhand, attempting an
air of easy sophistication, "Slivovitz Sour."
"Yes, sir."
The drinks in the Kudos Room might be concocted by hand, but Si noticed
they had the routine teevee screens built into the bar for payment.
He put his credit card on the screen immediately before him when the
drink came, and had to quell his desire to dial for a balance check, so
as to be able to figure out what the Sour had cost him.
Well, this was something like it. This was the sort of thing he'd
dreamed about, out there in the great alone, seated in the confining
conning tower of his space craft. He sipped at the drink, finding it up
to his highest expectations, and then swiveled slightly on his stool to
take a look at the others present.
To his disappointment, there were no recognizable celebrities. None
that he placed, at least—top teevee stars, top politicians of the
Ultrawelfare State or Sports personalities.
He turned back to his drink and noticed, for the first time, the girl
who occupied the stool two down from him. Si Pond blinked. He blinked
and then swallowed.
"
Zo-ro-as-ter
," he breathed.
She was done in the latest style from Shanghai, even to the point of
having cosmetically duplicated the Mongolian fold at the corners of her
eyes. Every pore, but
every
pore, was in place. She sat with the easy
grace of the Orient, so seldom found in the West.
His stare couldn't be ignored.
She looked at him coldly, turned to the bartender and murmured, "A Far
Out Cooler, please, Fredric." Then deliberately added, "I thought the
Kudos Room was supposed to be exclusive."
There was nothing the bartender could say to that, and he went about
building the drink.
Si cleared his throat. "Hey," he said, "how about letting this one be
on me?"
Her eyebrows, which had been plucked and penciled to carry out her
Oriental motif, rose. "Really!" she said, drawing it out.
The bartender said hurriedly, "I beg your pardon, sir...."
The girl, her voice suddenly subtly changed, said, "Why, isn't that a
space pin?"
Si, disconcerted by the sudden reversal, said, "Yeah ... sure."
"Good Heavens, you're a spaceman?"
"Sure." He pointed at the lapel pin. "You can't wear one unless you
been on at least a Moon run."
She was obviously both taken back and impressed. "Why," she said,
"you're Seymour Pond, the pilot. I tuned in on the banquet they gave
you."
Si, carrying his glass, moved over to the stool next to her. "Call me
Si," he said. "Everybody calls me Si."
She said, "I'm Natalie. Natalie Paskov. Just Natalie. Imagine meeting
Seymour Pond. Just sitting down next to him at a bar. Just like that."
"Si," Si said, gratified. Holy Zoroaster, he'd never seen anything
like this rarified pulchritude. Maybe on teevee, of course, one of the
current sex symbols, but never in person. "Call me Si," he said again.
"I been called Si so long, I don't even know who somebody's talking to
if they say Seymour."
"I cried when they gave you that antique watch," she said, her tone
such that it was obvious she hadn't quite adjusted as yet to having
met him.
Si Pond was surprised. "Cried?" he said. "Well, why? I was kind of
bored with the whole thing. But old Doc Gubelin, I used to work under
him in the Space Exploration department, he was hot for it."
"
Academician
Gubelin?" she said. "You just call him
Doc
?"
Si was expansive. "Why, sure. In the Space Department we don't have
much time for formality. Everybody's just Si, and Doc, and Jim. Like
that. But how come you cried?"
She looked down into the drink the bartender had placed before her,
as though avoiding his face. "I ... I suppose it was that speech
Doctor Girard-Perregaux made. There you stood, so fine and straight in
your space-pilot uniform, the veteran of six exploration runs to the
planets...."
"Well," Si said modestly, "two of my runs were only to the Moon."
"... and he said all those things about man's conquest of space. And
the dream of the stars which man has held so long. And then the fact
that you were the last of the space pilots. The last man in the whole
world trained to pilot a space craft. And here you were, retiring."
Si grunted. "Yeah. That's all part of the Doc's scheme to get me to
take on another three runs. They're afraid the whole department'll be
dropped by the Appropriations Committee on this here Economic Planning
Board. Even if they can find some other patsy to train for the job,
it'd take maybe a year before you could even send him on a Moon hop.
So old man Gubelin, and Girard-Perregaux too, they're both trying to
pressure me into more trips. Otherwise they got a Space Exploration
Department, with all the expense and all, but nobody to pilot their
ships. It's kind of funny, in a way. You know what one of those
spaceships costs?"
"Funny?" she said. "Why, I don't think it's funny at all."
Si said, "Look, how about another drink?"
Natalie Paskov said, "Oh, I'd love to have a drink with you, Mr...."
"Si," Si said. He motioned to the bartender with a circular twist of
the hand indicating their need for two more of the same. "How come you
know so much about it? You don't meet many people who are interested
in space any more. In fact, most people are almost contemptuous, like.
Think it's kind of a big boondoggle deal to help use up a lot of
materials and all and keep the economy going."
Natalie said earnestly, "Why, I've been a space fan all my life. I've
read all about it. Have always known the names of all the space pilots
and everything about them, ever since I was a child. I suppose you'd
say I have the dream that Doctor Girard-Perregaux spoke about."
Si chuckled. "A real buff, eh? You know, it's kind of funny. I was
never much interested in it. And I got a darn sight less interested
after my first run and I found out what space cafard was."
She frowned. "I don't believe I know much about that."
Sitting in the Kudos Room with the most beautiful girl to whom he had
ever talked, Si could be nonchalant about the subject. "Old Gubelin
keeps that angle mostly hushed up and out of the magazine and newspaper
articles. Says there's enough adverse publicity about space exploration
already. But at this stage of the game when the whole ship's crammed
tight with this automatic scientific apparatus and all, there's
precious little room in the conning tower and you're the only man
aboard. The Doc says later on when ships are bigger and there's a whole
flock of people aboard, there won't be any such thing as space cafard,
but...." Of a sudden the right side of Si Pond's mouth began to tic
and he hurriedly took up his drink and knocked it back.
|
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|
Why is Si retirement so significant to the Space Exploration Team?
|
52995_I3M5VUMM_1
|
[
"There aren’t enough working people in the world. They won’t be able to find a replacement.",
"As one of two remaining spacemen, it would likely mean the defunding and shut down of the Space Exploration Team.",
"Training new spacemen is costly and time consuming. They won’t have anyone else ready after him.",
"His retirement may inspire others to stop working as well, which would be hugely detrimental as most people don't feel the drive to work as is. "
] | 2 | 3 |
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52,995 |
52995_I3M5VUMM
| 11 | 1,003 |
Gutenberg
|
Spaceman on a Spree
|
1961.0
|
Reynolds, Mack
|
PS; Short stories; Astronauts -- Fiction; Science fiction
|
SPACEMAN ON A SPREE
BY MACK REYNOLDS
Illustrated by Nodel
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of Tomorrow June 1963
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
What's more important—Man's conquest
of space, or one spaceman's life?
I
They gave him a gold watch. It was meant to be symbolical, of course.
In the old tradition. It was in the way of an antique, being one of the
timepieces made generations past in the Alpine area of Eur-Asia. Its
quaintness lay in the fact that it was wound, not electronically by
power-radio, but by the actual physical movements of the bearer, a free
swinging rotor keeping the mainspring at a constant tension.
They also had a banquet for him, complete with speeches by such
bigwigs of the Department of Space Exploration as Academician Lofting
Gubelin and Doctor Hans Girard-Perregaux. There was also somebody
from the government who spoke, but he was one of those who were
pseudo-elected and didn't know much about the field of space travel
nor the significance of Seymour Pond's retirement. Si didn't bother to
remember his name. He only wondered vaguely why the cloddy had turned
up at all.
In common with recipients of gold watches of a score of generations
before him, Si Pond would have preferred something a bit more tangible
in the way of reward, such as a few shares of Variable Basic to add to
his portfolio. But that, he supposed, was asking too much.
The fact of the matter was, Si knew that his retiring had set them
back. They hadn't figured he had enough shares of Basic to see him
through decently. Well, possibly he didn't, given their standards.
But Space Pilot Seymour Pond didn't have their standards. He'd had
plenty of time to think it over. It was better to retire on a limited
crediting, on a confoundedly limited crediting, than to take the two or
three more trips in hopes of attaining a higher standard.
He'd had plenty of time to figure it out, there alone in space on the
Moon run, there on the Venus or Mars runs. There on the long, long
haul to the Jupiter satellites, fearfully checking the symptoms of
space cafard, the madness compounded of claustrophobia, monotony,
boredom and free fall. Plenty of time. Time to decide that a one
room mini-auto-apartment, complete with an autochair and built-in
autobar, and with one wall a teevee screen, was all he needed to
find contentment for a mighty long time. Possibly somebody like
Doc Girard-Perregaux might be horrified at the idea of living in a
mini-auto-apartment ... not realizing that to a pilot it was roomy
beyond belief compared to the conning tower of a space craft.
No. Even as Si listened to their speeches, accepted the watch and
made a halting little talk of his own, he was grinning inwardly. There
wasn't anything they could do. He had them now. He had enough Basic to
keep him comfortably, by his standards, for the rest of his life. He
was never going to subject himself to space cafard again. Just thinking
about it, now, set the tic to going at the side of his mouth.
They could count down and blast off, for all he gave a damn.
The gold watch idea had been that of Lofting Gubelin, which was
typical, he being in the way of a living anachronism himself. In fact,
Academician Gubelin was possibly the only living man on North America
who still wore spectacles. His explanation was that a phobia against
having his eyes touched prohibited either surgery to remould his
eyeballs and cure his myopia, or contact lenses.
That was only an alibi so far as his closest associate, Hans
Girard-Perregaux, was concerned. Doctor Girard-Perregaux was convinced
Gubelin would have even worn facial hair, had he but a touch more
courage. Gubelin longed for yesteryear, a seldom found phenomenon under
the Ultrawelfare State.
Slumped in an autochair in the escape room of his Floridian home,
Lofting Gubelin scowled at his friend. He said, acidly, "Any more
bright schemes, Hans? I presume you now acknowledge that appealing to
the cloddy's patriotism, sentiment and desire for public acclaim have
miserably failed."
Girard-Perregaux said easily, "I wouldn't call Seymour Pond a cloddy.
In his position, I am afraid I would do the same thing he has."
"That's nonsense, Hans. Zoroaster! Either you or I would gladly take
Pond's place were we capable of performing the duties for which he has
been trained. There aren't two men on North America—there aren't two
men in the world!—who better realize the urgency of continuing our
delving into space." Gubelin snapped his fingers. "Like that, either of
us would give our lives to prevent man from completely abandoning the
road to his destiny."
His friend said drily, "Either of us could have volunteered for pilot
training forty years ago, Lofting. We didn't."
"At that time there wasn't such a blistering percentage of funkers
throughout this whole blistering Ultrawelfare State! Who could
foresee that eventually our whole program would face ending due to
lack of courageous young men willing to take chances, willing to face
adventure, willing to react to the stimulus of danger in the manner our
ancestors did?"
Girard-Perregaux grunted his sarcasm and dialed a glass of iced tea
and tequila. He said, "Nevertheless, both you and I conform with the
present generation in finding it far more pleasant to follow one's
way of life in the comfort of one's home than to be confronted with
the unpleasantness of facing nature's dangers in more adventurous
pastimes."
Gubelin, half angry at his friend's argument, leaned forward to snap
rebuttal, but the other was wagging a finger at him negatively. "Face
reality, Lofting. Don't require or expect from Seymour Pond more
than is to be found there. He is an average young man. Born in our
Ultrawelfare State, he was guaranteed his fundamental womb-to-tomb
security by being issued that minimum number of Basic shares in our
society that allows him an income sufficient to secure the food,
clothing, shelter, medical care and education to sustain a low level
of subsistence. Percentages were against his ever being drafted
into industry. Automation being what it is, only a fraction of the
population is ever called up. But Pond was. His industrial aptitude
dossier revealed him a possible candidate for space pilot, and it was
you yourself who talked him into taking the training ... pointing out
the more pragmatic advantages such as complete retirement after but six
trips, added shares of Basic so that he could enjoy a more comfortable
life than most and the fame that would accrue to him as one of the
very few who still participate in travel to the planets. Very well.
He was sold. Took his training, which, of course, required long years
of drudgery to him. Then, performing his duties quite competently, he
made his six trips. He is now legally eligible for retirement. He was
drafted into the working force reserves, served his time, and is now
free from toil for the balance of his life. Why should he listen to
our pleas for a few more trips?"
"But has he no spirit of adventure? Has he no feeling for...."
Girard-Perregaux was wagging his finger again, a gesture that,
seemingly mild though it was, had an astonishing ability to break off
the conversation of one who debated with the easy-seeming, quiet spoken
man.
He said, "No, he hasn't. Few there are who have, nowadays. Man has
always paid lip service to adventure, hardships and excitement, but in
actuality his instincts, like those of any other animal, lead him to
the least dangerous path. Today we've reached the point where no one
need face danger—ever. There are few who don't take advantage of the
fact. Including you and me, Lofting, and including Seymour Pond."
His friend and colleague changed subjects abruptly, impatiently. "Let's
leave this blistering jabber about Pond's motivation and get to the
point. The man is the only trained space pilot in the world. It will
take months, possibly more than a year, to bring another novitiate
pilot to the point where he can safely be trusted to take our next
explorer craft out. Appropriations for our expeditions have been
increasingly hard to come by—even though in
our
minds, Hans, we are
near important breakthroughs, breakthroughs which might possibly so
spark the race that a new dream to push man out to the stars will take
hold of us. If it is admitted that our organization has degenerated
to the point that we haven't a single pilot, then it might well be
that the Economic Planning Board, and especially those cloddies
on Appropriations, will terminate the whole Department of Space
Exploration."
"So...." Girard-Perregaux said gently.
"So some way we've got to bring Seymour Pond out of his retirement!"
"Now we are getting to matters." Girard-Perregaux nodded his agreement.
Looking over the rim of his glass, his eyes narrowed in thought as his
face took on an expression of Machiavellianism. "And do not the ends
justify the means?"
Gubelin blinked at him.
The other chuckled. "The trouble with you, Lofting, is that you have
failed to bring history to bear on our problem. Haven't you ever read
of the sailor and his way of life?"
"Sailor? What in the name of the living Zoroaster has the sailor got to
do with it?"
"You must realize, my dear Lofting, that our Si Pond is nothing more
than a latter-day sailor, with many of the problems and view-points,
tendencies and weaknesses of the voyager of the past. Have you never
heard of the seaman who dreamed of returning to the village of his
birth and buying a chicken farm or some such? All the long months at
sea—and sometimes the tramp freighters or whaling craft would be out
for years at a stretch before returning to home port—he would talk
of his retirement and his dream. And then? Then in port, it would be
one short drink with the boys, before taking his accumulated pay and
heading home. The one short drink would lead to another. And morning
would find him, drunk, rolled, tattooed and possibly sleeping it off in
jail. So back to sea he'd have to go."
Gubelin grunted bitterly. "Unfortunately, our present-day sailor
can't be separated from his money quite so easily. If he could, I'd
personally be willing to lure him down some dark alley, knock him over
the head and roll him myself. Just to bring him back to his job again."
He brought his wallet from his pocket, and flicked it open to his
universal credit card. "The ultimate means of exchange," he grunted.
"Nobody can spend your money, but you, yourself. Nobody can steal it,
nobody can, ah,
con
you out of it. Just how do you expect to sever
our present-day sailor and his accumulated nest egg?"
The other chuckled again. "It is simply a matter of finding more modern
methods, my dear chap."
II
Si Pond was a great believer in the institution of the spree. Any
excuse would do. Back when he had finished basic education at the age
of twenty-five and was registered for the labor draft, there hadn't
been a chance in a hundred that he'd have the bad luck to have his
name pulled. But when it had been, Si had celebrated.
When he had been informed that his physical and mental qualifications
were such that he was eligible for the most dangerous occupation in
the Ultrawelfare State and had been pressured into taking training
for space pilot, he had celebrated once again. Twenty-two others had
taken the training with him, and only he and Rod Cameroon had passed
the finals. On this occasion, he and Rod had celebrated together. It
had been quite a party. Two weeks later, Rod had burned on a faulty
take-off on what should have been a routine Moon run.
