THE PLEASURE AGE

                            By JOED CAHILL

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                Thrilling Wonder Stories February 1947.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]




                               CHAPTER I

                          _That Naughty Word_


October 8, 2866, was a memorable day for young Riley Ashton. It was his
sixth birthday. It was the day he got his first good look at American
City. Also he learned a new word, a thrillingly naughty word, and Aunt
Betty came to live with the Ashtons.

At that time it was the custom all over the world to keep the children
secluded in their own homes, or at least in their own neighborhoods,
until they were six years old. On his sixth birthday the child,
escorted by one or the other of the parents, was taken for his first
tour of the city in which he lived.

Excursions of greater length, to other cities and sometimes to other
continents, were planned for future birthdays. Like many another
convention this custom can not be explained. It was simply the way
things were.

So, on the day Riley Ashton became six years old, his mother, foregoing
her own pleasurable pursuits, devoted the day to his entertainment. In
giving Riley so much of her time Mrs. Ashton felt that she was making a
real sacrifice.

She had seen American City on several occasions, and she found it
boring. It was much more enjoyable, everyone thought, to remain in the
leisure of one's own home. There, one might gossip with friends by
television, or visit with one's club through the same medium or, if one
preferred, listen to a musical program or see a good story simply by
tuning in the American City Telecasting Station.

"I suppose this is one of the responsibilities of being a mother," said
Mrs. Ashton to her husband, "but I do think, Charles, that you might
take Riley for half the day."

"I can't," Mr. Ashton argued, rubbing his bald head. "I have an
important Council meeting this afternoon."

"Oh," Mrs. Ashton rejoined vaguely. "But you give such a tremendous
amount of time to the Council. Isn't this the third time, this year?"

At that moment, young Riley appeared in the door. He was a tall sturdy
child, browned by sunlamps and dressed in the conventional short, khaki
tunic and pants. About his middle was strapped a new float belt, a
simple device which opposed the magnetic field of the earth.

"Look at me," he commanded proudly, and floated about the room
supported in a semi-horizontal position by the belt. "Boy, this is a
swell new belt."

"Glad you like it, son," said Mr. Ashton. "Happy birthday, and run
along with your mother. I've got to tune in the Council meeting. We're
appointing a committee."

"If you must, I suppose you must," Mrs. Ashton said. "I do hope you
win, this time. You are so cross when you lose."

Riley winked one large blue eye.

"Don't roll any boxcars, Pop."

Mr. Ashton held up his crossed fingers and winked back at his son.

Riley and his mother did not meet many people. It was rare that anyone
except an occasional traveler was seen on the streets. But the city
was alive with the hustle and bustle of the automeks. The automeks
were machines of various types and functions, endowed at the time of
manufacture with the necessary mechanical brains to perform a certain
ordered set of operations.

Riley was not particularly interested in them. He had seen many types
of automeks before. They performed all the tasks about the homes,
leaving the people free to enjoy themselves in conformance with
whatever custom decreed as enjoyable.

       *       *       *       *       *

But Riley was fascinated by the tall buildings, the factories and
the warehouses. He drank in those sights with eager eyes and asked a
thousand questions, most of which Mrs. Ashton was unable to answer.
Riley particularly enjoyed a visit to one of the factories. On the
outside of the building was a sign which read:

                              FOUNDED IN
                                 2432
                            BY SMITH & CO.

Riley thought the huge, humming machines very interesting. Within the
transparent plastic cages intricate mechanical fingers were making
clothes. Riley wished he could get closer so he could see better how
the operations were carried out, but the plastic walls barred his way.

He could see that they were making children's clothes, exact duplicates
of his own tunic and pants. And, suddenly, he recalled a word he had
heard.

"Mother, what does 'work' mean?"

Mrs. Ashton was shocked.

"Riley, where did you hear that dreadful word?"

"I heard Pop say it. He said that being on the Council was just like--"

Mrs. Ashton's frantic hand closed her son's mouth. "Don't say that!"
She explained more gently. "Nice people don't use that kind of
language, Riley."

"Isn't Pop a nice person?"

"Of course. Your father must have been exasperated. Poor man--he has so
much to worry him with those dreadful Council meetings and everything.
But you must promise me never to use that word again. Not until you're
twenty-one anyway."

"Yes, but, Mother, what does it mean?"

Mrs. Ashton sighed.

