it’ll be necessary to do something. In any case the welfare of those four hundred bibs comes first.’
‘Coffee’s ready.’ Pat said, and began pouring.
Sipping, Sal Heim said, ‘Tastes good.’
‘Yes,’ Jim Briskin agreed. In fact the cup of hot coffee, synthetic and non-toxic as it had to be (only low-stratum dorm-housed Cols drank the genuine thing) was exactly what he needed. It made him feel a lot better.
Although the time was dreadfully late at night, Myra Sands had made up her mind to call Art and Rachael Chaffy at their dorm. She had reached a decision regarding their case, and the moment had arrived to tell them.
When the vidphone connection had been made to their public halt booth, Mrs Sands said, ‘I’m sorry to bother you so late, Mr Chaffy.’
‘That’s all right,’ Art said, sleepily. Obviously, he and his wife had gone to bed. ‘What is it?’
‘I think you should go ahead and have your baby,’ Myra said.
‘You do? But . . .’
‘If you had listened to Jim Briskin’s Chicago speech, you would know why,’ Myra said. ‘There’ll soon be a need for new families; everything has changed. My advice to you and your wife is to apply to Terran Development for permission to emigrate by means of their new system. You might as well be among the first. You deserve to be.’
Bewildered, Art Chaffy said, ‘Emigrate? You mean they finally found a place? We don’t have to stay here?’
‘Buy a homeopape,’ Myra said patiently. ‘Go out now and get it; find a vending machine, read about the speech. It’ll be on the front page. And then start packing your things.’ TD will have to accept you, she knew. Because of Jim Briskin’s speech. They’ve been deprived of a choice.
‘Gee, thanks, Mrs Sands,’ Art Chaffy mumbled, dazed. ‘I’ll tell Rachael right away; I’ll wake her up. And—thanks for calling.’
‘Good night, Mr Chaffy,’ Myra said. ‘And good luck.’ She hung up, then, satisfied.
Too bad, she thought, that there’s no way I can celebrate. Unfortunately no one else is up this late. Because that’s what this calls for: some kind of a party.
But at least she could go to bed tonight with a clear conscience.
For perhaps the first time in years.
EIGHT
For seventy years Leon Turpin had ruled the great industrial syndrome which comprised the enterprise Terran Development. A jerry, Turpin was now one hundred and two years old and still vigorous mentally, although physically frail. The problem for a man of his age lay in the area of the unforeseen accident; a broken hip would never mend and would put him permanently in bed.
However, no such accident had yet occurred to him, and, as was his custom, he arrived at the central administrative offices of TD, located in Washington, D.C., at eight in the morning. His chauffeur let him off at his own entrance, and from there he was raised by special lift to his floor of the building and his constellation of offices, through which he moved during the working day by three-wheeled electric cart.
Today the elderly chief of TD twitched with ill-concealed nervousness as his lift raised him to floor twenty. Last night he had heard someone, a political candidate of some sort, discussing what up to then Turpin had imagined to be his corporation’s top secret. Now TD’s hand was tipped. Anxiously, Leon Turpin tried to picture to himself the possible means by which the news had leaked out. Politics is the enemy of a sound economic entity, he mused. New laws, harsher tax rates, meddling . . . and now this. When, as a matter of fact, he himself had not even had an opportunity to inspect this new development.
Today he would visit the scene of the technological break-through. Possibly, if it was safe, he would pass over to the other side.
Turpin liked to see these things with his own eyes. Otherwise he could not quite grasp what was happening.
As he stepped cautiously from the lift, he made out the sight of his administrative
‘Coffee’s ready.’ Pat said, and began pouring.
Sipping, Sal Heim said, ‘Tastes good.’
‘Yes,’ Jim Briskin agreed. In fact the cup of hot coffee, synthetic and non-toxic as it had to be (only low-stratum dorm-housed Cols drank the genuine thing) was exactly what he needed. It made him feel a lot better.
Although the time was dreadfully late at night, Myra Sands had made up her mind to call Art and Rachael Chaffy at their dorm. She had reached a decision regarding their case, and the moment had arrived to tell them.
When the vidphone connection had been made to their public halt booth, Mrs Sands said, ‘I’m sorry to bother you so late, Mr Chaffy.’
‘That’s all right,’ Art said, sleepily. Obviously, he and his wife had gone to bed. ‘What is it?’
‘I think you should go ahead and have your baby,’ Myra said.
‘You do? But . . .’
‘If you had listened to Jim Briskin’s Chicago speech, you would know why,’ Myra said. ‘There’ll soon be a need for new families; everything has changed. My advice to you and your wife is to apply to Terran Development for permission to emigrate by means of their new system. You might as well be among the first. You deserve to be.’
Bewildered, Art Chaffy said, ‘Emigrate? You mean they finally found a place? We don’t have to stay here?’
‘Buy a homeopape,’ Myra said patiently. ‘Go out now and get it; find a vending machine, read about the speech. It’ll be on the front page. And then start packing your things.’ TD will have to accept you, she knew. Because of Jim Briskin’s speech. They’ve been deprived of a choice.
‘Gee, thanks, Mrs Sands,’ Art Chaffy mumbled, dazed. ‘I’ll tell Rachael right away; I’ll wake her up. And—thanks for calling.’
‘Good night, Mr Chaffy,’ Myra said. ‘And good luck.’ She hung up, then, satisfied.
Too bad, she thought, that there’s no way I can celebrate. Unfortunately no one else is up this late. Because that’s what this calls for: some kind of a party.
But at least she could go to bed tonight with a clear conscience.
For perhaps the first time in years.
EIGHT
For seventy years Leon Turpin had ruled the great industrial syndrome which comprised the enterprise Terran Development. A jerry, Turpin was now one hundred and two years old and still vigorous mentally, although physically frail. The problem for a man of his age lay in the area of the unforeseen accident; a broken hip would never mend and would put him permanently in bed.
However, no such accident had yet occurred to him, and, as was his custom, he arrived at the central administrative offices of TD, located in Washington, D.C., at eight in the morning. His chauffeur let him off at his own entrance, and from there he was raised by special lift to his floor of the building and his constellation of offices, through which he moved during the working day by three-wheeled electric cart.
Today the elderly chief of TD twitched with ill-concealed nervousness as his lift raised him to floor twenty. Last night he had heard someone, a political candidate of some sort, discussing what up to then Turpin had imagined to be his corporation’s top secret. Now TD’s hand was tipped. Anxiously, Leon Turpin tried to picture to himself the possible means by which the news had leaked out. Politics is the enemy of a sound economic entity, he mused. New laws, harsher tax rates, meddling . . . and now this. When, as a matter of fact, he himself had not even had an opportunity to inspect this new development.
Today he would visit the scene of the technological break-through. Possibly, if it was safe, he would pass over to the other side.
Turpin liked to see these things with his own eyes. Otherwise he could not quite grasp what was happening.
As he stepped cautiously from the lift, he made out the sight of his administrative
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