Each time Si returned from one of his own runs, he celebrated. A spree,
a bust, a bat, a wing-ding, a night on the town. A commemoration of
dangers met and passed.
Now it was all over. At the age of thirty he was retired. Law prevented
him from ever being called up for contributing to the country's labor
needs again. And he most certainly wasn't going to volunteer.
He had taken his schooling much as had his contemporaries. There wasn't
any particular reason for trying to excell. You didn't want to get the
reputation for being a wise guy, or a cloddy either. Just one of the
fellas. You could do the same in life whether you really studied or
not. You had your Inalienable Basic stock, didn't you? What else did
you need?
It had come as a surprise when he'd been drafted for the labor force.
In the early days of the Ultrawelfare State, they had made a mistake
in adapting to the automation of the second industrial revolution.
They had attempted to give everyone work by reducing the number of
working hours in the day, and the number of working days in the week.
It finally became ludicrous when employees of industry were working
but two days a week, two hours a day. In fact, it got chaotic. It
became obvious that it was more practical to have one worker putting in
thirty-five hours a week and getting to know his job well, than it was
to have a score of employees, each working a few hours a week and none
of them ever really becoming efficient.
The only fair thing was to let the technologically unemployed remain
unemployed, with their Inalienable Basic stock as the equivalent of
unemployment insurance, while the few workers still needed put in a
reasonable number of hours a day, a reasonable number of weeks a year
and a reasonable number of years in a life time. When new employees
were needed, a draft lottery was held.
All persons registered in the labor force participated. If you
were drawn, you must need serve. The dissatisfaction those chosen
might feel at their poor luck was offset by the fact that they were
granted additional Variable Basic shares, according to the tasks
they fulfilled. Such shares could be added to their portfolios, the
dividends becoming part of their current credit balance, or could be
sold for a lump sum on the market.
Yes, but now it was all over. He had his own little place, his own
vacuum-tube vehicle and twice the amount of shares of Basic that most
of his fellow citizens could boast. Si Pond had it made. A spree was
obviously called for.
He was going to do this one right. This was the big one. He'd
accumulated a lot of dollars these past few months and he intended
to blow them, or at least a sizeable number of them. His credit card
was burning a hole in his pocket, as the expression went. However, he
wasn't going to rush into things. This had to be done correctly.
Too many a spree was played by ear. You started off with a few drinks,
fell in with some second rate mopsy and usually wound up in a third
rate groggery where you spent just as much as though you'd been in the
classiest joint in town. Came morning and you had nothing to show for
all the dollars that had been spent but a rum-head.
Thus, Si was vaguely aware, it had always been down through the
centuries since the Phoenecian sailor, back from his year-long trip to
the tin mines of Cornwall, blew his hard earned share of the voyage's
profits in a matter of days in the wine shops of Tyre. Nobody gets
quite so little for his money as that loneliest of all workers, he who
must leave his home for distant lands, returning only periodically and
usually with the salary of lengthy, weary periods of time to be spent
hurriedly in an attempt to achieve the pleasure and happiness so long
denied him.
Si was going to do it differently this time.
Nothing but the best. Wine, women, song, food, entertainment. The
works. But nothing but the best.
To start off, he dressed with great care in the honorable
retirement-rank suit he had so recently purchased. His space pin he
attached carefully to the lapel. That was a good beginning, he decided.
A bit of prestige didn't hurt you when you went out on the town. In
the Ultrawelfare State hardly one person in a hundred actually ever
performed anything of value to society. The efforts of most weren't
needed. Those few who did contribute were awarded honors, decorations,
titles.
Attired satisfactorily, Si double-checked to see that his credit
card was in his pocket. As an after-thought, he went over to the
auto-apartment's teevee-phone, flicked it on, held the card to the
screen and said, "Balance check, please."
In a moment, the teevee-phone's robot voice reported, "Ten shares of
Inalienable Basic. Twelve shares of Variable Basic, current value, four
thousand, two hundred and thirty-three dollars and sixty-two cents
apiece. Current cash credit, one thousand and eighty-four dollars." The
screen went dead.
One thousand and eighty-four dollars. That was plenty. He could safely
spend as much as half of it, if the spree got as lively as he hoped it
would. His monthly dividends were due in another week or so, and he
wouldn't have to worry about current expenses. Yes, indeedy, Si Pond
was as solvent as he had ever been in his thirty years.
He opened the small, closet-like door which housed his vacuum-tube
two-seater, and wedged himself into the small vehicle. He brought down
the canopy, dropped the pressurizer and considered the dial. Only one
place really made sense. The big city.
He considered for a moment, decided against the boroughs of Baltimore
and Boston, and selected Manhattan instead. He had the resources. He
might as well do it up brown.
He dialed Manhattan and felt the sinking sensation that presaged his
car's dropping to tube level. While it was being taken up by the robot
controls, being shuttled here and there preparatory to the shot to his
destination, he dialed the vehicle's teevee-phone for information on
the hotels of the island of the Hudson. He selected a swank hostelry
he'd read about and seen on the teevee casts of society and celebrity
gossip reporters, and dialed it on the car's destination dial.
"Nothing too good for ex-Space Pilot Si Pond," he said aloud.
The car hesitated for a moment, that brief hesitation before the
shot, and Si took the involuntary breath from which only heroes could
refrain. He sank back slowly into the seat. Moments passed, and the
direction of the pressure was reversed.
Manhattan. The shuttling began again, and one or two more traversing
sub-shots. Finally, the dash threw a green light and Si opened the
canopy and stepped into his hotel room.
A voice said gently, "If the quarters are satisfactory, please present
your credit card within ten minutes."
Si took his time. Not that he really needed it. It was by far the most
swank suite he had ever seen. One wall was a window of whatever size
the guest might desire and Si touched the control that dilated it to
the full. His view opened in such wise that he could see both the
Empire State Building Museum and the Hudson. Beyond the river stretched
the all but endless city which was Greater Metropolis.
He didn't take the time to flick on the menu, next to the auto-dining
table, nor to check the endless potables on the autobar list. All that,
he well knew, would be superlative. Besides, he didn't plan to dine
or do much drinking in his suite. He made a mock leer. Not unless he
managed to acquire some feminine companionship, that was.
He looked briefly into the swimming pool and bath, then flopped
himself happily onto the bed. It wasn't up to the degree of softness
he presently desired, and he dialed the thing to the ultimate in that
direction so that with a laugh he sank almost out of sight into the
mattress.
He came back to his feet, gave his suit a quick patting so that it
fell into press and, taking his credit card from his pocket, put it
against the teevee-phone screen and pressed the hotel button so that
registration could be completed.
For a moment he stood in the center of the floor, in thought. Take it
easy, Si Pond, take it all easy, this time. No throwing his dollars
around in second-class groggeries, no eating in automated luncheterias.
This time, be it the only time in his life, he was going to frolic in
the grand manner. No cloddy was Si Pond.
He decided a drink was in order to help him plan his strategy. A drink
at the hotel's famous Kudos Room where celebrities were reputed to be a
dime a dozen.
He left the suite and stepped into one of the elevators. He said,
"Kudos Room."
The auto-elevator murmured politely, "Yes, sir, the Kudos Room."
At the door to the famous rendezvous of the swankiest set, Si paused a
moment and looked about. He'd never been in a place like this, either.
However, he stifled his first instinct to wonder about what this was
going to do to his current credit balance with an inner grin and made
his way to the bar.
There was actually a bartender.
Si Pond suppressed his astonishment and said, offhand, attempting an
air of easy sophistication, "Slivovitz Sour."
"Yes, sir."
The drinks in the Kudos Room might be concocted by hand, but Si noticed
they had the routine teevee screens built into the bar for payment.
He put his credit card on the screen immediately before him when the
drink came, and had to quell his desire to dial for a balance check, so
as to be able to figure out what the Sour had cost him.
Well, this was something like it. This was the sort of thing he'd
dreamed about, out there in the great alone, seated in the confining
conning tower of his space craft. He sipped at the drink, finding it up
to his highest expectations, and then swiveled slightly on his stool to
take a look at the others present.
To his disappointment, there were no recognizable celebrities. None
that he placed, at least—top teevee stars, top politicians of the
Ultrawelfare State or Sports personalities.
He turned back to his drink and noticed, for the first time, the girl
who occupied the stool two down from him. Si Pond blinked. He blinked
and then swallowed.
"
Zo-ro-as-ter
," he breathed.
She was done in the latest style from Shanghai, even to the point of
having cosmetically duplicated the Mongolian fold at the corners of her
eyes. Every pore, but
every
pore, was in place. She sat with the easy
grace of the Orient, so seldom found in the West.
His stare couldn't be ignored.
She looked at him coldly, turned to the bartender and murmured, "A Far
Out Cooler, please, Fredric." Then deliberately added, "I thought the
Kudos Room was supposed to be exclusive."
There was nothing the bartender could say to that, and he went about
building the drink.
Si cleared his throat. "Hey," he said, "how about letting this one be
on me?"
Her eyebrows, which had been plucked and penciled to carry out her
Oriental motif, rose. "Really!" she said, drawing it out.
The bartender said hurriedly, "I beg your pardon, sir...."
The girl, her voice suddenly subtly changed, said, "Why, isn't that a
space pin?"
Si, disconcerted by the sudden reversal, said, "Yeah ... sure."
"Good Heavens, you're a spaceman?"
"Sure." He pointed at the lapel pin. "You can't wear one unless you
been on at least a Moon run."
She was obviously both taken back and impressed. "Why," she said,
"you're Seymour Pond, the pilot. I tuned in on the banquet they gave
you."
Si, carrying his glass, moved over to the stool next to her. "Call me
Si," he said. "Everybody calls me Si."
She said, "I'm Natalie. Natalie Paskov. Just Natalie. Imagine meeting
Seymour Pond. Just sitting down next to him at a bar. Just like that."
"Si," Si said, gratified. Holy Zoroaster, he'd never seen anything
like this rarified pulchritude. Maybe on teevee, of course, one of the
current sex symbols, but never in person. "Call me Si," he said again.
"I been called Si so long, I don't even know who somebody's talking to
if they say Seymour."
"I cried when they gave you that antique watch," she said, her tone
such that it was obvious she hadn't quite adjusted as yet to having
met him.
Si Pond was surprised. "Cried?" he said. "Well, why? I was kind of
bored with the whole thing. But old Doc Gubelin, I used to work under
him in the Space Exploration department, he was hot for it."
"
Academician
Gubelin?" she said. "You just call him
Doc
?"
Si was expansive. "Why, sure. In the Space Department we don't have
much time for formality. Everybody's just Si, and Doc, and Jim. Like
that. But how come you cried?"
She looked down into the drink the bartender had placed before her,
as though avoiding his face. "I ... I suppose it was that speech
Doctor Girard-Perregaux made. There you stood, so fine and straight in
your space-pilot uniform, the veteran of six exploration runs to the
planets...."
"Well," Si said modestly, "two of my runs were only to the Moon."
"... and he said all those things about man's conquest of space. And
the dream of the stars which man has held so long. And then the fact
that you were the last of the space pilots. The last man in the whole
world trained to pilot a space craft. And here you were, retiring."
Si grunted. "Yeah. That's all part of the Doc's scheme to get me to
take on another three runs. They're afraid the whole department'll be
dropped by the Appropriations Committee on this here Economic Planning
Board. Even if they can find some other patsy to train for the job,
it'd take maybe a year before you could even send him on a Moon hop.
So old man Gubelin, and Girard-Perregaux too, they're both trying to
pressure me into more trips. Otherwise they got a Space Exploration
Department, with all the expense and all, but nobody to pilot their
ships. It's kind of funny, in a way. You know what one of those
spaceships costs?"
"Funny?" she said. "Why, I don't think it's funny at all."
Si said, "Look, how about another drink?"
Natalie Paskov said, "Oh, I'd love to have a drink with you, Mr...."
"Si," Si said. He motioned to the bartender with a circular twist of
the hand indicating their need for two more of the same. "How come you
know so much about it? You don't meet many people who are interested
in space any more. In fact, most people are almost contemptuous, like.
Think it's kind of a big boondoggle deal to help use up a lot of
materials and all and keep the economy going."
Natalie said earnestly, "Why, I've been a space fan all my life. I've
read all about it. Have always known the names of all the space pilots
and everything about them, ever since I was a child. I suppose you'd
say I have the dream that Doctor Girard-Perregaux spoke about."
Si chuckled. "A real buff, eh? You know, it's kind of funny. I was
never much interested in it. And I got a darn sight less interested
after my first run and I found out what space cafard was."
She frowned. "I don't believe I know much about that."
Sitting in the Kudos Room with the most beautiful girl to whom he had
ever talked, Si could be nonchalant about the subject. "Old Gubelin
keeps that angle mostly hushed up and out of the magazine and newspaper
articles. Says there's enough adverse publicity about space exploration
already. But at this stage of the game when the whole ship's crammed
tight with this automatic scientific apparatus and all, there's
precious little room in the conning tower and you're the only man
aboard. The Doc says later on when ships are bigger and there's a whole
flock of people aboard, there won't be any such thing as space cafard,
but...." Of a sudden the right side of Si Pond's mouth began to tic
and he hurriedly took up his drink and knocked it back.
|
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|
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|
What makes Gubelin an outlier in the present day?
|
52995_I3M5VUMM_2
|
[
"He is much older than the rest of the population.",
"He refuses new operations that could improve his health.",
"His mind is still active, and he values hard work.",
"He still wears glasses and value objects like the gold watch given to Si."
] | 3 | 4 |
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52,995 |
52995_I3M5VUMM
| 11 | 1,003 |
Gutenberg
|
Spaceman on a Spree
|
1961.0
|
Reynolds, Mack
|
PS; Short stories; Astronauts -- Fiction; Science fiction
|
SPACEMAN ON A SPREE
BY MACK REYNOLDS
Illustrated by Nodel
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of Tomorrow June 1963
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
What's more important—Man's conquest
of space, or one spaceman's life?
I
They gave him a gold watch. It was meant to be symbolical, of course.
In the old tradition. It was in the way of an antique, being one of the
timepieces made generations past in the Alpine area of Eur-Asia. Its
quaintness lay in the fact that it was wound, not electronically by
power-radio, but by the actual physical movements of the bearer, a free
swinging rotor keeping the mainspring at a constant tension.
They also had a banquet for him, complete with speeches by such
bigwigs of the Department of Space Exploration as Academician Lofting
Gubelin and Doctor Hans Girard-Perregaux. There was also somebody
from the government who spoke, but he was one of those who were
pseudo-elected and didn't know much about the field of space travel
nor the significance of Seymour Pond's retirement. Si didn't bother to
remember his name. He only wondered vaguely why the cloddy had turned
up at all.
In common with recipients of gold watches of a score of generations
before him, Si Pond would have preferred something a bit more tangible
in the way of reward, such as a few shares of Variable Basic to add to
his portfolio. But that, he supposed, was asking too much.
The fact of the matter was, Si knew that his retiring had set them
back. They hadn't figured he had enough shares of Basic to see him
through decently. Well, possibly he didn't, given their standards.
But Space Pilot Seymour Pond didn't have their standards. He'd had
plenty of time to think it over. It was better to retire on a limited
crediting, on a confoundedly limited crediting, than to take the two or
three more trips in hopes of attaining a higher standard.
He'd had plenty of time to figure it out, there alone in space on the
Moon run, there on the Venus or Mars runs. There on the long, long
haul to the Jupiter satellites, fearfully checking the symptoms of
space cafard, the madness compounded of claustrophobia, monotony,
boredom and free fall. Plenty of time. Time to decide that a one
room mini-auto-apartment, complete with an autochair and built-in
autobar, and with one wall a teevee screen, was all he needed to
find contentment for a mighty long time. Possibly somebody like
Doc Girard-Perregaux might be horrified at the idea of living in a
mini-auto-apartment ... not realizing that to a pilot it was roomy
beyond belief compared to the conning tower of a space craft.
