BY
VIRGIL F. SHOCKLEY
Health
was no longer a problem for the
aged.
All they had to do was ban sex and
tobacco
to those over thirty-five....
From
Worlds of Science Fiction, August 1958.
Chuck
Dane patted shaving lotion on his face, enjoying the second of vicious sting.
He closed the medicine cabinet and stood for a minute examining himself in the
fluorescent lighted mirror. He was lean and hard and, of course, tanned. A few
grey hairs flecked the sideburns, but he didn't think that he looked
thirty-five. And, damn it all to hell! he didn't feel thirty-five!
He
opened the bathroom door, and hesitated. He dreaded to walk through the
photoelectric beam and set off that odious disc! Sometimes he got down on hands
and knees and crawled under. But he felt so damn silly!
Well,
he couldn't stand there all day. It was Monday and they would expect him at the
office.
He
squared his shoulders and walked into the hall.
"Lung
Cancer, Heart Attacks!
Heart
Attacks, Lung Cancer!
Beware,
old man, Be ... ware!"
________________________________________
The
tinkly message followed him up the hall. "I could jam the damn
thing!" he thought, "but they'd only repair it at daily Gov-Apts
Inspection and report me again!"
He
pushed his hands into his pants pockets and walked into the dining ell. He
slouched in his chair, and watched Sally swish back and forth from the kitchen
as she set the table. She was in blue nylon pajamas and fuzzy blue mules. Her
red hair was tied up in a provocative pony tail.
She
felt him watching her, gave him a devilish grin. "Sleep well last night,
dear? In your own little bed?"
"You
know damn well I didn't!" God, he wanted a cigarette. After two years he
still wanted one! When would the hunger for them ever stop?
"You
knew where I was sleeping. The door was unlocked!"
She
came to him, suddenly compassionate, and sat on his lap. She pulled his head
against her. He felt, on his face, the slickness of the nylon, and underneath
her firm body. She whispered, "You know honey, no matter what the
government says, I'm not made for sleeping alone!"
"And
I'm thirty-five and not 'spose to!"
"Thirty-five
and eighty-nine days! How well I know! The toast!"
She
scooted off his lap and ran into the kitchen. How she managed to burn toast in
an electronic toaster beat him. By sending it down twice, he suspected.
He
picked up the paper by his plate and unfolded it. The first page, as usual, was
devoted to the Propagandists. Headlines proclaimed: "375 died this weekend
doing you know what." The second line asked: "Will you be next?"
It
made a good story because only three hundred deaths had been predicted. The
bottom half of the page was filled with pictures of the victims and the spouses
who "lead them on, knowing at the time that over forty percent of the
heart attacks in men and women over thirty-five are brought on by sexual
relations."
Sally
was leaning over him, serving his plate with scrambled eggs and ham, but he
tried to ignore her and turned to the next page. Here was an editorial by the
Department of Health. He scanned it. Same old thing. Sex to be avoided like
poison by all persons, male and female, over thirty-five years.
Chuck
forked a piece of soya bread, and swabbed the last of ham grease and egg from
his plate. He sat drinking his soya hot chocolate, and wanting a cigarette.
Sally
finished eating, stretched, and the nylon threatened to rip. She went and got
his suit coat and hat. At the door he tried to kiss her goodbye in his best
"big brother" manner. But she clinched in close, and suddenly he
didn't feel like a brother.
She
whispered in his ear, "Come on back. I'll call and tell them you caught a
virus!"
He
almost took off his hat. Then he said, "You know it would show up in my
weekly S-Count!" He shuddered just saying the words. God! how he hated
that! He continued, "And if I slip once or twice on that, you know what
they do."
Feeling
sorry for her, he added half-heartedly, "But you're only thirty. And I
wouldn't blame you.... Lot of people do, you know."
She
leaned back, still in his arms, and laughed up at him. "No, I'll wait and
break you down!"
"Even
knowing what they're likely to do?"
"But
surely! Then at least the temptation wouldn't be so handy!"
He
walked rapidly toward the office. Other groups walked along talking and
laughing. Here and there someone called to him.
He
came to U.S. 75, a deserted graying eight lane strip. As he started across, a
bike came over the rise and he dived into the ditch. But it was only a Catholic
priest pedalling furiously along on a girl's bicycle. Then there had been
another clash! He climbed out of the ditch, and walked a ways down the highway.
There it was. The priest was just climbing off the bike, and there was a
motorcycle cop.
Chuck
Dane walked up the highway to the scene and stood watching. The priest was
kneeling, his black bag open, administering last rites to the two youths.
The
cop, fat and redfaced, came over and stood beside Chuck. "Two less
Teenagers!" he grinned.
"Dying,
eh?" Chuck asked.
"Dying
or dead! These damn kids!" He said it with just a tinge of envy.
The
Father snapped his bag shut, and pedalled away. Chuck went over for a closer
look. Both of the kids were on roller skates, the powered kind. Chuck Dane
noted with satisfaction that they were Airex skates.
Both
of the kids had on the regular uniform, black leather jackets, and leather
belts eight inches wide. Mounted on the center front of the belts were the
regulation three foot razor sharp spears. Only now there was not much of the
spears to be seen. Because neither kid had chickened. The shorter boy had
caught a spear in the lower chest, and the taller one caught it in the guts.
Funny,
Chuck Dane thought, staring down at them. Even in this cotton batting, vacuum
world of 1990 the Teenagers could find ways to kill each other off! He envied
them their spirit!
He
waved at the cop, who was calling in a report, and walked back up the highway.
