Cost

of

Living

Carrin decided that he
could trace his present
mood to Miller's suicide
last week. But the knowledge
didn't help him get rid of the
vague, formless fear in the back
of his mind. It was foolish. Miller's
suicide didn't concern him.

But why had that fat, jovial
man killed himself? Miller had
had everything to live for—wife,
kids, good job, and all the marvelous
luxuries of the age. Why
had he done it?

"Good morning, dear," Carrin's
wife said as he sat down at
the breakfast table.

"Morning, honey. Morning,
Billy."

His son grunted something.

You just couldn't tell about
people, Carrin decided, and dialed
his breakfast. The meal was
gracefully prepared and served
by the new Avignon Electric Auto-cook.

His mood persisted, annoyingly
enough since Carrin wanted to
be in top form this morning. It
was his day off, and the Avignon
Electric finance man was coming.
This was an important day.

He walked to the door with his
son.

"Have a good day, Billy."

His son nodded, shifted his
books and started to school without
answering. Carrin wondered
if something was bothering him,
too. He hoped not. One worrier
in the family was plenty.

"See you later, honey." He
kissed his wife as she left to go
shopping.

At any rate, he thought, watching
her go down the walk, at
least she's happy. He wondered
how much she'd spend at the
A. E. store.

Checking his watch, he found
that he had half an hour before
the A. E. finance man was due.
The best way to get rid of a bad
mood was to drown it, he told
himself, and headed for the
shower.

The shower room was a glittering
plastic wonder, and the
sheer luxury of it eased Carrin's
mind. He threw his clothes into
the A. E. automatic Kleen-presser,
and adjusted the shower spray
to a notch above "brisk." The
five-degrees-above-skin-temperature
water beat against his thin
white body. Delightful! And then
a relaxing rub-dry in the A. E.
Auto-towel.

Wonderful, he thought, as the
towel stretched and kneaded his
stringy muscles. And it should be
wonderful, he reminded himself.
The A. E. Auto-towel with shaving
attachments had cost three
hundred and thirteen dollars, plus
tax.

But worth every penny of it,
he decided, as the A. E. shaver
came out of a corner and whisked
off his rudimentary stubble.
After all, what good was life if
you couldn't enjoy the luxuries?

His skin tingled when he
switched off the Auto-towel. He
should have been feeling wonderful,
but he wasn't. Miller's suicide
kept nagging at his mind,
destroying the peace of his day
off.

Was there anything else bothering
him? Certainly there was
nothing wrong with the house.
His papers were in order for the
finance man.

"Have I forgotten something?"
he asked out loud.

"The Avignon Electric finance
man will be here in fifteen minutes,"
his A. E. bathroom Wall-reminder
whispered.

"I know that. Is there anything
else?"

The Wall-reminder reeled off
its memorized data—a vast
amount of minutiae about watering
the lawn, having the Jet-lash
checked, buying lamb chops for
Monday, and the like. Things he
still hadn't found time for.

"All right, that's enough." He
allowed the A. E. Auto-dresser to
dress him, skillfully draping a
new selection of fabrics over his
bony frame. A whiff of fashionable
masculine perfume finished
him and he went into the living
room, threading his way between
the appliances that lined the
walls.

A quick inspection of the dials
on the wall assured him that the
house was in order. The breakfast
dishes had been sanitized and
stacked, the house had been
cleaned, dusted, polished, his
wife's garments had been hung
up, his son's model rocket ships
had been put back in the closet.

Stop worrying, you hypochondriac,
he told himself angrily.

The door announced, "Mr.
Pathis from Avignon Finance is
here."

Carrin started to tell the door
to open, when he noticed the Automatic
Bartender.

Good God, why hadn't he
thought of it!

The Automatic Bartender was
manufactured by Castile Motors.
He had bought it in a weak moment.
A. E. wouldn't think very
highly of that, since they sold
their own brand.

He wheeled the bartender into
the kitchen, and told the
door to open.

"A very good day to you, sir,"
Mr. Pathis said.

Pathis was a tall, imposing
man, dressed in a conservative
tweed drape. His eyes had the
crinkled corners of a man who
laughs frequently. He beamed
broadly and shook Carrin's hand,
looking around the crowded living
room.

"A beautiful place you have
here, sir. Beautiful! As a matter
of fact, I don't think I'll be overstepping
the company's code to
inform you that yours is the
nicest interior in this section."

