ERIC WAS THE BEST ROBOT THEY'D EVER HAD--PERFECTLY TRAINED,
EVER THOUGHTFUL, A JOY TO OWN. NATURALLY THEY HAD TO DESTROY
HIM!
* * * * *
I
Wendell Hart had drifted, rather than plunged, into the underground
movement. Later, discussing it with other members of the Savers'
Conspiracy, he found they had experienced the same slow, almost casual
awakening. His own, though, had come at a more appropriate time, just
a few weeks before the Great Ritual Sacrifice.
The Sacrifice took place only once a decade, on High Holy Day at dawn
of the spring equinox. For days prior to it joyous throngs of workers
helped assemble old vehicles, machine tools and computers in the
public squares, crowning each pile with used, disconnected robots. In
the evening of the Day they proudly made their private heaps on the
neat green lawns of their homes. These traditionally consisted of
household utensils, electric heaters, air conditioners and the family
servant.
The wealthiest--considered particularly blessed--even had two or three
automatic servants beyond the public contribution, which they
destroyed in private. Their more average neighbors crowded into their
gardens for the awesome festivities. The next morning everyone could
return to work, renewed by the knowledge that the Festival of Acute
Shortages would be with them for months.
Like everyone else, Wendell had felt his sluggish pulse gaining new
life as the time drew nearer.
A cybernetics engineer and machine tender, he was down to ten hours a
week of work. Many others in the luxury-gorged economy had even
smaller shares of the purposeful activities that remained. At night he
dreamed of the slagger moving from house to house as it burned, melted
and then evaporated each group of junked labor-blocking devices. He
even had glorious daydreams about it. Walking down the park side of
his home block, he was liable to lose all contact with the outside
world and peer through the mind's eye alone at the climactic
destruction.
Why, he sometimes wondered, are all these things so necessary to our
resurrection?
Marie had the right answer for him, the one she had learned by rote in
early childhood: "All life moves in cycles. Creation and progress
must be preceded by destruction. In ancient times that meant we had to
destroy each other; but for the past century our inherent need for
negative moments has been sublimated--that's the word the news
broadcasts use--into proper destruction." His wife smiled. "I'm only
giving the moral reason, of course. The practical one's obvious."
Obvious it was, he had to concede. Men needed to work, not out of
economic necessity any more but for the sake of work itself. Still a
man had to wonder....
* * * * *
He had begun to visit the Public Library Archives, poring over musty
references that always led to maddeningly frustrating dead ends. For
the past century nothing really informative seemed to have been
written on the subject.
"You must have government authorization," the librarian explained when
he asked for older references. Which, naturally, made him add a little
suspicion to his already large dose of wonder.
"You're tampering with something dangerous," Marie warned. "It would
make more sense for you to take long-sleep pills until the work cycle
picks up."
"I _will_ get to see those early references," he said through clenched
teeth.
He did.
All he had needed to say at the library was that his work in sociology
required investigation of some twentieth century files. The librarian,
a tall, gaunt man, had given him a speculative glance. "Of course, you
don't have government clearance.... But we get so few inquiries in
sociology that I'm willing to offer a little encouragement." He
sighed. "Don't get many inquiries altogether. Most people just can't
stand reading. You might be interested to know this--one of the best
headings to research in sociology is _Conspicuous consumption_."
Then it was Wendell's turn to glance speculatively. The older man,
around a healthy hundred and twenty-five, had a look of earnest
dedication about him that commanded respect as well as confidence.
"Conspicuous consumption? An odd combination of words. Never heard of
that before. I will look it up."
The librarian was nervous as he led his visitor into a reference
booth. "That's about all the help I can offer. If anything comes up,
just ring for me. Burnett's the name. Uh--you won't mention I put you
on the file without authorization, I hope."
"Certainly not."
As soon as he was alone he typed _Conspicuous consumption_ into the
query machine.
It started grinding out long bibliographical sheets as well as
cross-references to _Obsolescence, Natural_; _Obsolescence,
Technological_; _Obsolescence, Planned_, plus even odder items such as
_Waste-making, Art of_ and _Production, Stimulated velocity of_. How
did such disparate subjects tie in with each other?
* * * * *
By the end of the afternoon he began to see, if only dimly, to what
the unending stream of words on the viewer pointed.
For centuries ruling classes had made a habit of conspicuously wasting
goods and services that were necessities for the mass of men. It was
the final and highest symbol of social power. By the time of Louis XIV
the phenomenon had reached its first peak. The second came in the
twentieth century when mass production permitted millions to devote
their lives to the acquisition and waste of non-essentials. Hart's
twenty-second century sensibilities were repelled by the examples
given. He shuddered at the thought of such anti-social behavior.
But a parallel development was more appealingly positive in its
implications. As the technological revolution speeded up, devices were
superseded as soon as produced. The whole last half of the 1900's was
filled with instances where the drawing board kept outstripping the
assembly line.
Hart remembered this last change from early school days but the later,
final development was completely new and shocking to him. Advertising
had pressured more and more people to replace goods _before_ they wore
out with other goods that were, essentially, no improvement on their
predecessors! Eventually just the word "NEW" was enough to trigger
buying panics.