When he got to his usual place, he started to cross.
"Olá!"
In
that frantic second, he saw only the black leather jacket bearing down upon
him. And the bike with the spear mounted on the handlebars, the tip sparkling
like a diamond in the sun. It swerved, and came straight for him. Chuck dived
into the ditch, even as he felt it prick his coat.
The
kid yelled, "Cock-a-doodle-do!" and pedalled on.
Chuck
climbed up out of the ditch and ran across the highway. Then he straightened
his clothing, dusted himself off. This was damn undignified! He hated the kid,
wanted to kill him with his bare hands.
He
walked along, thinking how it had all come about. First it had been the highway
death toll. When it had reached over two thousand on week days, and ten
thousand on weekends, the government had stepped in. Their solution had been
simple and foolproof. They simply taxed gas out of sight. Now the oil companies
exported their total output, and were making more money than ever.
Then
some fool in the A.M.A. had pointed out that almost as many people were dying
of lung cancer as had previously fallen on the ribbons of death.
At
first Congress had passed a bill to ban the manufacture of all cigarettes. But
the black market flourished and the psychiatrists yelped. They yelped that the
approach to the problem was all wrong, due to the fact that they hadn't been
consulted. This was warping personalities and making martyrs out of cigarette
users. The way to do it, they said, was to have tobacco products available, but
to shame people into giving them up of their own free wills.
They
theorized that a cigarette smoker is really a frustrated person unable to cope
with the adult world. When he puts a cig between his lips he is really
searching for his mother's nipple. Therefore, the thing to do is to force him
to out-grow this, rather than take it forcibly away from him. Same way with a
cigar smoker or pipe smoker.
The
psychiatric lobby prevailed and the government repealed the tobacco bill. And
replaced it with another. Now it was the law for all cigarettes, cigars and
pipe tobacco to have an hallucination inducing drug, Xlene 91, in them. Also,
as was compulsory, all cigars, pipes and cigarettes sported rubber filters
shaped like nipples.
Then,
Chuck Dane reminisced, with lung cancer dropping off steadily, they had started
in to curb heart attacks. And taken away the only pleasure a guy had left!
He
was in sight of his place of work now. A huge half-circle of plexiglass that
was Airex Roller Skating Factory. Chuck thought as he entered the building,
that four hours was a hell of a long working day, especially doing material
control posting all that time. He hoped the bill to change working hours to
three hours would pass soon....
________________________________________
At
two o'clock in the afternoon, Chuck lined up with the rest of the office force
to walk single file past the hidden electronic camera. Out of habit, he held
his right hand in salute position, palm toward the camera. These deals had been
interesting when they first replaced the old style time clocks, now they were
routine.
As
the queue neared the door where the company's three psychiatrists stood, Chuck
got more and more nervous. Suppose they could read his mind, or something!
Sure
enough, Doctor Benton wiggled a finger for him to step out of line. He took him
to one side, and peered into his face. Chuck tried to look into the green eyes,
so calm and assured, but he had to look away.
"You
okay, Dane?"
"Sure!
Tired, that's all. Helluva long day!"
"Yes.
Well, you come in and see me tomorrow. We'll have us a little talk."
Rapidly,
Chuck left the building. He muttered, "Like hell we will, Headshrinker!"
Furtively,
he left the usual road home, and walked into a corner drugstore. He stood
around with his hands in his pockets, until all the other customers cleared
out.
"Puffies,"
he said.
The
big man behind the counter tried to hitch his belt over his paunch. "Sure
you know what you're doin', Bud? Have to take your number you know."
Chuck
didn't answer. He pulled his right hand out of his pocket and laid it palm up
on the glass counter top. The man wrote down the id number and handed over the
cigarettes.
Chuck
walked on home, with the Puffies a guilty lump in his jacket pocket. He felt
sure everybody he met knew what he was up to.
At
home, Chuck stuck his head in the kitchen and said "Hi" to Sally. He
resisted patting her. He went to the den and locked the door with trembling
fingers, then sat at the desk and took out his knife. He cut off the realistic
red nipples from all twenty cigarettes, and made a pyre of them in the middle
of the glass top. Then he set fire to them, not minding the acrid smoke.
He
put a cigarette to his lips. Still he hesitated, fearing the hallucinations,
about which he had heard but never experienced.
Suddenly
he grinned and leaned back, lit up and closed his eyes. The parade of pictures
began in front of his eyeballs. First a picture of human lungs, and slowly the
cancer virus invades them and eats them away. Then the parade of men and women
clutching their chests, writhing in death throes. Chuck Dane smiled, enjoying
each hallucination. Pretending that the unlucky victims were the Propagandists.
He
lit another cigarette from the butt of the first one, and leaned back, feeling
his lungs pleasantly saturated with smoke.
When
ten cigarettes were snubbed in a row on the glass top of the desk, he stopped
and mused. Now, he guessed he would die of cancer for sure. He wondered how
long....
Then
another thought hit him. With two temptations, he wondered why he had given in
to the cigarette first.
He
lit another Puffie and leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. A perfect
technicolor picture of Sally crossed his mind, swishing the pony tail
provocatively. He got up. Left the den. Went to the kitchen and leaned in the
door watching her.
Tomorrow
was Tuesday. His day for S-Count. But he wouldn't submit to that again. Or have
that little talk with Doctor Benton. Tomorrow, going to work, when he crossed
U.S. 75 he would give some Teenager a hell of a thrill! But tonight ...
tonight....
"Come
here, baby!" he whispered harshly.