No. Even as Si listened to their speeches, accepted the watch and
made a halting little talk of his own, he was grinning inwardly. There
wasn't anything they could do. He had them now. He had enough Basic to
keep him comfortably, by his standards, for the rest of his life. He
was never going to subject himself to space cafard again. Just thinking
about it, now, set the tic to going at the side of his mouth.
They could count down and blast off, for all he gave a damn.
The gold watch idea had been that of Lofting Gubelin, which was
typical, he being in the way of a living anachronism himself. In fact,
Academician Gubelin was possibly the only living man on North America
who still wore spectacles. His explanation was that a phobia against
having his eyes touched prohibited either surgery to remould his
eyeballs and cure his myopia, or contact lenses.
That was only an alibi so far as his closest associate, Hans
Girard-Perregaux, was concerned. Doctor Girard-Perregaux was convinced
Gubelin would have even worn facial hair, had he but a touch more
courage. Gubelin longed for yesteryear, a seldom found phenomenon under
the Ultrawelfare State.
Slumped in an autochair in the escape room of his Floridian home,
Lofting Gubelin scowled at his friend. He said, acidly, "Any more
bright schemes, Hans? I presume you now acknowledge that appealing to
the cloddy's patriotism, sentiment and desire for public acclaim have
miserably failed."
Girard-Perregaux said easily, "I wouldn't call Seymour Pond a cloddy.
In his position, I am afraid I would do the same thing he has."
"That's nonsense, Hans. Zoroaster! Either you or I would gladly take
Pond's place were we capable of performing the duties for which he has
been trained. There aren't two men on North America—there aren't two
men in the world!—who better realize the urgency of continuing our
delving into space." Gubelin snapped his fingers. "Like that, either of
us would give our lives to prevent man from completely abandoning the
road to his destiny."
His friend said drily, "Either of us could have volunteered for pilot
training forty years ago, Lofting. We didn't."
"At that time there wasn't such a blistering percentage of funkers
throughout this whole blistering Ultrawelfare State! Who could
foresee that eventually our whole program would face ending due to
lack of courageous young men willing to take chances, willing to face
adventure, willing to react to the stimulus of danger in the manner our
ancestors did?"
Girard-Perregaux grunted his sarcasm and dialed a glass of iced tea
and tequila. He said, "Nevertheless, both you and I conform with the
present generation in finding it far more pleasant to follow one's
way of life in the comfort of one's home than to be confronted with
the unpleasantness of facing nature's dangers in more adventurous
pastimes."
Gubelin, half angry at his friend's argument, leaned forward to snap
rebuttal, but the other was wagging a finger at him negatively. "Face
reality, Lofting. Don't require or expect from Seymour Pond more
than is to be found there. He is an average young man. Born in our
Ultrawelfare State, he was guaranteed his fundamental womb-to-tomb
security by being issued that minimum number of Basic shares in our
society that allows him an income sufficient to secure the food,
clothing, shelter, medical care and education to sustain a low level
of subsistence. Percentages were against his ever being drafted
into industry. Automation being what it is, only a fraction of the
population is ever called up. But Pond was. His industrial aptitude
dossier revealed him a possible candidate for space pilot, and it was
you yourself who talked him into taking the training ... pointing out
the more pragmatic advantages such as complete retirement after but six
trips, added shares of Basic so that he could enjoy a more comfortable
life than most and the fame that would accrue to him as one of the
very few who still participate in travel to the planets. Very well.
He was sold. Took his training, which, of course, required long years
of drudgery to him. Then, performing his duties quite competently, he
made his six trips. He is now legally eligible for retirement. He was
drafted into the working force reserves, served his time, and is now
free from toil for the balance of his life. Why should he listen to
our pleas for a few more trips?"
"But has he no spirit of adventure? Has he no feeling for...."
Girard-Perregaux was wagging his finger again, a gesture that,
seemingly mild though it was, had an astonishing ability to break off
the conversation of one who debated with the easy-seeming, quiet spoken
man.
He said, "No, he hasn't. Few there are who have, nowadays. Man has
always paid lip service to adventure, hardships and excitement, but in
actuality his instincts, like those of any other animal, lead him to
the least dangerous path. Today we've reached the point where no one
need face danger—ever. There are few who don't take advantage of the
fact. Including you and me, Lofting, and including Seymour Pond."
His friend and colleague changed subjects abruptly, impatiently. "Let's
leave this blistering jabber about Pond's motivation and get to the
point. The man is the only trained space pilot in the world. It will
take months, possibly more than a year, to bring another novitiate
pilot to the point where he can safely be trusted to take our next
explorer craft out. Appropriations for our expeditions have been
increasingly hard to come by—even though in
our
minds, Hans, we are
near important breakthroughs, breakthroughs which might possibly so
spark the race that a new dream to push man out to the stars will take
hold of us. If it is admitted that our organization has degenerated
to the point that we haven't a single pilot, then it might well be
that the Economic Planning Board, and especially those cloddies
on Appropriations, will terminate the whole Department of Space
Exploration."
"So...." Girard-Perregaux said gently.
"So some way we've got to bring Seymour Pond out of his retirement!"
"Now we are getting to matters." Girard-Perregaux nodded his agreement.
Looking over the rim of his glass, his eyes narrowed in thought as his
face took on an expression of Machiavellianism. "And do not the ends
justify the means?"
Gubelin blinked at him.
The other chuckled. "The trouble with you, Lofting, is that you have
failed to bring history to bear on our problem. Haven't you ever read
of the sailor and his way of life?"
"Sailor? What in the name of the living Zoroaster has the sailor got to
do with it?"
"You must realize, my dear Lofting, that our Si Pond is nothing more
than a latter-day sailor, with many of the problems and view-points,
tendencies and weaknesses of the voyager of the past. Have you never
heard of the seaman who dreamed of returning to the village of his
birth and buying a chicken farm or some such? All the long months at
sea—and sometimes the tramp freighters or whaling craft would be out
for years at a stretch before returning to home port—he would talk
of his retirement and his dream. And then? Then in port, it would be
one short drink with the boys, before taking his accumulated pay and
heading home. The one short drink would lead to another. And morning
would find him, drunk, rolled, tattooed and possibly sleeping it off in
jail. So back to sea he'd have to go."
Gubelin grunted bitterly. "Unfortunately, our present-day sailor
can't be separated from his money quite so easily. If he could, I'd
personally be willing to lure him down some dark alley, knock him over
the head and roll him myself. Just to bring him back to his job again."
He brought his wallet from his pocket, and flicked it open to his
universal credit card. "The ultimate means of exchange," he grunted.
"Nobody can spend your money, but you, yourself. Nobody can steal it,
nobody can, ah,
con
you out of it. Just how do you expect to sever
our present-day sailor and his accumulated nest egg?"
The other chuckled again. "It is simply a matter of finding more modern
methods, my dear chap."
II
Si Pond was a great believer in the institution of the spree. Any
excuse would do. Back when he had finished basic education at the age
of twenty-five and was registered for the labor draft, there hadn't
been a chance in a hundred that he'd have the bad luck to have his
name pulled. But when it had been, Si had celebrated.
When he had been informed that his physical and mental qualifications
were such that he was eligible for the most dangerous occupation in
the Ultrawelfare State and had been pressured into taking training
for space pilot, he had celebrated once again. Twenty-two others had
taken the training with him, and only he and Rod Cameroon had passed
the finals. On this occasion, he and Rod had celebrated together. It
had been quite a party. Two weeks later, Rod had burned on a faulty
take-off on what should have been a routine Moon run.
Each time Si returned from one of his own runs, he celebrated. A spree,
a bust, a bat, a wing-ding, a night on the town. A commemoration of
dangers met and passed.
Now it was all over. At the age of thirty he was retired. Law prevented
him from ever being called up for contributing to the country's labor
needs again. And he most certainly wasn't going to volunteer.
He had taken his schooling much as had his contemporaries. There wasn't
any particular reason for trying to excell. You didn't want to get the
reputation for being a wise guy, or a cloddy either. Just one of the
fellas. You could do the same in life whether you really studied or
not. You had your Inalienable Basic stock, didn't you? What else did
you need?
It had come as a surprise when he'd been drafted for the labor force.
In the early days of the Ultrawelfare State, they had made a mistake
in adapting to the automation of the second industrial revolution.
They had attempted to give everyone work by reducing the number of
working hours in the day, and the number of working days in the week.
It finally became ludicrous when employees of industry were working
but two days a week, two hours a day. In fact, it got chaotic. It
became obvious that it was more practical to have one worker putting in
thirty-five hours a week and getting to know his job well, than it was
to have a score of employees, each working a few hours a week and none
of them ever really becoming efficient.
The only fair thing was to let the technologically unemployed remain
unemployed, with their Inalienable Basic stock as the equivalent of
unemployment insurance, while the few workers still needed put in a
reasonable number of hours a day, a reasonable number of weeks a year
and a reasonable number of years in a life time. When new employees
were needed, a draft lottery was held.
All persons registered in the labor force participated. If you
were drawn, you must need serve. The dissatisfaction those chosen
might feel at their poor luck was offset by the fact that they were
granted additional Variable Basic shares, according to the tasks
they fulfilled. Such shares could be added to their portfolios, the
dividends becoming part of their current credit balance, or could be
sold for a lump sum on the market.
Yes, but now it was all over. He had his own little place, his own
vacuum-tube vehicle and twice the amount of shares of Basic that most
of his fellow citizens could boast. Si Pond had it made. A spree was
obviously called for.
He was going to do this one right. This was the big one. He'd
accumulated a lot of dollars these past few months and he intended
to blow them, or at least a sizeable number of them. His credit card
was burning a hole in his pocket, as the expression went. However, he
wasn't going to rush into things. This had to be done correctly.
Too many a spree was played by ear. You started off with a few drinks,
fell in with some second rate mopsy and usually wound up in a third
rate groggery where you spent just as much as though you'd been in the
classiest joint in town. Came morning and you had nothing to show for
all the dollars that had been spent but a rum-head.
Thus, Si was vaguely aware, it had always been down through the
centuries since the Phoenecian sailor, back from his year-long trip to
the tin mines of Cornwall, blew his hard earned share of the voyage's
profits in a matter of days in the wine shops of Tyre. Nobody gets
quite so little for his money as that loneliest of all workers, he who
must leave his home for distant lands, returning only periodically and
usually with the salary of lengthy, weary periods of time to be spent
hurriedly in an attempt to achieve the pleasure and happiness so long
denied him.
Si was going to do it differently this time.
Nothing but the best. Wine, women, song, food, entertainment. The
works. But nothing but the best.
To start off, he dressed with great care in the honorable
retirement-rank suit he had so recently purchased. His space pin he
attached carefully to the lapel. That was a good beginning, he decided.
A bit of prestige didn't hurt you when you went out on the town. In
the Ultrawelfare State hardly one person in a hundred actually ever
performed anything of value to society. The efforts of most weren't
needed. Those few who did contribute were awarded honors, decorations,
titles.
Attired satisfactorily, Si double-checked to see that his credit
card was in his pocket. As an after-thought, he went over to the
auto-apartment's teevee-phone, flicked it on, held the card to the
screen and said, "Balance check, please."
In a moment, the teevee-phone's robot voice reported, "Ten shares of
Inalienable Basic. Twelve shares of Variable Basic, current value, four
thousand, two hundred and thirty-three dollars and sixty-two cents
apiece. Current cash credit, one thousand and eighty-four dollars." The
screen went dead.
One thousand and eighty-four dollars. That was plenty. He could safely
spend as much as half of it, if the spree got as lively as he hoped it
would. His monthly dividends were due in another week or so, and he
wouldn't have to worry about current expenses. Yes, indeedy, Si Pond
was as solvent as he had ever been in his thirty years.
He opened the small, closet-like door which housed his vacuum-tube
two-seater, and wedged himself into the small vehicle. He brought down
the canopy, dropped the pressurizer and considered the dial. Only one
place really made sense. The big city.
He considered for a moment, decided against the boroughs of Baltimore
and Boston, and selected Manhattan instead. He had the resources. He
might as well do it up brown.
He dialed Manhattan and felt the sinking sensation that presaged his
car's dropping to tube level. While it was being taken up by the robot
controls, being shuttled here and there preparatory to the shot to his
destination, he dialed the vehicle's teevee-phone for information on
the hotels of the island of the Hudson. He selected a swank hostelry
he'd read about and seen on the teevee casts of society and celebrity
gossip reporters, and dialed it on the car's destination dial.
"Nothing too good for ex-Space Pilot Si Pond," he said aloud.
The car hesitated for a moment, that brief hesitation before the
shot, and Si took the involuntary breath from which only heroes could
refrain. He sank back slowly into the seat. Moments passed, and the
direction of the pressure was reversed.
Manhattan. The shuttling began again, and one or two more traversing
sub-shots. Finally, the dash threw a green light and Si opened the
canopy and stepped into his hotel room.
A voice said gently, "If the quarters are satisfactory, please present
your credit card within ten minutes."
Si took his time. Not that he really needed it. It was by far the most
swank suite he had ever seen. One wall was a window of whatever size
the guest might desire and Si touched the control that dilated it to
the full. His view opened in such wise that he could see both the
Empire State Building Museum and the Hudson. Beyond the river stretched
the all but endless city which was Greater Metropolis.
He didn't take the time to flick on the menu, next to the auto-dining
table, nor to check the endless potables on the autobar list. All that,
he well knew, would be superlative. Besides, he didn't plan to dine
or do much drinking in his suite. He made a mock leer. Not unless he
managed to acquire some feminine companionship, that was.
He looked briefly into the swimming pool and bath, then flopped
himself happily onto the bed. It wasn't up to the degree of softness
he presently desired, and he dialed the thing to the ultimate in that
direction so that with a laugh he sank almost out of sight into the
mattress.
He came back to his feet, gave his suit a quick patting so that it
fell into press and, taking his credit card from his pocket, put it
against the teevee-phone screen and pressed the hotel button so that
registration could be completed.
For a moment he stood in the center of the floor, in thought. Take it
easy, Si Pond, take it all easy, this time. No throwing his dollars
around in second-class groggeries, no eating in automated luncheterias.
This time, be it the only time in his life, he was going to frolic in
the grand manner. No cloddy was Si Pond.
He decided a drink was in order to help him plan his strategy. A drink
at the hotel's famous Kudos Room where celebrities were reputed to be a
dime a dozen.
He left the suite and stepped into one of the elevators. He said,
"Kudos Room."
The auto-elevator murmured politely, "Yes, sir, the Kudos Room."
At the door to the famous rendezvous of the swankiest set, Si paused a
moment and looked about. He'd never been in a place like this, either.
However, he stifled his first instinct to wonder about what this was
going to do to his current credit balance with an inner grin and made
his way to the bar.
There was actually a bartender.
Si Pond suppressed his astonishment and said, offhand, attempting an
air of easy sophistication, "Slivovitz Sour."
"Yes, sir."
The drinks in the Kudos Room might be concocted by hand, but Si noticed
they had the routine teevee screens built into the bar for payment.
He put his credit card on the screen immediately before him when the
drink came, and had to quell his desire to dial for a balance check, so
as to be able to figure out what the Sour had cost him.
Well, this was something like it. This was the sort of thing he'd
dreamed about, out there in the great alone, seated in the confining
conning tower of his space craft. He sipped at the drink, finding it up
to his highest expectations, and then swiveled slightly on his stool to
take a look at the others present.
To his disappointment, there were no recognizable celebrities. None
that he placed, at least—top teevee stars, top politicians of the
Ultrawelfare State or Sports personalities.
He turned back to his drink and noticed, for the first time, the girl
who occupied the stool two down from him. Si Pond blinked. He blinked
and then swallowed.
"
Zo-ro-as-ter
," he breathed.
She was done in the latest style from Shanghai, even to the point of
having cosmetically duplicated the Mongolian fold at the corners of her
eyes. Every pore, but
every
pore, was in place. She sat with the easy
grace of the Orient, so seldom found in the West.
His stare couldn't be ignored.