There had been growing awareness of what was happening, even sporadic
resistance to it by such varied ideologies as Conservative Thrift,
Asocial Beatnikism and Radical Inquiry. But, strangely enough, very
few people had cared. Indeed, anything that diminished consumption was
viewed as dangerously subversive.
"And rightly so!" was his first, instinctive reaction. His second,
reasoned one, though, was less certain.
The contradiction started to give him a headache. He hurried from the
scanning room, overtaxed eyes blinking at the rediscovery of daylight.
Burnett walked him to the door. "Not feeling well?" he inquired.
"I'll be all right. I just need a few days real work." He stopped.
"No, that's not why. I'm confused. I've been reading crazy things
about obsolescence. They used to have strange reasons for it. Why,
some people even said replacements were not always improvements and
were unnecessary!"
Burnett could not completely hide his pleasure. "You've been getting
into rather deep stuff."
"Deep--or nonsensical!"
"True. True. Come back tomorrow and read some more."
"Maybe I will." But he was happy to get away from the library
building.
Marie was horrified when he told her that evening about his studies.
"Don't go back there," she pleaded. "It's dangerous. It's subversive!
How could people say such awful things? You remember that Mr. Johnson
around the corner? He seemed such a nice man, too, until they arrested
him without giving a reason ... and how messed up he was when he got
out last year. I'll bet that kind of talk explains the whole thing.
It's crazy. Everyone knows items start wearing out and they have to be
replaced."
"I realise that, honey, but it's interesting to speculate. Don't we
have guaranteed freedom of thought?"
She threw up her hands as if dealing with a child. "Naturally we have
freedom of thought. But you should have the right thoughts, shouldn't
you? Wendell, promise me you won't go back to that library."
"Well--"
"Reading's a very risky thing anyway." Her eyes were saucer-round
with fright. "Please, darling. Promise."
"Sure, you're right, honey. I promise."
* * * * *
He meant it when he said it. But that night, tossing from side to
side, he felt less certain. In the morning, as he went out, Marie
asked him where he was going.
"I want to observe the preparations for the Preliminary Rites."
"Now that," she grinned, "is what I call _healthy_ thinking."
For a while he did stand around the Central Plaza along with thousands
of other idlers, watching the robot dump trucks assemble the piles of
discarded equipment. The crowd cheered loudly as an enormous crane was
knocked over on its side.
"There's fifty millions worth out there!" a bystander exulted. "It's
going to be the biggest Preliminary I've ever seen."
"It certainly will be!" he said, catching a little of the other man's
enthusiasm despite his previous doubts.
Preliminary Rites were part of the emotion-stoking that preceded the
Highest Holy Day. Each Rite was greater and more destructive than
those that had gone before. As tokens of happy loyalty, viewers threw
hats and watches and stickpins onto the pile just prior to the entry
of the slaggers. What better way could be found for each man to
manifest his common humanity?
After a while doubt started assailing him again, and Hart found
himself returning almost against his will to the Library Building.
Burnett greeted him cordially. "To-day's visit is completely legal,"
he said. "Anyone doing olden time research is automatically authorized
if he has been here before."
"I hope my thought can be as legal," Hart blurted out. "Well--that was
just a joke."
"Oh, I can recognize a joke when I hear one, my friend."
Hart went to his booth, feeling the man's eyes measuring him more
intently than ever. It was almost a welcome relief to start reading
the reference scanner once more.
But not for long. As the wider pattern unfolded, his anxiety state
intensified.
It was becoming perfectly obvious that many, many replacements used to
be made long before they were needed. And it was still true. _I should
not be thinking such thoughts_, he told himself, _I should be outside
in the Plaza, being normal and human_.
But he could see how it had come about, step by step. First there had
been pressure from the ruling echelons, many of whose members only
maintained their status through excessive production. Then, much more
important, there had been the willful blindness of the masses who
wanted to keep their cozy, familiar treadmills going.
He slammed down the _off_ button and went out to the librarian's desk.
"Do people want to work all the time," he said, "for the sake of work
alone?"
He immediately regretted the question. But Burnett did not seem to
mind. "You've only stated the positive reason, Mr. Hart. The negative
one could be stronger--the fear of what they would have to do if they
did not have to work much over a long period."
"What would it mean?"
"Why, they would have to start thinking! Most people don't mind
thought if it's concentrated in a narrow range. But if they have to
think in a broad range to keep boredom away--no, that's too high a
price for most of them! They avoid it when they can. And under present
circumstances they can." He stopped. "Of course that's a purely
hypothetical fiction I'm constructing."
Hart shook his head. "It sounds awfully real to be purely--" He, too,
caught himself up. "Of course, you're only positing a fiction."
Burnett started putting his desk papers away. "I'm leaving now. The
Preliminary begins soon. Want to come?"
The man's face was stolidly blank except for his brown eyes which
burned like a zealot's. Fascinated by them, Hart agreed. It would be
best to return anyway. Some of the bystanders had looked too curiously
at him when he had left. Who would willingly leave a Rite when it was
approaching its climax?