Carrin felt a sudden glow of
pride at that, thinking of the
rows of identical houses, on this
block and the next, and the one
after that.

"Now, then, is everything functioning
properly?" Mr. Pathis
asked, setting his briefcase on a
chair. "Everything in order?"

"Oh, yes," Carrin said enthusiastically.
"Avignon Electric never
goes out of whack."

"The phone all right? Changes
records for the full seventeen
hours?"

"It certainly does," Carrin
said. He hadn't had a chance to
try out the phone, but it was a
beautiful piece of furniture.

"The Solido-projector all right?
Enjoying the programs?"

"Absolutely perfect reception."
He had watched a program just
last month, and it had been startlingly
lifelike.

"How about the kitchen? Auto-cook
in order? Recipe-master
still knocking 'em out?"

"Marvelous stuff. Simply marvelous."

Mr. Pathis went on to inquire
about his refrigerator, his vacuum
cleaner, his car, his
helicopter, his subterranean swimming
pool, and the hundreds of
other items Carrin had bought
from Avignon Electric.

"Everything is swell," Carrin
said, a trifle untruthfully since
he hadn't unpacked every item
yet. "Just wonderful."

"I'm so glad," Mr. Pathis said,
leaning back with a sigh of relief.
"You have no idea how hard we
try to satisfy our customers. If
a product isn't right, back it
comes, no questions asked. We
believe in pleasing our customers."

"I certainly appreciate it, Mr.
Pathis."

Carrin hoped the A. E. man
wouldn't ask to see the kitchen.
He visualized the Castile
Motors Bartender in there, like
a porcupine in a dog show.

"I'm proud to say that most of
the people in this neighborhood
buy from us," Mr. Pathis was
saying. "We're a solid firm."

"Was Mr. Miller a customer of
yours?" Carrin asked.

"That fellow who killed himself?"
Pathis frowned briefly.
"He was, as a matter of fact.
That amazed me, sir, absolutely
amazed me. Why, just last month
the fellow bought a brand-new
Jet-lash from me, capable of doing
three hundred and fifty miles
an hour on a straightaway. He
was as happy as a kid over it,
and then to go and do a thing
like that! Of course, the Jet-lash
brought up his debt a little."

"Of course."

"But what did that matter?
He had every luxury in the world.
And then he went and hung himself."

"Hung himself?"

"Yes," Pathis said, the frown
coming back. "Every modern
convenience in his house, and he
hung himself with a piece of rope.
Probably unbalanced for a long
time."

The frown slid off his face, and
the customary smile replaced it.
"But enough of that! Let's talk
about you."

The smile widened as Pathis
opened his briefcase. "Now, then,
your account. You owe us two
hundred and three thousand dollars
and twenty-nine cents, Mr.
Carrin, as of your last purchase.
Right?"

"Right," Carrin said, remembering
the amount from his own
papers. "Here's my installment."

He handed Pathis an envelope,
which the man checked and put
in his pocket.

"Fine. Now you know, Mr.
Carrin, that you won't live long
enough to pay us the full two
hundred thousand, don't you?"

"No, I don't suppose I will,"
Carrin said soberly.

He was only thirty-nine, with
a full hundred years of life before
him, thanks to the marvels
of medical science. But at a salary
of three thousand a year, he
still couldn't pay it all off and
have enough to support a family
on at the same time.

"Of course, we would not want
to deprive you of necessities,
which in any case is fully protected
by the laws we helped
formulate and pass. To say nothing
of the terrific items that are
coming out next year. Things
you wouldn't want to miss, sir!"

Mr. Carrin nodded. Certainly
he wanted new items.

"Well, suppose we make the
customary arrangement. If you
will just sign over your son's
earnings for the first thirty years
of his adult life, we can easily
arrange credit for you."

Mr. Pathis whipped the papers
out of his briefcase and
spread them in front of Carrin.

"If you'll just sign here, sir."

"Well," Carrin said, "I'm not
sure. I'd like to give the boy a
start in life, not saddle him
with—"

"But my dear sir," Pathis interposed,
"this is for your son as
well. He lives here, doesn't he?
He has a right to enjoy the luxuries,
the marvels of science."

"Sure," Carrin said. "Only—"

"Why, sir, today the average
man is living like a king. A
hundred years ago the richest
man in the world couldn't buy
what any ordinary citizen possesses
at present. You mustn't
look upon it as a debt. It's an
investment."

"That's true," Carrin said dubiously.