She looked at him coldly, turned to the bartender and murmured, "A Far
Out Cooler, please, Fredric." Then deliberately added, "I thought the
Kudos Room was supposed to be exclusive."
There was nothing the bartender could say to that, and he went about
building the drink.
Si cleared his throat. "Hey," he said, "how about letting this one be
on me?"
Her eyebrows, which had been plucked and penciled to carry out her
Oriental motif, rose. "Really!" she said, drawing it out.
The bartender said hurriedly, "I beg your pardon, sir...."
The girl, her voice suddenly subtly changed, said, "Why, isn't that a
space pin?"
Si, disconcerted by the sudden reversal, said, "Yeah ... sure."
"Good Heavens, you're a spaceman?"
"Sure." He pointed at the lapel pin. "You can't wear one unless you
been on at least a Moon run."
She was obviously both taken back and impressed. "Why," she said,
"you're Seymour Pond, the pilot. I tuned in on the banquet they gave
you."
Si, carrying his glass, moved over to the stool next to her. "Call me
Si," he said. "Everybody calls me Si."
She said, "I'm Natalie. Natalie Paskov. Just Natalie. Imagine meeting
Seymour Pond. Just sitting down next to him at a bar. Just like that."
"Si," Si said, gratified. Holy Zoroaster, he'd never seen anything
like this rarified pulchritude. Maybe on teevee, of course, one of the
current sex symbols, but never in person. "Call me Si," he said again.
"I been called Si so long, I don't even know who somebody's talking to
if they say Seymour."
"I cried when they gave you that antique watch," she said, her tone
such that it was obvious she hadn't quite adjusted as yet to having
met him.
Si Pond was surprised. "Cried?" he said. "Well, why? I was kind of
bored with the whole thing. But old Doc Gubelin, I used to work under
him in the Space Exploration department, he was hot for it."
"
Academician
Gubelin?" she said. "You just call him
Doc
?"
Si was expansive. "Why, sure. In the Space Department we don't have
much time for formality. Everybody's just Si, and Doc, and Jim. Like
that. But how come you cried?"
She looked down into the drink the bartender had placed before her,
as though avoiding his face. "I ... I suppose it was that speech
Doctor Girard-Perregaux made. There you stood, so fine and straight in
your space-pilot uniform, the veteran of six exploration runs to the
planets...."
"Well," Si said modestly, "two of my runs were only to the Moon."
"... and he said all those things about man's conquest of space. And
the dream of the stars which man has held so long. And then the fact
that you were the last of the space pilots. The last man in the whole
world trained to pilot a space craft. And here you were, retiring."
Si grunted. "Yeah. That's all part of the Doc's scheme to get me to
take on another three runs. They're afraid the whole department'll be
dropped by the Appropriations Committee on this here Economic Planning
Board. Even if they can find some other patsy to train for the job,
it'd take maybe a year before you could even send him on a Moon hop.
So old man Gubelin, and Girard-Perregaux too, they're both trying to
pressure me into more trips. Otherwise they got a Space Exploration
Department, with all the expense and all, but nobody to pilot their
ships. It's kind of funny, in a way. You know what one of those
spaceships costs?"
"Funny?" she said. "Why, I don't think it's funny at all."
Si said, "Look, how about another drink?"
Natalie Paskov said, "Oh, I'd love to have a drink with you, Mr...."
"Si," Si said. He motioned to the bartender with a circular twist of
the hand indicating their need for two more of the same. "How come you
know so much about it? You don't meet many people who are interested
in space any more. In fact, most people are almost contemptuous, like.
Think it's kind of a big boondoggle deal to help use up a lot of
materials and all and keep the economy going."
Natalie said earnestly, "Why, I've been a space fan all my life. I've
read all about it. Have always known the names of all the space pilots
and everything about them, ever since I was a child. I suppose you'd
say I have the dream that Doctor Girard-Perregaux spoke about."
Si chuckled. "A real buff, eh? You know, it's kind of funny. I was
never much interested in it. And I got a darn sight less interested
after my first run and I found out what space cafard was."
She frowned. "I don't believe I know much about that."
Sitting in the Kudos Room with the most beautiful girl to whom he had
ever talked, Si could be nonchalant about the subject. "Old Gubelin
keeps that angle mostly hushed up and out of the magazine and newspaper
articles. Says there's enough adverse publicity about space exploration
already. But at this stage of the game when the whole ship's crammed
tight with this automatic scientific apparatus and all, there's
precious little room in the conning tower and you're the only man
aboard. The Doc says later on when ships are bigger and there's a whole
flock of people aboard, there won't be any such thing as space cafard,
but...." Of a sudden the right side of Si Pond's mouth began to tic
and he hurriedly took up his drink and knocked it back.
|
http://aleph.gutenberg.org/5/2/9/9/52995//52995-h//52995-h.htm
|
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|
What is the main reason that Gubelin is so resentful of Si’s decision?
|
52995_I3M5VUMM_3
|
[
"He doesn’t want to have to go through the effort of training a new spaceman, as it’s very costly and time consuming.",
"He regrets not having the opportunity of space exploration himself.",
"He fears the end of the Space Exploration program, and for mankind’s research of space to come to an end.",
"He hates the Welfare State and how it’s taken away people’s drive to learn and explore."
] | 3 | 3 |
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52,995 |
52995_I3M5VUMM
| 11 | 1,003 |
Gutenberg
|
Spaceman on a Spree
|
1961.0
|
Reynolds, Mack
|
PS; Short stories; Astronauts -- Fiction; Science fiction
|
SPACEMAN ON A SPREE
BY MACK REYNOLDS
Illustrated by Nodel
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of Tomorrow June 1963
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
What's more important—Man's conquest
of space, or one spaceman's life?
I
They gave him a gold watch. It was meant to be symbolical, of course.
In the old tradition. It was in the way of an antique, being one of the
timepieces made generations past in the Alpine area of Eur-Asia. Its
quaintness lay in the fact that it was wound, not electronically by
power-radio, but by the actual physical movements of the bearer, a free
swinging rotor keeping the mainspring at a constant tension.
They also had a banquet for him, complete with speeches by such
bigwigs of the Department of Space Exploration as Academician Lofting
Gubelin and Doctor Hans Girard-Perregaux. There was also somebody
from the government who spoke, but he was one of those who were
pseudo-elected and didn't know much about the field of space travel
nor the significance of Seymour Pond's retirement. Si didn't bother to
remember his name. He only wondered vaguely why the cloddy had turned
up at all.
In common with recipients of gold watches of a score of generations
before him, Si Pond would have preferred something a bit more tangible
in the way of reward, such as a few shares of Variable Basic to add to
his portfolio. But that, he supposed, was asking too much.
The fact of the matter was, Si knew that his retiring had set them
back. They hadn't figured he had enough shares of Basic to see him
through decently. Well, possibly he didn't, given their standards.
But Space Pilot Seymour Pond didn't have their standards. He'd had
plenty of time to think it over. It was better to retire on a limited
crediting, on a confoundedly limited crediting, than to take the two or
three more trips in hopes of attaining a higher standard.
He'd had plenty of time to figure it out, there alone in space on the
Moon run, there on the Venus or Mars runs. There on the long, long
haul to the Jupiter satellites, fearfully checking the symptoms of
space cafard, the madness compounded of claustrophobia, monotony,
boredom and free fall. Plenty of time. Time to decide that a one
room mini-auto-apartment, complete with an autochair and built-in
autobar, and with one wall a teevee screen, was all he needed to
find contentment for a mighty long time. Possibly somebody like
Doc Girard-Perregaux might be horrified at the idea of living in a
mini-auto-apartment ... not realizing that to a pilot it was roomy
beyond belief compared to the conning tower of a space craft.
No. Even as Si listened to their speeches, accepted the watch and
made a halting little talk of his own, he was grinning inwardly. There
wasn't anything they could do. He had them now. He had enough Basic to
keep him comfortably, by his standards, for the rest of his life. He
was never going to subject himself to space cafard again. Just thinking
about it, now, set the tic to going at the side of his mouth.
They could count down and blast off, for all he gave a damn.
The gold watch idea had been that of Lofting Gubelin, which was
typical, he being in the way of a living anachronism himself. In fact,
Academician Gubelin was possibly the only living man on North America
who still wore spectacles. His explanation was that a phobia against
having his eyes touched prohibited either surgery to remould his
eyeballs and cure his myopia, or contact lenses.
That was only an alibi so far as his closest associate, Hans
Girard-Perregaux, was concerned. Doctor Girard-Perregaux was convinced
Gubelin would have even worn facial hair, had he but a touch more
courage. Gubelin longed for yesteryear, a seldom found phenomenon under
the Ultrawelfare State.
Slumped in an autochair in the escape room of his Floridian home,
Lofting Gubelin scowled at his friend. He said, acidly, "Any more
bright schemes, Hans? I presume you now acknowledge that appealing to
the cloddy's patriotism, sentiment and desire for public acclaim have
miserably failed."
Girard-Perregaux said easily, "I wouldn't call Seymour Pond a cloddy.
In his position, I am afraid I would do the same thing he has."
"That's nonsense, Hans. Zoroaster! Either you or I would gladly take
Pond's place were we capable of performing the duties for which he has
been trained. There aren't two men on North America—there aren't two
men in the world!—who better realize the urgency of continuing our
delving into space." Gubelin snapped his fingers. "Like that, either of
us would give our lives to prevent man from completely abandoning the
road to his destiny."
His friend said drily, "Either of us could have volunteered for pilot
training forty years ago, Lofting. We didn't."
"At that time there wasn't such a blistering percentage of funkers
throughout this whole blistering Ultrawelfare State! Who could
foresee that eventually our whole program would face ending due to
lack of courageous young men willing to take chances, willing to face
adventure, willing to react to the stimulus of danger in the manner our
ancestors did?"
Girard-Perregaux grunted his sarcasm and dialed a glass of iced tea
and tequila. He said, "Nevertheless, both you and I conform with the
present generation in finding it far more pleasant to follow one's
way of life in the comfort of one's home than to be confronted with
the unpleasantness of facing nature's dangers in more adventurous
pastimes."
Gubelin, half angry at his friend's argument, leaned forward to snap
rebuttal, but the other was wagging a finger at him negatively. "Face
reality, Lofting. Don't require or expect from Seymour Pond more
than is to be found there. He is an average young man. Born in our
Ultrawelfare State, he was guaranteed his fundamental womb-to-tomb
security by being issued that minimum number of Basic shares in our
society that allows him an income sufficient to secure the food,
clothing, shelter, medical care and education to sustain a low level
of subsistence. Percentages were against his ever being drafted
into industry. Automation being what it is, only a fraction of the
population is ever called up. But Pond was. His industrial aptitude
dossier revealed him a possible candidate for space pilot, and it was
you yourself who talked him into taking the training ... pointing out
the more pragmatic advantages such as complete retirement after but six
trips, added shares of Basic so that he could enjoy a more comfortable
life than most and the fame that would accrue to him as one of the
very few who still participate in travel to the planets. Very well.
He was sold. Took his training, which, of course, required long years
of drudgery to him. Then, performing his duties quite competently, he
made his six trips. He is now legally eligible for retirement. He was
drafted into the working force reserves, served his time, and is now
free from toil for the balance of his life. Why should he listen to
our pleas for a few more trips?"
"But has he no spirit of adventure? Has he no feeling for...."
Girard-Perregaux was wagging his finger again, a gesture that,
seemingly mild though it was, had an astonishing ability to break off
the conversation of one who debated with the easy-seeming, quiet spoken
man.
He said, "No, he hasn't. Few there are who have, nowadays. Man has
always paid lip service to adventure, hardships and excitement, but in
actuality his instincts, like those of any other animal, lead him to
the least dangerous path. Today we've reached the point where no one
need face danger—ever. There are few who don't take advantage of the
fact. Including you and me, Lofting, and including Seymour Pond."
His friend and colleague changed subjects abruptly, impatiently. "Let's
leave this blistering jabber about Pond's motivation and get to the
point. The man is the only trained space pilot in the world. It will
take months, possibly more than a year, to bring another novitiate
pilot to the point where he can safely be trusted to take our next
explorer craft out. Appropriations for our expeditions have been
increasingly hard to come by—even though in
our
minds, Hans, we are
near important breakthroughs, breakthroughs which might possibly so
spark the race that a new dream to push man out to the stars will take
hold of us. If it is admitted that our organization has degenerated
to the point that we haven't a single pilot, then it might well be
that the Economic Planning Board, and especially those cloddies
on Appropriations, will terminate the whole Department of Space
Exploration."
"So...." Girard-Perregaux said gently.
"So some way we've got to bring Seymour Pond out of his retirement!"
"Now we are getting to matters." Girard-Perregaux nodded his agreement.
Looking over the rim of his glass, his eyes narrowed in thought as his
face took on an expression of Machiavellianism. "And do not the ends
justify the means?"
Gubelin blinked at him.
The other chuckled. "The trouble with you, Lofting, is that you have
failed to bring history to bear on our problem. Haven't you ever read
of the sailor and his way of life?"
"Sailor? What in the name of the living Zoroaster has the sailor got to
do with it?"
"You must realize, my dear Lofting, that our Si Pond is nothing more
than a latter-day sailor, with many of the problems and view-points,
tendencies and weaknesses of the voyager of the past. Have you never
heard of the seaman who dreamed of returning to the village of his
birth and buying a chicken farm or some such? All the long months at
sea—and sometimes the tramp freighters or whaling craft would be out
for years at a stretch before returning to home port—he would talk
of his retirement and his dream. And then? Then in port, it would be
one short drink with the boys, before taking his accumulated pay and
heading home. The one short drink would lead to another. And morning
would find him, drunk, rolled, tattooed and possibly sleeping it off in
jail. So back to sea he'd have to go."
Gubelin grunted bitterly. "Unfortunately, our present-day sailor
can't be separated from his money quite so easily. If he could, I'd
personally be willing to lure him down some dark alley, knock him over
the head and roll him myself. Just to bring him back to his job again."
He brought his wallet from his pocket, and flicked it open to his
universal credit card. "The ultimate means of exchange," he grunted.
"Nobody can spend your money, but you, yourself. Nobody can steal it,
nobody can, ah,
con
you out of it. Just how do you expect to sever
our present-day sailor and his accumulated nest egg?"
The other chuckled again. "It is simply a matter of finding more modern
methods, my dear chap."
II
Si Pond was a great believer in the institution of the spree. Any
excuse would do. Back when he had finished basic education at the age
of twenty-five and was registered for the labor draft, there hadn't
been a chance in a hundred that he'd have the bad luck to have his
name pulled. But when it had been, Si had celebrated.
When he had been informed that his physical and mental qualifications
were such that he was eligible for the most dangerous occupation in
the Ultrawelfare State and had been pressured into taking training
for space pilot, he had celebrated once again. Twenty-two others had
taken the training with him, and only he and Rod Cameroon had passed
the finals. On this occasion, he and Rod had celebrated together. It
had been quite a party. Two weeks later, Rod had burned on a faulty
take-off on what should have been a routine Moon run.
Each time Si returned from one of his own runs, he celebrated. A spree,
a bust, a bat, a wing-ding, a night on the town. A commemoration of
dangers met and passed.
Now it was all over. At the age of thirty he was retired. Law prevented
him from ever being called up for contributing to the country's labor
needs again. And he most certainly wasn't going to volunteer.
He had taken his schooling much as had his contemporaries. There wasn't
any particular reason for trying to excell. You didn't want to get the
reputation for being a wise guy, or a cloddy either. Just one of the
fellas. You could do the same in life whether you really studied or
not. You had your Inalienable Basic stock, didn't you? What else did
you need?
It had come as a surprise when he'd been drafted for the labor force.
In the early days of the Ultrawelfare State, they had made a mistake
in adapting to the automation of the second industrial revolution.
They had attempted to give everyone work by reducing the number of
working hours in the day, and the number of working days in the week.
It finally became ludicrous when employees of industry were working
but two days a week, two hours a day. In fact, it got chaotic. It
became obvious that it was more practical to have one worker putting in
thirty-five hours a week and getting to know his job well, than it was
to have a score of employees, each working a few hours a week and none
of them ever really becoming efficient.
