Keg picked it up. "Looks all right to me," he said. "Like the real
article. What's wrong with it?"
"Nothing that I can tell," grumbled his wife. "Excepting that my maid
has one like it. Exactly."
"I'm not too surprised," laughed Keg. "I've been warning you of that."
"But what's the world coming to? If my maid can afford a diamond
bracelet like this, she won't be working for me very long."
"At that, you're probably right. I'd treat her with the most delicate
of care," said Keg.
"She's my maid!"
"Look, Linna. You're not up-to-date. I can predict people sleeping in
gold beds and eating from solid platinum dishes before the hysteria
dies out. The economic set-up has gone to pot, Linna, and we're trying
to work it out."
"But what's the world coming to?"
"It isn't a matter of what it's coming to, it's a matter of where it
has gone. My technicians tell me metals will be rated in value as per
their atomic number. Uranium is more expensive than lithium because
the transmutation-factor is higher. It takes a little more power and
more matter from the matter bank in the instrument to make uranium than
lithium, ergo uranium will cost more."
"Then if this diamond bracelet is worthless, can't we get some uranium
jewelry?"
"Sure--if you want it. But remember it is radioactive and therefore
not to be worn too close to the skin. It isn't as bad as radium, for
instance, but it is bad enough. Besides, Linna, the matter of uranium's
value over lithium is a matter of a few tenths of a per cent."
"Um. And how much is a pound of uranium worth, these days?"
"In Terran dollars about forty-seven million, six hundred fifty-two
thousand, three hundred and eight."
"Are you kidding?" demanded Linna. "How can Marie afford--"
"Linna, dollars are worthless, these days. Monetary holdings are
worthless. Stocks and bonds are likewise useless. Interplanet isn't
shipping a thing. Venus Equilateral is handling sentimental messages
only, and they'd be running at a loss if it weren't for the fact that
they're out in space where power comes from Sol."
"But what is going on?"
"The death of an economic system."
"But why? Keg, you know I've never questioned your ability. You have
always enjoyed the run of big business. Whenever I've needed or wanted
anything, it has been available. I write checks and never question
the balance. But this has me stopped. What has happened, specifically?"
"Channing and Franks invented a gadget that will reproduce anything."
"It is just that?"
"That and only that," said Keg.
"But it seems to me that this would make everybody live in a world of
plenty."
"It will. That's why we'll have people sleeping in solid gold beds, and
enjoying silver plumbing. Platinum will have no more value than a slab
of lead of the same weight. You see, Linna, when they can duplicate
anything--in quantity--it includes money, stocks, bonds, and jewelry as
well as radio receivers, automobiles, refrigerators, and table lamps.
No one will take one dime's worth of money because it is valueless. Why
should I sell my fountain pen for fifty dollars when I can make fifty
dollars by pushing a button? Or the other guy can make a fountain pen
by pushing a button? Follow?"
"But the public utilities? What of them?"
"That's the cinder in the eye, Linna. Somebody's got to work!"
"Well, I've heard it said that someone will like to do
everything--someone will find pleasure in digging latrines if you look
for him long enough."
"Not good enough. Barney Carroll likes to tinker with radio. He's
good, too. But it is a hobby, and Barney's tinkering will not produce
anything like a commercial receiver. Oh, it'll work, and as good as
any set, but no one would have the thing in the living room because
it has no artistic appeal. But say it did. Fine. Then what about the
automobile boys? Has anyone ever tried to make his own automobile? Can
you see yourself trusting a homemade flier? On the other hand, why
should an aeronautical engineer exist? Study is difficult, and study
alone is not sufficient. It takes years of practical experience to make
a good aeronautical engineer. If your man can push buttons for his
living, why shouldn't he relax?"
"But what are we going to do?"
"Linna, I bought this place so that we could work it out. There is one
thing that cannot be duplicated."
"Yes?"
"Service."
"Meaning?"