He thought about his son and
his rocket ship models, his star
charts, his maps. Would it be
right? he asked himself.

"What's wrong?" Pathis asked
cheerfully.

"Well, I was just wondering,"
Carrin said. "Signing over my
son's earnings—you don't think
I'm getting in a little too deep,
do you?"

"Too deep? My dear sir!"
Pathis exploded into laughter.
"Do you know Mellon down the
block? Well, don't say I said it,
but he's already mortgaged his
grandchildren's salary for their
full life-expectancy! And he
doesn't have half the goods he's
made up his mind to own! We'll
work out something for him.
Service to the customer is our job
and we know it well."

Carrin wavered visibly.

"And after you're gone, sir,
they'll all belong to your son."

That was true, Carrin thought.
His son would have all the marvelous
things that filled the
house. And after all, it was only
thirty years out of a life expectancy
of a hundred and fifty.

He signed with a flourish.

"Excellent!" Pathis said. "And
by the way, has your home got
an A. E. Master-operator?"

It hadn't. Pathis explained that
a Master-operator was new this
year, a stupendous advance in
scientific engineering. It was
designed to take over all the functions
of housecleaning and cooking,
without its owner having to
lift a finger.

"Instead of running around all
day, pushing half a dozen different
buttons, with the Master-operator
all you have to do is
push one! A remarkable achievement!"

Since it was only five hundred
and thirty-five dollars, Carrin
signed for one, having it added
to his son's debt.

Right's right, he thought, walking
Pathis to the door. This house
will be Billy's some day. His and
his wife's. They certainly will
want everything up-to-date.

Just one button, he thought.
That would be a time-saver!

After Pathis left, Carrin sat
back in an adjustable chair
and turned on the solido. After
twisting the Ezi-dial, he discovered
that there was nothing he
wanted to see. He tilted back the
chair and took a nap.

The something on his mind was
still bothering him.

"Hello, darling!" He awoke to
find his wife was home. She kissed
him on the ear. "Look."

She had bought an A. E. Sexitizer-negligee.
He was pleasantly
surprised that that was all she
had bought. Usually, Leela returned
from shopping laden
down.

"It's lovely," he said.

She bent over for a kiss, then
giggled—a habit he knew she had
picked up from the latest popular
solido star. He wished she hadn't.

"Going to dial supper," she
said, and went to the kitchen.
Carrin smiled, thinking that soon
she would be able to dial the
meals without moving out of the
living room. He settled back in
his chair, and his son walked in.

"How's it going, Son?" he
asked heartily.

"All right," Billy answered listlessly.

"What'sa matter, Son?" The
boy stared at his feet, not answering.
"Come on, tell Dad what's
the trouble."

Billy sat down on a packing
case and put his chin in his hands.
He looked thoughtfully at his
father.

"Dad, could I be a Master Repairman
if I wanted to be?"

Mr. Carrin smiled at the question.
Billy alternated between
wanting to be a Master Repairman
and a rocket pilot. The
repairmen were the elite. It was
their job to fix the automatic repair
machines. The repair machines
could fix just about
anything, but you couldn't have
a machine fix the machine that
fixed the machine. That was
where the Master Repairmen
came in.

But it was a highly competitive
field and only a very few of the
best brains were able to get their
degrees. And, although the boy
was bright, he didn't seem to have
an engineering bent.

"It's possible, Son. Anything is
possible."

"But is it possible for me?"

"I don't know," Carrin answered,
as honestly as he could.

"Well, I don't want to be a
Master Repairman anyway," the
boy said, seeing that the answer
was no. "I want to be a space
pilot."

"A space pilot, Billy?" Leela
asked, coming in to the room.
"But there aren't any."

"Yes, there are," Billy argued.
"We were told in school that the
government is going to send some
men to Mars."

"They've been saying that for
a hundred years," Carrin said,
"and they still haven't gotten
around to doing it."

"They will this time."

"Why would you want to go to
Mars?" Leela asked, winking at
Carrin. "There are no pretty girls
on Mars."

"I'm not interested in girls. I
just want to go to Mars."

"You wouldn't like it, honey,"
Leela said. "It's a nasty old place
with no air."

"It's got some air. I'd like to
go there," the boy insisted sullenly.
"I don't like it here."

"What's that?" Carrin asked,
sitting up straight. "Is there anything
you haven't got? Anything
you want?"