The only fair thing was to let the technologically unemployed remain
unemployed, with their Inalienable Basic stock as the equivalent of
unemployment insurance, while the few workers still needed put in a
reasonable number of hours a day, a reasonable number of weeks a year
and a reasonable number of years in a life time. When new employees
were needed, a draft lottery was held.
All persons registered in the labor force participated. If you
were drawn, you must need serve. The dissatisfaction those chosen
might feel at their poor luck was offset by the fact that they were
granted additional Variable Basic shares, according to the tasks
they fulfilled. Such shares could be added to their portfolios, the
dividends becoming part of their current credit balance, or could be
sold for a lump sum on the market.
Yes, but now it was all over. He had his own little place, his own
vacuum-tube vehicle and twice the amount of shares of Basic that most
of his fellow citizens could boast. Si Pond had it made. A spree was
obviously called for.
He was going to do this one right. This was the big one. He'd
accumulated a lot of dollars these past few months and he intended
to blow them, or at least a sizeable number of them. His credit card
was burning a hole in his pocket, as the expression went. However, he
wasn't going to rush into things. This had to be done correctly.
Too many a spree was played by ear. You started off with a few drinks,
fell in with some second rate mopsy and usually wound up in a third
rate groggery where you spent just as much as though you'd been in the
classiest joint in town. Came morning and you had nothing to show for
all the dollars that had been spent but a rum-head.
Thus, Si was vaguely aware, it had always been down through the
centuries since the Phoenecian sailor, back from his year-long trip to
the tin mines of Cornwall, blew his hard earned share of the voyage's
profits in a matter of days in the wine shops of Tyre. Nobody gets
quite so little for his money as that loneliest of all workers, he who
must leave his home for distant lands, returning only periodically and
usually with the salary of lengthy, weary periods of time to be spent
hurriedly in an attempt to achieve the pleasure and happiness so long
denied him.
Si was going to do it differently this time.
Nothing but the best. Wine, women, song, food, entertainment. The
works. But nothing but the best.
To start off, he dressed with great care in the honorable
retirement-rank suit he had so recently purchased. His space pin he
attached carefully to the lapel. That was a good beginning, he decided.
A bit of prestige didn't hurt you when you went out on the town. In
the Ultrawelfare State hardly one person in a hundred actually ever
performed anything of value to society. The efforts of most weren't
needed. Those few who did contribute were awarded honors, decorations,
titles.
Attired satisfactorily, Si double-checked to see that his credit
card was in his pocket. As an after-thought, he went over to the
auto-apartment's teevee-phone, flicked it on, held the card to the
screen and said, "Balance check, please."
In a moment, the teevee-phone's robot voice reported, "Ten shares of
Inalienable Basic. Twelve shares of Variable Basic, current value, four
thousand, two hundred and thirty-three dollars and sixty-two cents
apiece. Current cash credit, one thousand and eighty-four dollars." The
screen went dead.
One thousand and eighty-four dollars. That was plenty. He could safely
spend as much as half of it, if the spree got as lively as he hoped it
would. His monthly dividends were due in another week or so, and he
wouldn't have to worry about current expenses. Yes, indeedy, Si Pond
was as solvent as he had ever been in his thirty years.
He opened the small, closet-like door which housed his vacuum-tube
two-seater, and wedged himself into the small vehicle. He brought down
the canopy, dropped the pressurizer and considered the dial. Only one
place really made sense. The big city.
He considered for a moment, decided against the boroughs of Baltimore
and Boston, and selected Manhattan instead. He had the resources. He
might as well do it up brown.
He dialed Manhattan and felt the sinking sensation that presaged his
car's dropping to tube level. While it was being taken up by the robot
controls, being shuttled here and there preparatory to the shot to his
destination, he dialed the vehicle's teevee-phone for information on
the hotels of the island of the Hudson. He selected a swank hostelry
he'd read about and seen on the teevee casts of society and celebrity
gossip reporters, and dialed it on the car's destination dial.
"Nothing too good for ex-Space Pilot Si Pond," he said aloud.
The car hesitated for a moment, that brief hesitation before the
shot, and Si took the involuntary breath from which only heroes could
refrain. He sank back slowly into the seat. Moments passed, and the
direction of the pressure was reversed.
Manhattan. The shuttling began again, and one or two more traversing
sub-shots. Finally, the dash threw a green light and Si opened the
canopy and stepped into his hotel room.
A voice said gently, "If the quarters are satisfactory, please present
your credit card within ten minutes."
Si took his time. Not that he really needed it. It was by far the most
swank suite he had ever seen. One wall was a window of whatever size
the guest might desire and Si touched the control that dilated it to
the full. His view opened in such wise that he could see both the
Empire State Building Museum and the Hudson. Beyond the river stretched
the all but endless city which was Greater Metropolis.
He didn't take the time to flick on the menu, next to the auto-dining
table, nor to check the endless potables on the autobar list. All that,
he well knew, would be superlative. Besides, he didn't plan to dine
or do much drinking in his suite. He made a mock leer. Not unless he
managed to acquire some feminine companionship, that was.
He looked briefly into the swimming pool and bath, then flopped
himself happily onto the bed. It wasn't up to the degree of softness
he presently desired, and he dialed the thing to the ultimate in that
direction so that with a laugh he sank almost out of sight into the
mattress.
He came back to his feet, gave his suit a quick patting so that it
fell into press and, taking his credit card from his pocket, put it
against the teevee-phone screen and pressed the hotel button so that
registration could be completed.
For a moment he stood in the center of the floor, in thought. Take it
easy, Si Pond, take it all easy, this time. No throwing his dollars
around in second-class groggeries, no eating in automated luncheterias.
This time, be it the only time in his life, he was going to frolic in
the grand manner. No cloddy was Si Pond.
He decided a drink was in order to help him plan his strategy. A drink
at the hotel's famous Kudos Room where celebrities were reputed to be a
dime a dozen.
He left the suite and stepped into one of the elevators. He said,
"Kudos Room."
The auto-elevator murmured politely, "Yes, sir, the Kudos Room."
At the door to the famous rendezvous of the swankiest set, Si paused a
moment and looked about. He'd never been in a place like this, either.
However, he stifled his first instinct to wonder about what this was
going to do to his current credit balance with an inner grin and made
his way to the bar.
There was actually a bartender.
Si Pond suppressed his astonishment and said, offhand, attempting an
air of easy sophistication, "Slivovitz Sour."
"Yes, sir."
The drinks in the Kudos Room might be concocted by hand, but Si noticed
they had the routine teevee screens built into the bar for payment.
He put his credit card on the screen immediately before him when the
drink came, and had to quell his desire to dial for a balance check, so
as to be able to figure out what the Sour had cost him.
Well, this was something like it. This was the sort of thing he'd
dreamed about, out there in the great alone, seated in the confining
conning tower of his space craft. He sipped at the drink, finding it up
to his highest expectations, and then swiveled slightly on his stool to
take a look at the others present.
To his disappointment, there were no recognizable celebrities. None
that he placed, at least—top teevee stars, top politicians of the
Ultrawelfare State or Sports personalities.
He turned back to his drink and noticed, for the first time, the girl
who occupied the stool two down from him. Si Pond blinked. He blinked
and then swallowed.
"
Zo-ro-as-ter
," he breathed.
She was done in the latest style from Shanghai, even to the point of
having cosmetically duplicated the Mongolian fold at the corners of her
eyes. Every pore, but
every
pore, was in place. She sat with the easy
grace of the Orient, so seldom found in the West.
His stare couldn't be ignored.
She looked at him coldly, turned to the bartender and murmured, "A Far
Out Cooler, please, Fredric." Then deliberately added, "I thought the
Kudos Room was supposed to be exclusive."
There was nothing the bartender could say to that, and he went about
building the drink.
Si cleared his throat. "Hey," he said, "how about letting this one be
on me?"
Her eyebrows, which had been plucked and penciled to carry out her
Oriental motif, rose. "Really!" she said, drawing it out.
The bartender said hurriedly, "I beg your pardon, sir...."
The girl, her voice suddenly subtly changed, said, "Why, isn't that a
space pin?"
Si, disconcerted by the sudden reversal, said, "Yeah ... sure."
"Good Heavens, you're a spaceman?"
"Sure." He pointed at the lapel pin. "You can't wear one unless you
been on at least a Moon run."
She was obviously both taken back and impressed. "Why," she said,
"you're Seymour Pond, the pilot. I tuned in on the banquet they gave
you."
Si, carrying his glass, moved over to the stool next to her. "Call me
Si," he said. "Everybody calls me Si."
She said, "I'm Natalie. Natalie Paskov. Just Natalie. Imagine meeting
Seymour Pond. Just sitting down next to him at a bar. Just like that."
"Si," Si said, gratified. Holy Zoroaster, he'd never seen anything
like this rarified pulchritude. Maybe on teevee, of course, one of the
current sex symbols, but never in person. "Call me Si," he said again.
"I been called Si so long, I don't even know who somebody's talking to
if they say Seymour."
"I cried when they gave you that antique watch," she said, her tone
such that it was obvious she hadn't quite adjusted as yet to having
met him.
Si Pond was surprised. "Cried?" he said. "Well, why? I was kind of
bored with the whole thing. But old Doc Gubelin, I used to work under
him in the Space Exploration department, he was hot for it."
"
Academician
Gubelin?" she said. "You just call him
Doc
?"
Si was expansive. "Why, sure. In the Space Department we don't have
much time for formality. Everybody's just Si, and Doc, and Jim. Like
that. But how come you cried?"
She looked down into the drink the bartender had placed before her,
as though avoiding his face. "I ... I suppose it was that speech
Doctor Girard-Perregaux made. There you stood, so fine and straight in
your space-pilot uniform, the veteran of six exploration runs to the
planets...."
"Well," Si said modestly, "two of my runs were only to the Moon."
"... and he said all those things about man's conquest of space. And
the dream of the stars which man has held so long. And then the fact
that you were the last of the space pilots. The last man in the whole
world trained to pilot a space craft. And here you were, retiring."
Si grunted. "Yeah. That's all part of the Doc's scheme to get me to
take on another three runs. They're afraid the whole department'll be
dropped by the Appropriations Committee on this here Economic Planning
Board. Even if they can find some other patsy to train for the job,
it'd take maybe a year before you could even send him on a Moon hop.
So old man Gubelin, and Girard-Perregaux too, they're both trying to
pressure me into more trips. Otherwise they got a Space Exploration
Department, with all the expense and all, but nobody to pilot their
ships. It's kind of funny, in a way. You know what one of those
spaceships costs?"
"Funny?" she said. "Why, I don't think it's funny at all."
Si said, "Look, how about another drink?"
Natalie Paskov said, "Oh, I'd love to have a drink with you, Mr...."
"Si," Si said. He motioned to the bartender with a circular twist of
the hand indicating their need for two more of the same. "How come you
know so much about it? You don't meet many people who are interested
in space any more. In fact, most people are almost contemptuous, like.
Think it's kind of a big boondoggle deal to help use up a lot of
materials and all and keep the economy going."
Natalie said earnestly, "Why, I've been a space fan all my life. I've
read all about it. Have always known the names of all the space pilots
and everything about them, ever since I was a child. I suppose you'd
say I have the dream that Doctor Girard-Perregaux spoke about."
Si chuckled. "A real buff, eh? You know, it's kind of funny. I was
never much interested in it. And I got a darn sight less interested
after my first run and I found out what space cafard was."
She frowned. "I don't believe I know much about that."
Sitting in the Kudos Room with the most beautiful girl to whom he had
ever talked, Si could be nonchalant about the subject. "Old Gubelin
keeps that angle mostly hushed up and out of the magazine and newspaper
articles. Says there's enough adverse publicity about space exploration
already. But at this stage of the game when the whole ship's crammed
tight with this automatic scientific apparatus and all, there's
precious little room in the conning tower and you're the only man
aboard. The Doc says later on when ships are bigger and there's a whole
flock of people aboard, there won't be any such thing as space cafard,
but...." Of a sudden the right side of Si Pond's mouth began to tic
and he hurriedly took up his drink and knocked it back.
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What is the main reason behind the Welfare State operating as it does?
|
52995_I3M5VUMM_4
|
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"Automation with computers has made the need to work largely obsolete. ",
"The current populace is not skilled enough to work, and thus most people are a part of the Welfare State",
"The government does not want new workers, and is content supplying people with the funds they need to get through life. ",
"Overtime, the public has lost its drive to work. Thus, no one enforces a workforce."
] | 1 | 1 |
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52995_I3M5VUMM
| 11 | 1,003 |
Gutenberg
|
Spaceman on a Spree
|
1961.0
|
Reynolds, Mack
|
PS; Short stories; Astronauts -- Fiction; Science fiction
|
SPACEMAN ON A SPREE
BY MACK REYNOLDS
Illustrated by Nodel
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of Tomorrow June 1963
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
What's more important—Man's conquest
of space, or one spaceman's life?
I
They gave him a gold watch. It was meant to be symbolical, of course.
In the old tradition. It was in the way of an antique, being one of the
timepieces made generations past in the Alpine area of Eur-Asia. Its
quaintness lay in the fact that it was wound, not electronically by
power-radio, but by the actual physical movements of the bearer, a free
swinging rotor keeping the mainspring at a constant tension.
They also had a banquet for him, complete with speeches by such
bigwigs of the Department of Space Exploration as Academician Lofting
Gubelin and Doctor Hans Girard-Perregaux. There was also somebody
from the government who spoke, but he was one of those who were
pseudo-elected and didn't know much about the field of space travel
nor the significance of Seymour Pond's retirement. Si didn't bother to
remember his name. He only wondered vaguely why the cloddy had turned
up at all.
In common with recipients of gold watches of a score of generations
before him, Si Pond would have preferred something a bit more tangible
in the way of reward, such as a few shares of Variable Basic to add to
his portfolio. But that, he supposed, was asking too much.
The fact of the matter was, Si knew that his retiring had set them
back. They hadn't figured he had enough shares of Basic to see him
through decently. Well, possibly he didn't, given their standards.
But Space Pilot Seymour Pond didn't have their standards. He'd had
plenty of time to think it over. It was better to retire on a limited
crediting, on a confoundedly limited crediting, than to take the two or
three more trips in hopes of attaining a higher standard.
He'd had plenty of time to figure it out, there alone in space on the
Moon run, there on the Venus or Mars runs. There on the long, long
haul to the Jupiter satellites, fearfully checking the symptoms of
space cafard, the madness compounded of claustrophobia, monotony,
boredom and free fall. Plenty of time. Time to decide that a one
room mini-auto-apartment, complete with an autochair and built-in
autobar, and with one wall a teevee screen, was all he needed to
find contentment for a mighty long time. Possibly somebody like
Doc Girard-Perregaux might be horrified at the idea of living in a
mini-auto-apartment ... not realizing that to a pilot it was roomy
beyond belief compared to the conning tower of a space craft.
No. Even as Si listened to their speeches, accepted the watch and
made a halting little talk of his own, he was grinning inwardly. There
wasn't anything they could do. He had them now. He had enough Basic to
keep him comfortably, by his standards, for the rest of his life. He
was never going to subject himself to space cafard again. Just thinking
about it, now, set the tic to going at the side of his mouth.
They could count down and blast off, for all he gave a damn.
The gold watch idea had been that of Lofting Gubelin, which was
typical, he being in the way of a living anachronism himself. In fact,
Academician Gubelin was possibly the only living man on North America
who still wore spectacles. His explanation was that a phobia against
having his eyes touched prohibited either surgery to remould his
eyeballs and cure his myopia, or contact lenses.
That was only an alibi so far as his closest associate, Hans
Girard-Perregaux, was concerned. Doctor Girard-Perregaux was convinced
Gubelin would have even worn facial hair, had he but a touch more
courage. Gubelin longed for yesteryear, a seldom found phenomenon under
the Ultrawelfare State.