"You can't machine-clean the house. You can't machine-write books,
music, or moving pictures. You can't machine-maintain machinery. You
can't machine-doctor a burst appendix. And so forth. You can duplicate
the antiques until they have no value. Rembrandt is going to be a
household word. The day of the antique is gone, Linna, and the eventual
trend will be toward the _unique_. Mark my words, there will one day be
unique shops that deal in nothing but items which they can certify as
never having been duplicated."
"But if service is of value," said Linna doubtfully, "how am I going to
get along?"
"You'll be of service," said Keg harshly, "or you'll not get along."
"So?"
"Look, Linna. You're my wife. As my wife, you've been spoiled. That's
my fault. I liked to spoil you. In the early days I couldn't spoil you
because we were in no financial position to do any spoiling, but now
you've become a parasite, Linna. You and your dinners and your jewels
and your cars and your sleek, vacuum-brained friends. Patron of the
arts! Nuts. Bum poetry, slapdash canvases, weird discordant music. No,
it's not entirely your fault. I've sponsored it because I thought it
gave you pleasure.
"But we're all on the same level now," he continued reflectively. "No
one is any better than his brains. I've been graced. It has been my
very lucky lot to be in a position where I can sway men to my will.
Fabriville is mine--and yet it belongs to every man in it equally.
I can't get along without them, and they can't get along without
Fabriville."
"But how is it going to work out?"
"I don't know. It is tough. We have three physicians and two surgeons
and a couple of high-powered diagnosticians. The question is this: How
much time should Mrs. Jones desire of Dr. Hansen? She has a bit of
rheumatism. Larkin, on the other hand, has a bad case of gallstones.
Obviously, these two must not enjoy equal call upon Dr. Hansen.
Furthermore, these two must not be expected to pay the same figure."
"Pay the same figure?"
"In service, Linna. The board of strategy sits for several hours each
day deciding upon things like this--and it is not simple. How many
hours of gardening is worth removing gallstones? And what happens
to Dr. Hansen when he has seventeen gardeners, four butlers, nine
chauffeurs, fifteen cooks, and twelve of each of the rest?"
"Um. I see."
"But how do we tackle it? Until someone gets a medium of exchange,
we're forced to go on the barter-and-trade basis. Fabriville will toss
out anyone who isn't paying his way by working. In return, he has free
call upon the market, the manufacturing center, and the professionals.
Thank God that hoarding is silly in a realm of plenty."
"But what can I do?" wailed Linna.
"Help. Go out and help in the hospital."
"But I'm your wife."
"So what?" said Keg flatly. "I'm working. I get no more for this than
Joe Doakes, who is out there painting the flagpole."
"But--"
"Sure, I like to do this. But Joe Doakes always wanted to run up a
flagpole on a bosun's chair and paint it. We're exactly even. At least
in Fabriville, we aren't doing without anything. Eventually the rest
of the worlds will fall in line and there will be enough of stuff for
everyone, but until that time arrives, we'll be seeing trouble."
"The rest of the worlds?"
"There'll be riots and small-town wars. I only hope we can get our
fence up before they decide to call on us."
"You've sort of created an oasis here," said Linna. "But how long will
it last?"
"Until Channing and Franks come up with some substance that can not be
run through their own duplicator. I hope it will not be too long."
* * * * *
Out in the Trojan Position ahead of Venus, Venus Equilateral moved in
its quiet way. Like Fabriville, Venus Equilateral was self-sufficient.
Furthermore, Don Channing had declared a closed corporation, and the
three thousand inhabitants of the relay station were all in accord.
Business was running low. Yet the salaries went on, even increased,
while prices went dropping to ridiculously low levels.
With a closed system such as Venus Equilateral, such an artificial
economy was possible by mere basic control. The crime angle was nil
on Venus Equilateral. With three thousand people living in a cylinder
of steel three miles long and a mile in diameter, crime and general
nastiness were eradicated by the simple means of making it too hard
to conduct anything illegal. The citizens of Venus Equilateral were
patriotic to the nth degree.