"No, sir. I've got everything I
want." Whenever his son called
him 'sir,' Carrin knew that something
was wrong.

"Look, Son, when I was your
age I wanted to go to Mars, too.
I wanted to do romantic things.
I even wanted to be a Master
Repairman."

"Then why didn't you?"

"Well, I grew up. I realized
that there were more important
things. First I had to pay off the
debt my father had left me, and
then I met your mother—"

Leela giggled.

"—and I wanted a home of my
own. It'll be the same with you.
You'll pay off your debt and get
married, the same as the rest of
us."

Billy was silent for a while,
then he brushed his dark hair—straight,
like his father's—back
from his forehead and wet his
lips.

"How come I have debts, sir?"

Carrin explained carefully.
About the things a family needed
for civilized living, and the cost
of those items. How they had to
be paid. How it was customary
for a son to take on a part of his
parent's debt, when he came of
age.

Billy's silence annoyed him. It
was almost as if the boy were reproaching
him. After he had
slaved for years to give the ungrateful
whelp every luxury!

"Son," he said harshly, "have
you studied history in school?
Good. Then you know how it
was in the past. Wars. How would
you like to get blown up in a
war?"

The boy didn't answer.

"Or how would you like to
break your back for eight hours
a day, doing work a machine
should handle? Or be hungry all
the time? Or cold, with the rain
beating down on you, and no
place to sleep?"

He paused for a response, got
none and went on. "You live in
the most fortunate age mankind
has ever known. You are surrounded
by every wonder of art
and science. The finest music, the
greatest books and art, all at your
fingertips. All you have to do is
push a button." He shifted to a
kindlier tone. "Well, what are
you thinking?"

"I was just wondering how I
could go to Mars," the boy said.
"With the debt, I mean. I don't
suppose I could get away from
that."

"Of course not."

"Unless I stowed away on a
rocket."

"But you wouldn't do that."

"No, of course not," the boy
said, but his tone lacked conviction.

"You'll stay here and marry a
very nice girl," Leela told him.

"Sure I will," Billy said.
"Sure." He grinned suddenly. "I
didn't mean any of that stuff
about going to Mars. I really
didn't."

"I'm glad of that," Leela
answered.

"Just forget I mentioned it,"
Billy said, smiling stiffly. He
stood up and raced upstairs.

"Probably gone to play with
his rockets," Leela said. "He's
such a little devil."

The Carrins ate a quiet supper,
and then it was time for Mr.
Carrin to go to work. He was on
night shift this month. He kissed
his wife good-by, climbed into
his Jet-lash and roared to the
factory. The automatic gates recognized
him and opened. He
parked and walked in.

Automatic lathes, automatic
presses—everything was automatic.
The factory was huge and
bright, and the machines hummed
softly to themselves, doing
their job and doing it well.

Carrin walked to the end of
the automatic washing machine
assembly line, to relieve the man
there.

"Everything all right?" he
asked.

"Sure," the man said. "Haven't
had a bad one all year. These
new models here have built-in
voices. They don't light up like
the old ones."

Carrin sat down where the man
had sat and waited for the first
washing machine to come
through. His job was the soul of
simplicity. He just sat there and
the machines went by him. He
pressed a button on them and
found out if they were all right.
They always were. After passing
him, the washing machines went
to the packaging section.

The first one slid by on the
long slide of rollers. He pressed
the starting button on the side.

"Ready for the wash," the
washing machine said.

Carrin pressed the release and
let it go by.

That boy of his, Carrin
thought. Would he grow up and
face his responsibilities? Would
he mature and take his place in
society? Carrin doubted it. The
boy was a born rebel. If anyone
got to Mars, it would be his kid.

But the thought didn't especially
disturb him.

"Ready for the wash." Another
machine went by.

Carrin remembered something
about Miller. The jovial man had
always been talking about the
planets, always kidding about
going off somewhere and roughing
it. He hadn't, though. He'd
committed suicide.

"Ready for the wash."

Carrin had eight hours in front
of him, and he loosened his belt
to prepare for it. Eight hours of
pushing buttons and listening to
a machine announce its readiness.

"Ready for the wash."

He pressed the release.

"Ready for the wash."

Carrin's mind strayed from the
job, which didn't need much attention
in any case. He wished
he had done what he had longed
to do as a youngster.

It would have been great to be
a rocket pilot, to push a button
and go to Mars.

—ROBERT SHECKLEY

Transcriber's Note:

This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction December 1952.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note.