Slumped in an autochair in the escape room of his Floridian home,
Lofting Gubelin scowled at his friend. He said, acidly, "Any more
bright schemes, Hans? I presume you now acknowledge that appealing to
the cloddy's patriotism, sentiment and desire for public acclaim have
miserably failed."
Girard-Perregaux said easily, "I wouldn't call Seymour Pond a cloddy.
In his position, I am afraid I would do the same thing he has."
"That's nonsense, Hans. Zoroaster! Either you or I would gladly take
Pond's place were we capable of performing the duties for which he has
been trained. There aren't two men on North America—there aren't two
men in the world!—who better realize the urgency of continuing our
delving into space." Gubelin snapped his fingers. "Like that, either of
us would give our lives to prevent man from completely abandoning the
road to his destiny."
His friend said drily, "Either of us could have volunteered for pilot
training forty years ago, Lofting. We didn't."
"At that time there wasn't such a blistering percentage of funkers
throughout this whole blistering Ultrawelfare State! Who could
foresee that eventually our whole program would face ending due to
lack of courageous young men willing to take chances, willing to face
adventure, willing to react to the stimulus of danger in the manner our
ancestors did?"
Girard-Perregaux grunted his sarcasm and dialed a glass of iced tea
and tequila. He said, "Nevertheless, both you and I conform with the
present generation in finding it far more pleasant to follow one's
way of life in the comfort of one's home than to be confronted with
the unpleasantness of facing nature's dangers in more adventurous
pastimes."
Gubelin, half angry at his friend's argument, leaned forward to snap
rebuttal, but the other was wagging a finger at him negatively. "Face
reality, Lofting. Don't require or expect from Seymour Pond more
than is to be found there. He is an average young man. Born in our
Ultrawelfare State, he was guaranteed his fundamental womb-to-tomb
security by being issued that minimum number of Basic shares in our
society that allows him an income sufficient to secure the food,
clothing, shelter, medical care and education to sustain a low level
of subsistence. Percentages were against his ever being drafted
into industry. Automation being what it is, only a fraction of the
population is ever called up. But Pond was. His industrial aptitude
dossier revealed him a possible candidate for space pilot, and it was
you yourself who talked him into taking the training ... pointing out
the more pragmatic advantages such as complete retirement after but six
trips, added shares of Basic so that he could enjoy a more comfortable
life than most and the fame that would accrue to him as one of the
very few who still participate in travel to the planets. Very well.
He was sold. Took his training, which, of course, required long years
of drudgery to him. Then, performing his duties quite competently, he
made his six trips. He is now legally eligible for retirement. He was
drafted into the working force reserves, served his time, and is now
free from toil for the balance of his life. Why should he listen to
our pleas for a few more trips?"
"But has he no spirit of adventure? Has he no feeling for...."
Girard-Perregaux was wagging his finger again, a gesture that,
seemingly mild though it was, had an astonishing ability to break off
the conversation of one who debated with the easy-seeming, quiet spoken
man.
He said, "No, he hasn't. Few there are who have, nowadays. Man has
always paid lip service to adventure, hardships and excitement, but in
actuality his instincts, like those of any other animal, lead him to
the least dangerous path. Today we've reached the point where no one
need face danger—ever. There are few who don't take advantage of the
fact. Including you and me, Lofting, and including Seymour Pond."
His friend and colleague changed subjects abruptly, impatiently. "Let's
leave this blistering jabber about Pond's motivation and get to the
point. The man is the only trained space pilot in the world. It will
take months, possibly more than a year, to bring another novitiate
pilot to the point where he can safely be trusted to take our next
explorer craft out. Appropriations for our expeditions have been
increasingly hard to come by—even though in
our
minds, Hans, we are
near important breakthroughs, breakthroughs which might possibly so
spark the race that a new dream to push man out to the stars will take
hold of us. If it is admitted that our organization has degenerated
to the point that we haven't a single pilot, then it might well be
that the Economic Planning Board, and especially those cloddies
on Appropriations, will terminate the whole Department of Space
Exploration."
"So...." Girard-Perregaux said gently.
"So some way we've got to bring Seymour Pond out of his retirement!"
"Now we are getting to matters." Girard-Perregaux nodded his agreement.
Looking over the rim of his glass, his eyes narrowed in thought as his
face took on an expression of Machiavellianism. "And do not the ends
justify the means?"
Gubelin blinked at him.
The other chuckled. "The trouble with you, Lofting, is that you have
failed to bring history to bear on our problem. Haven't you ever read
of the sailor and his way of life?"
"Sailor? What in the name of the living Zoroaster has the sailor got to
do with it?"
"You must realize, my dear Lofting, that our Si Pond is nothing more
than a latter-day sailor, with many of the problems and view-points,
tendencies and weaknesses of the voyager of the past. Have you never
heard of the seaman who dreamed of returning to the village of his
birth and buying a chicken farm or some such? All the long months at
sea—and sometimes the tramp freighters or whaling craft would be out
for years at a stretch before returning to home port—he would talk
of his retirement and his dream. And then? Then in port, it would be
one short drink with the boys, before taking his accumulated pay and
heading home. The one short drink would lead to another. And morning
would find him, drunk, rolled, tattooed and possibly sleeping it off in
jail. So back to sea he'd have to go."
Gubelin grunted bitterly. "Unfortunately, our present-day sailor
can't be separated from his money quite so easily. If he could, I'd
personally be willing to lure him down some dark alley, knock him over
the head and roll him myself. Just to bring him back to his job again."
He brought his wallet from his pocket, and flicked it open to his
universal credit card. "The ultimate means of exchange," he grunted.
"Nobody can spend your money, but you, yourself. Nobody can steal it,
nobody can, ah,
con
you out of it. Just how do you expect to sever
our present-day sailor and his accumulated nest egg?"
The other chuckled again. "It is simply a matter of finding more modern
methods, my dear chap."
II
Si Pond was a great believer in the institution of the spree. Any
excuse would do. Back when he had finished basic education at the age
of twenty-five and was registered for the labor draft, there hadn't
been a chance in a hundred that he'd have the bad luck to have his
name pulled. But when it had been, Si had celebrated.
When he had been informed that his physical and mental qualifications
were such that he was eligible for the most dangerous occupation in
the Ultrawelfare State and had been pressured into taking training
for space pilot, he had celebrated once again. Twenty-two others had
taken the training with him, and only he and Rod Cameroon had passed
the finals. On this occasion, he and Rod had celebrated together. It
had been quite a party. Two weeks later, Rod had burned on a faulty
take-off on what should have been a routine Moon run.
Each time Si returned from one of his own runs, he celebrated. A spree,
a bust, a bat, a wing-ding, a night on the town. A commemoration of
dangers met and passed.
Now it was all over. At the age of thirty he was retired. Law prevented
him from ever being called up for contributing to the country's labor
needs again. And he most certainly wasn't going to volunteer.
He had taken his schooling much as had his contemporaries. There wasn't
any particular reason for trying to excell. You didn't want to get the
reputation for being a wise guy, or a cloddy either. Just one of the
fellas. You could do the same in life whether you really studied or
not. You had your Inalienable Basic stock, didn't you? What else did
you need?
It had come as a surprise when he'd been drafted for the labor force.
In the early days of the Ultrawelfare State, they had made a mistake
in adapting to the automation of the second industrial revolution.
They had attempted to give everyone work by reducing the number of
working hours in the day, and the number of working days in the week.
It finally became ludicrous when employees of industry were working
but two days a week, two hours a day. In fact, it got chaotic. It
became obvious that it was more practical to have one worker putting in
thirty-five hours a week and getting to know his job well, than it was
to have a score of employees, each working a few hours a week and none
of them ever really becoming efficient.
The only fair thing was to let the technologically unemployed remain
unemployed, with their Inalienable Basic stock as the equivalent of
unemployment insurance, while the few workers still needed put in a
reasonable number of hours a day, a reasonable number of weeks a year
and a reasonable number of years in a life time. When new employees
were needed, a draft lottery was held.
All persons registered in the labor force participated. If you
were drawn, you must need serve. The dissatisfaction those chosen
might feel at their poor luck was offset by the fact that they were
granted additional Variable Basic shares, according to the tasks
they fulfilled. Such shares could be added to their portfolios, the
dividends becoming part of their current credit balance, or could be
sold for a lump sum on the market.
Yes, but now it was all over. He had his own little place, his own
vacuum-tube vehicle and twice the amount of shares of Basic that most
of his fellow citizens could boast. Si Pond had it made. A spree was
obviously called for.
He was going to do this one right. This was the big one. He'd
accumulated a lot of dollars these past few months and he intended
to blow them, or at least a sizeable number of them. His credit card
was burning a hole in his pocket, as the expression went. However, he
wasn't going to rush into things. This had to be done correctly.
Too many a spree was played by ear. You started off with a few drinks,
fell in with some second rate mopsy and usually wound up in a third
rate groggery where you spent just as much as though you'd been in the
classiest joint in town. Came morning and you had nothing to show for
all the dollars that had been spent but a rum-head.
Thus, Si was vaguely aware, it had always been down through the
centuries since the Phoenecian sailor, back from his year-long trip to
the tin mines of Cornwall, blew his hard earned share of the voyage's
profits in a matter of days in the wine shops of Tyre. Nobody gets
quite so little for his money as that loneliest of all workers, he who
must leave his home for distant lands, returning only periodically and
usually with the salary of lengthy, weary periods of time to be spent
hurriedly in an attempt to achieve the pleasure and happiness so long
denied him.
Si was going to do it differently this time.
Nothing but the best. Wine, women, song, food, entertainment. The
works. But nothing but the best.
To start off, he dressed with great care in the honorable
retirement-rank suit he had so recently purchased. His space pin he
attached carefully to the lapel. That was a good beginning, he decided.
A bit of prestige didn't hurt you when you went out on the town. In
the Ultrawelfare State hardly one person in a hundred actually ever
performed anything of value to society. The efforts of most weren't
needed. Those few who did contribute were awarded honors, decorations,
titles.
Attired satisfactorily, Si double-checked to see that his credit
card was in his pocket. As an after-thought, he went over to the
auto-apartment's teevee-phone, flicked it on, held the card to the
screen and said, "Balance check, please."
In a moment, the teevee-phone's robot voice reported, "Ten shares of
Inalienable Basic. Twelve shares of Variable Basic, current value, four
thousand, two hundred and thirty-three dollars and sixty-two cents
apiece. Current cash credit, one thousand and eighty-four dollars." The
screen went dead.
One thousand and eighty-four dollars. That was plenty. He could safely
spend as much as half of it, if the spree got as lively as he hoped it
would. His monthly dividends were due in another week or so, and he
wouldn't have to worry about current expenses. Yes, indeedy, Si Pond
was as solvent as he had ever been in his thirty years.
He opened the small, closet-like door which housed his vacuum-tube
two-seater, and wedged himself into the small vehicle. He brought down
the canopy, dropped the pressurizer and considered the dial. Only one
place really made sense. The big city.
He considered for a moment, decided against the boroughs of Baltimore
and Boston, and selected Manhattan instead. He had the resources. He
might as well do it up brown.
He dialed Manhattan and felt the sinking sensation that presaged his
car's dropping to tube level. While it was being taken up by the robot
controls, being shuttled here and there preparatory to the shot to his
destination, he dialed the vehicle's teevee-phone for information on
the hotels of the island of the Hudson. He selected a swank hostelry
he'd read about and seen on the teevee casts of society and celebrity
gossip reporters, and dialed it on the car's destination dial.
"Nothing too good for ex-Space Pilot Si Pond," he said aloud.
The car hesitated for a moment, that brief hesitation before the
shot, and Si took the involuntary breath from which only heroes could
refrain. He sank back slowly into the seat. Moments passed, and the
direction of the pressure was reversed.
Manhattan. The shuttling began again, and one or two more traversing
sub-shots. Finally, the dash threw a green light and Si opened the
canopy and stepped into his hotel room.
A voice said gently, "If the quarters are satisfactory, please present
your credit card within ten minutes."
Si took his time. Not that he really needed it. It was by far the most
swank suite he had ever seen. One wall was a window of whatever size
the guest might desire and Si touched the control that dilated it to
the full. His view opened in such wise that he could see both the
Empire State Building Museum and the Hudson. Beyond the river stretched
the all but endless city which was Greater Metropolis.
He didn't take the time to flick on the menu, next to the auto-dining
table, nor to check the endless potables on the autobar list. All that,
he well knew, would be superlative. Besides, he didn't plan to dine
or do much drinking in his suite. He made a mock leer. Not unless he
managed to acquire some feminine companionship, that was.
He looked briefly into the swimming pool and bath, then flopped
himself happily onto the bed. It wasn't up to the degree of softness
he presently desired, and he dialed the thing to the ultimate in that
direction so that with a laugh he sank almost out of sight into the
mattress.
He came back to his feet, gave his suit a quick patting so that it
fell into press and, taking his credit card from his pocket, put it
against the teevee-phone screen and pressed the hotel button so that
registration could be completed.
For a moment he stood in the center of the floor, in thought. Take it
easy, Si Pond, take it all easy, this time. No throwing his dollars
around in second-class groggeries, no eating in automated luncheterias.
This time, be it the only time in his life, he was going to frolic in
the grand manner. No cloddy was Si Pond.
He decided a drink was in order to help him plan his strategy. A drink
at the hotel's famous Kudos Room where celebrities were reputed to be a
dime a dozen.
He left the suite and stepped into one of the elevators. He said,
"Kudos Room."
The auto-elevator murmured politely, "Yes, sir, the Kudos Room."
At the door to the famous rendezvous of the swankiest set, Si paused a
moment and looked about. He'd never been in a place like this, either.
However, he stifled his first instinct to wonder about what this was
going to do to his current credit balance with an inner grin and made
his way to the bar.
There was actually a bartender.
Si Pond suppressed his astonishment and said, offhand, attempting an
air of easy sophistication, "Slivovitz Sour."
"Yes, sir."
The drinks in the Kudos Room might be concocted by hand, but Si noticed
they had the routine teevee screens built into the bar for payment.
He put his credit card on the screen immediately before him when the
drink came, and had to quell his desire to dial for a balance check, so
as to be able to figure out what the Sour had cost him.
Well, this was something like it. This was the sort of thing he'd
dreamed about, out there in the great alone, seated in the confining
conning tower of his space craft. He sipped at the drink, finding it up
to his highest expectations, and then swiveled slightly on his stool to
take a look at the others present.
To his disappointment, there were no recognizable celebrities. None
that he placed, at least—top teevee stars, top politicians of the
Ultrawelfare State or Sports personalities.
He turned back to his drink and noticed, for the first time, the girl
who occupied the stool two down from him. Si Pond blinked. He blinked
and then swallowed.
"
Zo-ro-as-ter
," he breathed.
She was done in the latest style from Shanghai, even to the point of
having cosmetically duplicated the Mongolian fold at the corners of her
eyes. Every pore, but
every
pore, was in place. She sat with the easy
grace of the Orient, so seldom found in the West.
His stare couldn't be ignored.
She looked at him coldly, turned to the bartender and murmured, "A Far
Out Cooler, please, Fredric." Then deliberately added, "I thought the
Kudos Room was supposed to be exclusive."
There was nothing the bartender could say to that, and he went about
building the drink.
Si cleared his throat. "Hey," he said, "how about letting this one be
on me?"
Her eyebrows, which had been plucked and penciled to carry out her
Oriental motif, rose. "Really!" she said, drawing it out.
The bartender said hurriedly, "I beg your pardon, sir...."
The girl, her voice suddenly subtly changed, said, "Why, isn't that a
space pin?"
Si, disconcerted by the sudden reversal, said, "Yeah ... sure."
"Good Heavens, you're a spaceman?"
"Sure." He pointed at the lapel pin. "You can't wear one unless you
been on at least a Moon run."
She was obviously both taken back and impressed. "Why," she said,
"you're Seymour Pond, the pilot. I tuned in on the banquet they gave
you."
Si, carrying his glass, moved over to the stool next to her. "Call me
Si," he said. "Everybody calls me Si."