So the situation was less strained than in Fabriville. Though work
moved slowly, there was still more than plenty for everyone, and the
people were satisfied.
They were an unsuspicious lot and so they did not think it off-color
when a small spacecraft of the plutocrat class came circling up to the
South End landing stage. The craft landed, and a tall, broad-shouldered
man emerged and asked for Channing. He was escorted along a mile of
car-way in the outer skin of the station and then whipped up toward the
center of the station for five hundred feet. He was led along the broad
corridor and shown the main office of the Director of Communications.
Don Channing's secretary opened the door and said: "A Mr. Laurus Towle
to see you, Dr. Channing."
Don nodded.
Towle entered behind the girl, who introduced him to Don and to Walt
Franks. Then she left.
And as the door closed, Towle whipped out a revolver and pointed it at
Channing. Walt slid forward off his chair and brought the chair around
over his head with a single, flowing motion. Towle ducked the thrown
chair, faded backwards, and fired at Don.
The shot pinged against the steel wall, flaking off some of the plastic
covering. Don dropped to the floor, and came up with his wastepaper
basket, which he hurled at Towle. Towle ducked, fended it aside with
his left hand, and tried to level the gun again. Walt Franks reached
into an open file drawer and grabbed a large handful of papers, which
he threw at Towle. They fluttered and filled the air for a moment,
which distracted Towle long enough for Channing to leap over the desk.
Don and Walt closed on Towle in a high-low tackle, Don jumping at
Towle's head and shoulders from the desk top, while Franks hit Towle
sidewise at the thigh-level in a crashing tackle. They rolled over and
over and Towle lost his revolver.
The papers were still fluttering to the floor when they came to rest
with Towle neatly squelched beneath Channing and Franks. Towle tried to
heave them off. Don almost knocked Towle's jaw loose with a stinging
backhand slap. "Don't try," snarled Don, "you're had--right now!"
"You stinking--"
"Shaddup," growled Channing, "and start explaining what this is for."
"I'm ruined!"
"Try it again and we'll ruin you some more," promised Don. "I have an
aversion to being shot at."
"So have I," said Walt.
"He wasn't shooting at you," said Don.
"No, but I'd have been next, wouldn't I, Lazarus?"
"Laurus," snarled Towle.
"Now look," said Don in a voice that gave no idea of softness, "you're
licked from here on in. This weapon of yours is now ours, and we'll
hang it in the museum with other mementoes of our having been shot at.
Luckily, this makes the first time that it has been close. Say--you
aren't an old crony of Hellion Murdoch?"
"Never heard of him."
"Good. Now, as I was saying, we've disarmed you--Walt, take a prowl
of his person and see if he has any more lethal instruments concealed
thereupon--and we're inclined to get up off the floor and resume our
roles as gentlemen. Besides, I want to know what you had in mind
besides assassination."
They lifted the man from his supine position and planted him roughly in
an overstuffed chair. Don and Walt sat on one edge of the desk, ready
to move in with the first wrong move. Don snapped the communicator and
spoke to the girl outside. "Mr. Towle had an accident with an exploding
cigar, Lorraine. No one need enter."
"Now," he said to Towle, "precisely what gives?"
"I'm ruined."
"Yup. You are. But why?"
"You ruined me."
"Me?" asked Channing. "Not that I know of."
"I'm bankrupt."
"_Bankrupt?_" laughed Channing.
Towle bristled at the laugh. "It's no laughing matter, Channing. For
most of my life I've been saving to retire. In the turn of a wrist, you
have made all my savings useless."
"Are you starving?"
"No."
"Are you homeless?"
"No."
"Are you being deprived of anything?"
"Um--no."
"Then what's all the shooting for?"
"But my savings?"
"Look, Towle, you worked hard for them, I do not doubt. But you've got
just what you wanted anyway. You have a duplicator?"
"Of course, I bought it early."
"Good. Then use it and quit worrying about your savings."
"But the years of deprivation to build up that fortune."
"Tough," said Channing. "I suppose you're mad because the foolish
grasshopper is now enjoying the same benefits as the ambitious ant.
That's not right, I suppose. But on the other hand, why should any man
be a slave to toil?"
"Man shall earn his bread by the sweat of his brow."
"Baloney. Next you'll be telling me that men were better off with a
ten-hour day and a six-day week."
"They didn't seem to get into as much trouble."
"Nor did they have as much fun," said Channing. "Nor were there as many
developments made in the fields of science and industry. Men slaved
and worked and lived and died without ever seeing the pleasure of the
country sky. The radio would have been useless without leisure to enjoy
its offerings. And who will say that radio is a useless science?"
"But it is not right that I should have slaved to acquire a retirement
fortune only to have it wiped out."
"Look, Towle, the whole system is undergoing a radical change in the
economic structure. By the same token, Venus Equilateral is a ruined
concern. We've dropped from ten million paid messages per day to a
mere handful. Those we send through because we are bound by agreement
to maintain service at all costs. We aren't making expenses, if you
feel like hollering about money. Would you like a few million?" asked
Channing suddenly.
"I have--"
"And you used your duplicator to run up your fortune first thing,
didn't you?" asked Channing scathingly.
"Naturally."
"And you're sore because everyone else did the same thing. Towle,
you're a dope. You've been feeling very virtuous about working like
a slave for your fortune, which would probably keep you in cakes and
lodging for the rest of your life. You've been promising starvation
and pauperism to anyone who bought anything that seemed the slightest
bit frivolous to you. Now that the axe has slipped, you're mad because
the guy who liked to ramble amid the roses is not going to starve to
death as per schedule. What's wrong with you? You're not going hungry.
You'll be better off than before. As soon as we get this mess ironed
out, you'll be able to enjoy life as before. Your savings are safe. As
soon as we get a medium of exchange that works, you'll be credited--the
government took care of that as soon as the bottom fell out of the
monetary system. Call 'em dollars, credits, or whathaveyous, they'll
all be prorated and you'll then enjoy your fortune--though it won't
be as much fun because no man is going to have to slave again. You're
a crazy man, Towle, and as such I'm sending you back to Terra under
guard. We'll let the psychologists work over you. Maybe they can make
you behave."
They stood Towle up, rang and waited for a guard, and then saw the man
off under the guard's eye.
And Don Channing said to Walt Franks: "Until we find a medium of
exchange, there'll be the devil to pay and no pitch hot."
Walt nodded. "I'm glad we're out here with our little colony instead
of where lots and lots of people can come storming at the gates
demanding that we _do_ something. Hope Keg Johnson is holding his own
at Fabriville."
* * * * *
It was a growling mob that tramped across the desert toward Fabriville.
A growling, quarreling mob, that fought in its own ranks and stole
from its own men. A hungry, cold, and frightened mob that followed a
blustering man named Norton, who had promised them peace and plenty if
they did his bidding. His law did not include sharing among themselves,
and so men fought and stole food and clothing and women.
Had the mob been anything but a shaggy, travel-weary band, Fabriville
might have been wiped from the face of Mars.
It swept forward without form and like an ocean wave, it laved against
the cyclone fencing that surrounded that part of Fabriville and was
repulsed. A determined, well-fed band would have crushed the fencing,
but this was a dispirited mob that would have sold its leader for a
square meal and would have worked for the promise of a second meal in a
row.
Keg Johnson came to the edge of Fabriville in a medium-sized tank that
could withstand the entire mob to the last man. He ran the tank out of
the gate and right to the edge of the mob, who shrank back to permit
the thundering monster to pass. He stopped the tank and stood up in the
top turret and spoke.
A built-in amplifier carried his voice to the edge of the mob.
"Who is your leader?"