She said, "I'm Natalie. Natalie Paskov. Just Natalie. Imagine meeting
Seymour Pond. Just sitting down next to him at a bar. Just like that."
"Si," Si said, gratified. Holy Zoroaster, he'd never seen anything
like this rarified pulchritude. Maybe on teevee, of course, one of the
current sex symbols, but never in person. "Call me Si," he said again.
"I been called Si so long, I don't even know who somebody's talking to
if they say Seymour."
"I cried when they gave you that antique watch," she said, her tone
such that it was obvious she hadn't quite adjusted as yet to having
met him.
Si Pond was surprised. "Cried?" he said. "Well, why? I was kind of
bored with the whole thing. But old Doc Gubelin, I used to work under
him in the Space Exploration department, he was hot for it."
"
Academician
Gubelin?" she said. "You just call him
Doc
?"
Si was expansive. "Why, sure. In the Space Department we don't have
much time for formality. Everybody's just Si, and Doc, and Jim. Like
that. But how come you cried?"
She looked down into the drink the bartender had placed before her,
as though avoiding his face. "I ... I suppose it was that speech
Doctor Girard-Perregaux made. There you stood, so fine and straight in
your space-pilot uniform, the veteran of six exploration runs to the
planets...."
"Well," Si said modestly, "two of my runs were only to the Moon."
"... and he said all those things about man's conquest of space. And
the dream of the stars which man has held so long. And then the fact
that you were the last of the space pilots. The last man in the whole
world trained to pilot a space craft. And here you were, retiring."
Si grunted. "Yeah. That's all part of the Doc's scheme to get me to
take on another three runs. They're afraid the whole department'll be
dropped by the Appropriations Committee on this here Economic Planning
Board. Even if they can find some other patsy to train for the job,
it'd take maybe a year before you could even send him on a Moon hop.
So old man Gubelin, and Girard-Perregaux too, they're both trying to
pressure me into more trips. Otherwise they got a Space Exploration
Department, with all the expense and all, but nobody to pilot their
ships. It's kind of funny, in a way. You know what one of those
spaceships costs?"
"Funny?" she said. "Why, I don't think it's funny at all."
Si said, "Look, how about another drink?"
Natalie Paskov said, "Oh, I'd love to have a drink with you, Mr...."
"Si," Si said. He motioned to the bartender with a circular twist of
the hand indicating their need for two more of the same. "How come you
know so much about it? You don't meet many people who are interested
in space any more. In fact, most people are almost contemptuous, like.
Think it's kind of a big boondoggle deal to help use up a lot of
materials and all and keep the economy going."
Natalie said earnestly, "Why, I've been a space fan all my life. I've
read all about it. Have always known the names of all the space pilots
and everything about them, ever since I was a child. I suppose you'd
say I have the dream that Doctor Girard-Perregaux spoke about."
Si chuckled. "A real buff, eh? You know, it's kind of funny. I was
never much interested in it. And I got a darn sight less interested
after my first run and I found out what space cafard was."
She frowned. "I don't believe I know much about that."
Sitting in the Kudos Room with the most beautiful girl to whom he had
ever talked, Si could be nonchalant about the subject. "Old Gubelin
keeps that angle mostly hushed up and out of the magazine and newspaper
articles. Says there's enough adverse publicity about space exploration
already. But at this stage of the game when the whole ship's crammed
tight with this automatic scientific apparatus and all, there's
precious little room in the conning tower and you're the only man
aboard. The Doc says later on when ships are bigger and there's a whole
flock of people aboard, there won't be any such thing as space cafard,
but...." Of a sudden the right side of Si Pond's mouth began to tic
and he hurriedly took up his drink and knocked it back.
|
http://aleph.gutenberg.org/5/2/9/9/52995//52995-h//52995-h.htm
|
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|
What happens to drafted workers?
|
52995_I3M5VUMM_5
|
[
"They train and work for a time, then retire with extra funds.",
"They receive no pay, and have to undergo training and work for some time",
"They are called upon throughout their life for periods of work.",
"They work a short period of time, then return to normal life."
] | 1 | 1 |
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52,995 |
52995_I3M5VUMM
| 11 | 1,003 |
Gutenberg
|
Spaceman on a Spree
|
1961.0
|
Reynolds, Mack
|
PS; Short stories; Astronauts -- Fiction; Science fiction
|
SPACEMAN ON A SPREE
BY MACK REYNOLDS
Illustrated by Nodel
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of Tomorrow June 1963
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
What's more important—Man's conquest
of space, or one spaceman's life?
I
They gave him a gold watch. It was meant to be symbolical, of course.
In the old tradition. It was in the way of an antique, being one of the
timepieces made generations past in the Alpine area of Eur-Asia. Its
quaintness lay in the fact that it was wound, not electronically by
power-radio, but by the actual physical movements of the bearer, a free
swinging rotor keeping the mainspring at a constant tension.
They also had a banquet for him, complete with speeches by such
bigwigs of the Department of Space Exploration as Academician Lofting
Gubelin and Doctor Hans Girard-Perregaux. There was also somebody
from the government who spoke, but he was one of those who were
pseudo-elected and didn't know much about the field of space travel
nor the significance of Seymour Pond's retirement. Si didn't bother to
remember his name. He only wondered vaguely why the cloddy had turned
up at all.
In common with recipients of gold watches of a score of generations
before him, Si Pond would have preferred something a bit more tangible
in the way of reward, such as a few shares of Variable Basic to add to
his portfolio. But that, he supposed, was asking too much.
The fact of the matter was, Si knew that his retiring had set them
back. They hadn't figured he had enough shares of Basic to see him
through decently. Well, possibly he didn't, given their standards.
But Space Pilot Seymour Pond didn't have their standards. He'd had
plenty of time to think it over. It was better to retire on a limited
crediting, on a confoundedly limited crediting, than to take the two or
three more trips in hopes of attaining a higher standard.
He'd had plenty of time to figure it out, there alone in space on the
Moon run, there on the Venus or Mars runs. There on the long, long
haul to the Jupiter satellites, fearfully checking the symptoms of
space cafard, the madness compounded of claustrophobia, monotony,
boredom and free fall. Plenty of time. Time to decide that a one
room mini-auto-apartment, complete with an autochair and built-in
autobar, and with one wall a teevee screen, was all he needed to
find contentment for a mighty long time. Possibly somebody like
Doc Girard-Perregaux might be horrified at the idea of living in a
mini-auto-apartment ... not realizing that to a pilot it was roomy
beyond belief compared to the conning tower of a space craft.
No. Even as Si listened to their speeches, accepted the watch and
made a halting little talk of his own, he was grinning inwardly. There
wasn't anything they could do. He had them now. He had enough Basic to
keep him comfortably, by his standards, for the rest of his life. He
was never going to subject himself to space cafard again. Just thinking
about it, now, set the tic to going at the side of his mouth.
They could count down and blast off, for all he gave a damn.
The gold watch idea had been that of Lofting Gubelin, which was
typical, he being in the way of a living anachronism himself. In fact,
Academician Gubelin was possibly the only living man on North America
who still wore spectacles. His explanation was that a phobia against
having his eyes touched prohibited either surgery to remould his
eyeballs and cure his myopia, or contact lenses.
That was only an alibi so far as his closest associate, Hans
Girard-Perregaux, was concerned. Doctor Girard-Perregaux was convinced
Gubelin would have even worn facial hair, had he but a touch more
courage. Gubelin longed for yesteryear, a seldom found phenomenon under
the Ultrawelfare State.
Slumped in an autochair in the escape room of his Floridian home,
Lofting Gubelin scowled at his friend. He said, acidly, "Any more
bright schemes, Hans? I presume you now acknowledge that appealing to
the cloddy's patriotism, sentiment and desire for public acclaim have
miserably failed."
Girard-Perregaux said easily, "I wouldn't call Seymour Pond a cloddy.
In his position, I am afraid I would do the same thing he has."
"That's nonsense, Hans. Zoroaster! Either you or I would gladly take
Pond's place were we capable of performing the duties for which he has
been trained. There aren't two men on North America—there aren't two
men in the world!—who better realize the urgency of continuing our
delving into space." Gubelin snapped his fingers. "Like that, either of
us would give our lives to prevent man from completely abandoning the
road to his destiny."
His friend said drily, "Either of us could have volunteered for pilot
training forty years ago, Lofting. We didn't."
"At that time there wasn't such a blistering percentage of funkers
throughout this whole blistering Ultrawelfare State! Who could
foresee that eventually our whole program would face ending due to
lack of courageous young men willing to take chances, willing to face
adventure, willing to react to the stimulus of danger in the manner our
ancestors did?"
Girard-Perregaux grunted his sarcasm and dialed a glass of iced tea
and tequila. He said, "Nevertheless, both you and I conform with the
present generation in finding it far more pleasant to follow one's
way of life in the comfort of one's home than to be confronted with
the unpleasantness of facing nature's dangers in more adventurous
pastimes."
Gubelin, half angry at his friend's argument, leaned forward to snap
rebuttal, but the other was wagging a finger at him negatively. "Face
reality, Lofting. Don't require or expect from Seymour Pond more
than is to be found there. He is an average young man. Born in our
Ultrawelfare State, he was guaranteed his fundamental womb-to-tomb
security by being issued that minimum number of Basic shares in our
society that allows him an income sufficient to secure the food,
clothing, shelter, medical care and education to sustain a low level
of subsistence. Percentages were against his ever being drafted
into industry. Automation being what it is, only a fraction of the
population is ever called up. But Pond was. His industrial aptitude
dossier revealed him a possible candidate for space pilot, and it was
you yourself who talked him into taking the training ... pointing out
the more pragmatic advantages such as complete retirement after but six
trips, added shares of Basic so that he could enjoy a more comfortable
life than most and the fame that would accrue to him as one of the
very few who still participate in travel to the planets. Very well.
He was sold. Took his training, which, of course, required long years
of drudgery to him. Then, performing his duties quite competently, he
made his six trips. He is now legally eligible for retirement. He was
drafted into the working force reserves, served his time, and is now
free from toil for the balance of his life. Why should he listen to
our pleas for a few more trips?"
"But has he no spirit of adventure? Has he no feeling for...."
Girard-Perregaux was wagging his finger again, a gesture that,
seemingly mild though it was, had an astonishing ability to break off
the conversation of one who debated with the easy-seeming, quiet spoken
man.
He said, "No, he hasn't. Few there are who have, nowadays. Man has
always paid lip service to adventure, hardships and excitement, but in
actuality his instincts, like those of any other animal, lead him to
the least dangerous path. Today we've reached the point where no one
need face danger—ever. There are few who don't take advantage of the
fact. Including you and me, Lofting, and including Seymour Pond."
His friend and colleague changed subjects abruptly, impatiently. "Let's
leave this blistering jabber about Pond's motivation and get to the
point. The man is the only trained space pilot in the world. It will
take months, possibly more than a year, to bring another novitiate
pilot to the point where he can safely be trusted to take our next
explorer craft out. Appropriations for our expeditions have been
increasingly hard to come by—even though in
our
minds, Hans, we are
near important breakthroughs, breakthroughs which might possibly so
spark the race that a new dream to push man out to the stars will take
hold of us. If it is admitted that our organization has degenerated
to the point that we haven't a single pilot, then it might well be
that the Economic Planning Board, and especially those cloddies
on Appropriations, will terminate the whole Department of Space
Exploration."
"So...." Girard-Perregaux said gently.
"So some way we've got to bring Seymour Pond out of his retirement!"
"Now we are getting to matters." Girard-Perregaux nodded his agreement.
Looking over the rim of his glass, his eyes narrowed in thought as his
face took on an expression of Machiavellianism. "And do not the ends
justify the means?"
Gubelin blinked at him.
The other chuckled. "The trouble with you, Lofting, is that you have
failed to bring history to bear on our problem. Haven't you ever read
of the sailor and his way of life?"
"Sailor? What in the name of the living Zoroaster has the sailor got to
do with it?"
"You must realize, my dear Lofting, that our Si Pond is nothing more
than a latter-day sailor, with many of the problems and view-points,
tendencies and weaknesses of the voyager of the past. Have you never
heard of the seaman who dreamed of returning to the village of his
birth and buying a chicken farm or some such? All the long months at
sea—and sometimes the tramp freighters or whaling craft would be out
for years at a stretch before returning to home port—he would talk
of his retirement and his dream. And then? Then in port, it would be
one short drink with the boys, before taking his accumulated pay and
heading home. The one short drink would lead to another. And morning
would find him, drunk, rolled, tattooed and possibly sleeping it off in
jail. So back to sea he'd have to go."
Gubelin grunted bitterly. "Unfortunately, our present-day sailor
can't be separated from his money quite so easily. If he could, I'd
personally be willing to lure him down some dark alley, knock him over
the head and roll him myself. Just to bring him back to his job again."
He brought his wallet from his pocket, and flicked it open to his
universal credit card. "The ultimate means of exchange," he grunted.
"Nobody can spend your money, but you, yourself. Nobody can steal it,
nobody can, ah,
con
you out of it. Just how do you expect to sever
our present-day sailor and his accumulated nest egg?"
The other chuckled again. "It is simply a matter of finding more modern
methods, my dear chap."
II
Si Pond was a great believer in the institution of the spree. Any
excuse would do. Back when he had finished basic education at the age
of twenty-five and was registered for the labor draft, there hadn't
been a chance in a hundred that he'd have the bad luck to have his
name pulled. But when it had been, Si had celebrated.
When he had been informed that his physical and mental qualifications
were such that he was eligible for the most dangerous occupation in
the Ultrawelfare State and had been pressured into taking training
for space pilot, he had celebrated once again. Twenty-two others had
taken the training with him, and only he and Rod Cameroon had passed
the finals. On this occasion, he and Rod had celebrated together. It
had been quite a party. Two weeks later, Rod had burned on a faulty
take-off on what should have been a routine Moon run.
Each time Si returned from one of his own runs, he celebrated. A spree,
a bust, a bat, a wing-ding, a night on the town. A commemoration of
dangers met and passed.
Now it was all over. At the age of thirty he was retired. Law prevented
him from ever being called up for contributing to the country's labor
needs again. And he most certainly wasn't going to volunteer.
He had taken his schooling much as had his contemporaries. There wasn't
any particular reason for trying to excell. You didn't want to get the
reputation for being a wise guy, or a cloddy either. Just one of the
fellas. You could do the same in life whether you really studied or
not. You had your Inalienable Basic stock, didn't you? What else did
you need?
It had come as a surprise when he'd been drafted for the labor force.
In the early days of the Ultrawelfare State, they had made a mistake
in adapting to the automation of the second industrial revolution.
They had attempted to give everyone work by reducing the number of
working hours in the day, and the number of working days in the week.
It finally became ludicrous when employees of industry were working
but two days a week, two hours a day. In fact, it got chaotic. It
became obvious that it was more practical to have one worker putting in
thirty-five hours a week and getting to know his job well, than it was
to have a score of employees, each working a few hours a week and none
of them ever really becoming efficient.
The only fair thing was to let the technologically unemployed remain
unemployed, with their Inalienable Basic stock as the equivalent of
unemployment insurance, while the few workers still needed put in a
reasonable number of hours a day, a reasonable number of weeks a year
and a reasonable number of years in a life time. When new employees
were needed, a draft lottery was held.
All persons registered in the labor force participated. If you
were drawn, you must need serve. The dissatisfaction those chosen
might feel at their poor luck was offset by the fact that they were
granted additional Variable Basic shares, according to the tasks
they fulfilled. Such shares could be added to their portfolios, the
dividends becoming part of their current credit balance, or could be
sold for a lump sum on the market.
Yes, but now it was all over. He had his own little place, his own
vacuum-tube vehicle and twice the amount of shares of Basic that most
of his fellow citizens could boast. Si Pond had it made. A spree was
obviously called for.
He was going to do this one right. This was the big one. He'd
accumulated a lot of dollars these past few months and he intended
to blow them, or at least a sizeable number of them. His credit card
was burning a hole in his pocket, as the expression went. However, he
wasn't going to rush into things. This had to be done correctly.
Too many a spree was played by ear. You started off with a few drinks,
fell in with some second rate mopsy and usually wound up in a third
rate groggery where you spent just as much as though you'd been in the
classiest joint in town. Came morning and you had nothing to show for
all the dollars that had been spent but a rum-head.
Thus, Si was vaguely aware, it had always been down through the
centuries since the Phoenecian sailor, back from his year-long trip to
the tin mines of Cornwall, blew his hard earned share of the voyage's
profits in a matter of days in the wine shops of Tyre. Nobody gets
quite so little for his money as that loneliest of all workers, he who
must leave his home for distant lands, returning only periodically and
usually with the salary of lengthy, weary periods of time to be spent
hurriedly in an attempt to achieve the pleasure and happiness so long
denied him.
Si was going to do it differently this time.
Nothing but the best. Wine, women, song, food, entertainment. The
works. But nothing but the best.
To start off, he dressed with great care in the honorable
retirement-rank suit he had so recently purchased. His space pin he
attached carefully to the lapel. That was a good beginning, he decided.
A bit of prestige didn't hurt you when you went out on the town. In
the Ultrawelfare State hardly one person in a hundred actually ever
performed anything of value to society. The efforts of most weren't
needed. Those few who did contribute were awarded honors, decorations,
titles.
Attired satisfactorily, Si double-checked to see that his credit
card was in his pocket. As an after-thought, he went over to the
auto-apartment's teevee-phone, flicked it on, held the card to the
screen and said, "Balance check, please."
In a moment, the teevee-phone's robot voice reported, "Ten shares of
Inalienable Basic. Twelve shares of Variable Basic, current value, four
thousand, two hundred and thirty-three dollars and sixty-two cents
apiece. Current cash credit, one thousand and eighty-four dollars." The
screen went dead.
One thousand and eighty-four dollars. That was plenty. He could safely
spend as much as half of it, if the spree got as lively as he hoped it
would. His monthly dividends were due in another week or so, and he
wouldn't have to worry about current expenses. Yes, indeedy, Si Pond
was as solvent as he had ever been in his thirty years.
He opened the small, closet-like door which housed his vacuum-tube
two-seater, and wedged himself into the small vehicle. He brought down
the canopy, dropped the pressurizer and considered the dial. Only one
place really made sense. The big city.
He considered for a moment, decided against the boroughs of Baltimore
and Boston, and selected Manhattan instead. He had the resources. He
might as well do it up brown.
He dialed Manhattan and felt the sinking sensation that presaged his
car's dropping to tube level. While it was being taken up by the robot
controls, being shuttled here and there preparatory to the shot to his
destination, he dialed the vehicle's teevee-phone for information on
the hotels of the island of the Hudson. He selected a swank hostelry
he'd read about and seen on the teevee casts of society and celebrity
gossip reporters, and dialed it on the car's destination dial.
"Nothing too good for ex-Space Pilot Si Pond," he said aloud.
The car hesitated for a moment, that brief hesitation before the
shot, and Si took the involuntary breath from which only heroes could
refrain. He sank back slowly into the seat. Moments passed, and the
direction of the pressure was reversed.
Manhattan. The shuttling began again, and one or two more traversing
sub-shots. Finally, the dash threw a green light and Si opened the
canopy and stepped into his hotel room.
A voice said gently, "If the quarters are satisfactory, please present
your credit card within ten minutes."
Si took his time. Not that he really needed it. It was by far the most
swank suite he had ever seen. One wall was a window of whatever size
the guest might desire and Si touched the control that dilated it to
the full. His view opened in such wise that he could see both the
Empire State Building Museum and the Hudson. Beyond the river stretched
the all but endless city which was Greater Metropolis.
He didn't take the time to flick on the menu, next to the auto-dining
table, nor to check the endless potables on the autobar list. All that,
he well knew, would be superlative. Besides, he didn't plan to dine
or do much drinking in his suite. He made a mock leer. Not unless he
managed to acquire some feminine companionship, that was.
He looked briefly into the swimming pool and bath, then flopped
himself happily onto the bed. It wasn't up to the degree of softness
he presently desired, and he dialed the thing to the ultimate in that
direction so that with a laugh he sank almost out of sight into the
mattress.
He came back to his feet, gave his suit a quick patting so that it
fell into press and, taking his credit card from his pocket, put it
against the teevee-phone screen and pressed the hotel button so that
registration could be completed.
For a moment he stood in the center of the floor, in thought. Take it
easy, Si Pond, take it all easy, this time. No throwing his dollars
around in second-class groggeries, no eating in automated luncheterias.
This time, be it the only time in his life, he was going to frolic in
the grand manner. No cloddy was Si Pond.
He decided a drink was in order to help him plan his strategy. A drink
at the hotel's famous Kudos Room where celebrities were reputed to be a
dime a dozen.
He left the suite and stepped into one of the elevators. He said,
"Kudos Room."
The auto-elevator murmured politely, "Yes, sir, the Kudos Room."
At the door to the famous rendezvous of the swankiest set, Si paused a
moment and looked about. He'd never been in a place like this, either.
However, he stifled his first instinct to wonder about what this was
going to do to his current credit balance with an inner grin and made
his way to the bar.
There was actually a bartender.
Si Pond suppressed his astonishment and said, offhand, attempting an
air of easy sophistication, "Slivovitz Sour."
"Yes, sir."
The drinks in the Kudos Room might be concocted by hand, but Si noticed
they had the routine teevee screens built into the bar for payment.
He put his credit card on the screen immediately before him when the
drink came, and had to quell his desire to dial for a balance check, so
as to be able to figure out what the Sour had cost him.
Well, this was something like it. This was the sort of thing he'd
dreamed about, out there in the great alone, seated in the confining
conning tower of his space craft. He sipped at the drink, finding it up
to his highest expectations, and then swiveled slightly on his stool to
take a look at the others present.
To his disappointment, there were no recognizable celebrities. None
that he placed, at least—top teevee stars, top politicians of the
Ultrawelfare State or Sports personalities.
He turned back to his drink and noticed, for the first time, the girl
who occupied the stool two down from him. Si Pond blinked. He blinked
and then swallowed.
"
Zo-ro-as-ter
," he breathed.
She was done in the latest style from Shanghai, even to the point of
having cosmetically duplicated the Mongolian fold at the corners of her
eyes. Every pore, but
every
pore, was in place. She sat with the easy
grace of the Orient, so seldom found in the West.
His stare couldn't be ignored.
She looked at him coldly, turned to the bartender and murmured, "A Far
Out Cooler, please, Fredric." Then deliberately added, "I thought the
Kudos Room was supposed to be exclusive."
There was nothing the bartender could say to that, and he went about
building the drink.
Si cleared his throat. "Hey," he said, "how about letting this one be
on me?"
Her eyebrows, which had been plucked and penciled to carry out her
Oriental motif, rose. "Really!" she said, drawing it out.
The bartender said hurriedly, "I beg your pardon, sir...."
The girl, her voice suddenly subtly changed, said, "Why, isn't that a
space pin?"
Si, disconcerted by the sudden reversal, said, "Yeah ... sure."
"Good Heavens, you're a spaceman?"
"Sure." He pointed at the lapel pin. "You can't wear one unless you
been on at least a Moon run."
She was obviously both taken back and impressed. "Why," she said,
"you're Seymour Pond, the pilot. I tuned in on the banquet they gave
you."
Si, carrying his glass, moved over to the stool next to her. "Call me
Si," he said. "Everybody calls me Si."
She said, "I'm Natalie. Natalie Paskov. Just Natalie. Imagine meeting
Seymour Pond. Just sitting down next to him at a bar. Just like that."
"Si," Si said, gratified. Holy Zoroaster, he'd never seen anything
like this rarified pulchritude. Maybe on teevee, of course, one of the
current sex symbols, but never in person. "Call me Si," he said again.
"I been called Si so long, I don't even know who somebody's talking to
if they say Seymour."
"I cried when they gave you that antique watch," she said, her tone
such that it was obvious she hadn't quite adjusted as yet to having
met him.
Si Pond was surprised. "Cried?" he said. "Well, why? I was kind of
bored with the whole thing. But old Doc Gubelin, I used to work under
him in the Space Exploration department, he was hot for it."
"
Academician
Gubelin?" she said. "You just call him
Doc
?"
Si was expansive. "Why, sure. In the Space Department we don't have
much time for formality. Everybody's just Si, and Doc, and Jim. Like
that. But how come you cried?"
She looked down into the drink the bartender had placed before her,
as though avoiding his face. "I ... I suppose it was that speech
Doctor Girard-Perregaux made. There you stood, so fine and straight in
your space-pilot uniform, the veteran of six exploration runs to the
planets...."
"Well," Si said modestly, "two of my runs were only to the Moon."
"... and he said all those things about man's conquest of space. And
the dream of the stars which man has held so long. And then the fact
that you were the last of the space pilots. The last man in the whole
world trained to pilot a space craft. And here you were, retiring."
Si grunted. "Yeah. That's all part of the Doc's scheme to get me to
take on another three runs. They're afraid the whole department'll be
dropped by the Appropriations Committee on this here Economic Planning
Board. Even if they can find some other patsy to train for the job,
it'd take maybe a year before you could even send him on a Moon hop.
So old man Gubelin, and Girard-Perregaux too, they're both trying to
pressure me into more trips. Otherwise they got a Space Exploration
Department, with all the expense and all, but nobody to pilot their
ships. It's kind of funny, in a way. You know what one of those
spaceships costs?"
"Funny?" she said. "Why, I don't think it's funny at all."
Si said, "Look, how about another drink?"
Natalie Paskov said, "Oh, I'd love to have a drink with you, Mr...."
"Si," Si said. He motioned to the bartender with a circular twist of
the hand indicating their need for two more of the same. "How come you
know so much about it? You don't meet many people who are interested
in space any more. In fact, most people are almost contemptuous, like.
Think it's kind of a big boondoggle deal to help use up a lot of
materials and all and keep the economy going."
Natalie said earnestly, "Why, I've been a space fan all my life. I've
read all about it. Have always known the names of all the space pilots
and everything about them, ever since I was a child. I suppose you'd
say I have the dream that Doctor Girard-Perregaux spoke about."
Si chuckled. "A real buff, eh? You know, it's kind of funny. I was
never much interested in it. And I got a darn sight less interested
after my first run and I found out what space cafard was."
She frowned. "I don't believe I know much about that."
Sitting in the Kudos Room with the most beautiful girl to whom he had
ever talked, Si could be nonchalant about the subject. "Old Gubelin
keeps that angle mostly hushed up and out of the magazine and newspaper
articles. Says there's enough adverse publicity about space exploration
already. But at this stage of the game when the whole ship's crammed
tight with this automatic scientific apparatus and all, there's
precious little room in the conning tower and you're the only man
aboard. The Doc says later on when ships are bigger and there's a whole
flock of people aboard, there won't be any such thing as space cafard,
but...." Of a sudden the right side of Si Pond's mouth began to tic
and he hurriedly took up his drink and knocked it back.
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This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. 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. If you are not located in the United States, you’ll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Please refer to https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html for the detailed license.
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Why is Si so astonished when there is a real bartender working the bar?
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52995_I3M5VUMM_6
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[
"He hasn’t been talking to people, and Si is caught off guard seeing someone face to face again after so long.",
"He’s never seen a bartender before, nor been in an establishment that has one.",
"He was in his thoughts considering his money, and was caught off guard.",
"He didn’t expect it. It’s a job that is normally automated, and it’s shocking to see a human working it."
] | 4 | 4 |
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Spaceman on a Spree
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Reynolds, Mack
|
PS; Short stories; Astronauts -- Fiction; Science fiction
| "SPACEMAN ON A SPREE\nBY MACK REYNOLDS\n\n\n Illustrated by Nodel\n\n\n [Transcriber's Note: This et(...TRUNCATED) |
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| "This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world(...TRUNCATED) |
Why does Si deliberate on how to spend his night?
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52995_I3M5VUMM_7
| ["He finally has the opportunity to let loose, and wants to revel in it.","He’s spent his money on(...TRUNCATED) | 2 | 2 | [{"untimed_annotator_id":"0002","untimed_answer":2,"untimed_best_distractor":1,"untimed_eval1_answer(...TRUNCATED) | [{"speed_annotator_id":"0005","speed_answer":3},{"speed_annotator_id":"0007","speed_answer":3},{"spe(...TRUNCATED) | 1 |
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Spaceman on a Spree
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1961.0
|
Reynolds, Mack
|
PS; Short stories; Astronauts -- Fiction; Science fiction
| "SPACEMAN ON A SPREE\nBY MACK REYNOLDS\n\n\n Illustrated by Nodel\n\n\n [Transcriber's Note: This et(...TRUNCATED) |
http://aleph.gutenberg.org/5/2/9/9/52995//52995-h//52995-h.htm
| "This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world(...TRUNCATED) |
What is the “space cafard” that Si describes?
|
52995_I3M5VUMM_8
| ["It’s the isolation that spacemen feel working alone in space, with only computers as company","I(...TRUNCATED) | 1 | 1 | [{"untimed_annotator_id":"0002","untimed_answer":4,"untimed_best_distractor":2,"untimed_eval1_answer(...TRUNCATED) | [{"speed_annotator_id":"0015","speed_answer":1},{"speed_annotator_id":"0003","speed_answer":1},{"spe(...TRUNCATED) | 0 |
63,477 |
63477_65UJ979R
| 11 | 1,003 |
Gutenberg
|
Image of Splendor
|
1964.0
|
Kella, Lu
| "Sex role -- Fiction; PS; Stowaways -- Fiction; Space ships -- Fiction; Short stories; Science ficti(...TRUNCATED) | "IMAGE OF SPLENDOR\nBy LU KELLA\nFrom Venus to Earth, and all the way between,\n \nit was a hell of (...TRUNCATED) |
http://aleph.gutenberg.org/6/3/4/7/63477//63477-h//63477-h.htm
| "This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world(...TRUNCATED) |
What caused the error in O'Rielly's controls?
|
63477_65UJ979R_1
| ["A control malfunctioned and reset itself.","He missed something when they were preparing. ","The c(...TRUNCATED) | 4 | 4 | [{"untimed_annotator_id":"0029","untimed_answer":4,"untimed_best_distractor":1,"untimed_eval1_answer(...TRUNCATED) | [{"speed_annotator_id":"0025","speed_answer":4},{"speed_annotator_id":"0004","speed_answer":1},{"spe(...TRUNCATED) | 1 |
63,477 |
63477_65UJ979R
| 11 | 1,003 |
Gutenberg
|
Image of Splendor
|
1964.0
|
Kella, Lu
| "Sex role -- Fiction; PS; Stowaways -- Fiction; Space ships -- Fiction; Short stories; Science ficti(...TRUNCATED) | "IMAGE OF SPLENDOR\nBy LU KELLA\nFrom Venus to Earth, and all the way between,\n \nit was a hell of (...TRUNCATED) |
http://aleph.gutenberg.org/6/3/4/7/63477//63477-h//63477-h.htm
| "This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world(...TRUNCATED) |
O'Rielly starts to talk about "venus dames" unprompted and acting strangely. Why?
|
63477_65UJ979R_2
| ["He's out of sorts from working on the controls. The heat got to him. ","He's had an experience wit(...TRUNCATED) | 3 | 3 | [{"untimed_annotator_id":"0029","untimed_answer":3,"untimed_best_distractor":1,"untimed_eval1_answer(...TRUNCATED) | [{"speed_annotator_id":"00NA","speed_answer":3},{"speed_annotator_id":"0026","speed_answer":2},{"spe(...TRUNCATED) | 1 |
End of preview. Expand
in Data Studio
Dataset Card for "QuALITY"
@article{bowman2022quality,
title={QuALITY: Question Answering with Long Input Texts, Yes!},
author={Bowman, Samuel R and Chen, Angelica and He, He and Joshi, Nitish and Ma, Johnny and Nangia, Nikita and Padmakumar, Vishakh and Pang, Richard Yuanzhe and Parrish, Alicia and Phang, Jason and others},
journal={NAACL 2022},
year={2022}
}
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