"That--that word means what the automeks do. There are some things
people just don't talk about. You wouldn't want to grow up to be like
an automek, would you?"

"They have fun," Riley said wistfully. "I never have any fun."

"Riley Ashton! How can you say such a thing? Your father and I have
given you everything. And I've missed my club today, just to entertain
you."

"But automeks _do_ have fun," Riley protested. "They make things. You
won't let me make things."

Mrs. Ashton seized her son's hand firmly.

"We're going home. Right this minute. It's time your father had a talk
with you. Making things! The idea!"

At home, Mr. Ashton was still in Council meeting and, when Mrs. Ashton
floated into the room, he looked up from his desk rather annoyed.

"Sh!" he said.

On the television screen at one side of the room appeared the figures
of the other Council members. On a smaller screen was the image of a
pair of enormous dice in a cage.

"Your turn, Ashton," said one of the men.

"Okay, Waine." Mr. Ashton pressed a button on his desk, and the cage of
dice began to revolve rapidly. All the men held their breath until the
dice stopped bouncing. Two sixes showed.

"_Drat!_" said Mr. Ashton explosively. The men all laughed.

"That winds it up," said Mr. Waine. "That makes you a committeeman for
the next three times."

"_Drat!_" said Mr. Ashton again. He turned on Mrs. Ashton. "That was
your fault, my dear. I've been losing all day."

"I'm sorry," Mrs. Ashton said meekly. "But, Charles, you've simply
got to do something about Riley. He's picking up the most terrible
expressions and ideas."

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Ashton pressed a button, and the figures disappeared from the
television screen.

"What is it this time?"

"Well, he's saying--" Mrs. Ashton colored delicately. "You know--that
_word_. And he thinks he ought to be allowed to--to make things like an
automek. You'll just have to talk to him."

"Ummm," said Mr. Ashton judiciously. "Riley's six today, isn't he? I
suppose it's time I talked to him about the facts of life."

In the due course of events young Riley appeared before his father.

"Son," said Mr. Ashton, "I want to have a long talk with
you--man-to-man. You're six years old, today, aren't you?"

"Yep. And say, Pop, do you know what I saw, today? I saw the automeks
making things. I wish I was a automek."

"Nonsense!" Mr. Ashton snorted briskly. "I want to talk to you about
that. And your language. Your mother tells me that you said a naughty
word, today. You said--well, there's no use beating around the bush
about it--you said 'work,' didn't you?"

"Well, yes, Pop. But is that so awful bad?"

"I suppose there are worse words, son. But if you call a person a
worker, that's--that's _awful_. You couldn't call him a worse name."

Riley was very direct.

"Why?" he demanded.

Mr. Ashton took his son's two chubby fists in his own large palm.

"I'll try to explain. But we'll have to go back into history a long way.

"Many years ago, when people had only the crudest kind of automeks,
nearly everyone had to work. That was the word for it--work--but no one
really wanted to. They really wanted to have fun, as we do, today.

"But they didn't have any automeks to raise their crops and prepare
their food and make their clothes and do everything that the automeks
do for us in this modern age. Certain groups of men, however, were
continually working on the problem of making life easier for people.
They called themselves scientists.

"Their first automeks were crude affairs and rapidly wore out.
Sometimes they didn't last more than a few years. But these men kept
improving them. Most of the wear, they found, was caused by a process
known as corrosion and by the wearing of the parts of the machines
against each other.

"Finally, they invented materials that didn't corrode or rust and they
also figured out a means of keeping the parts from rubbing against
each other by using what they called atmospheric bearings. So now the
machines and automeks don't wear out."

"If they did wear out," Riley asked, "couldn't we make new ones?"

"No. The automeks were never set up to make themselves. And no one,
now, knows how, even if there were people who would lower themselves to
do that kind of--of--well, son, the word is 'work.' But don't worry.
They won't wear out.

"Also, back in those days, they had what they called disease and
sickness. When a person was sick it meant he didn't feel well. One
group of the scientists were engaged in getting rid of disease. They
finally did. That's the kind of things you learn about in the stories
over the Telecast."

"Why don't we get some new stories and some new music?" Riley demanded.

"Because," Mr. Ashton explained patiently, "there's no one to make
them. That would be work. Besides, our people have been listening to
those programs for over four hundred years. We know they're good."

"When I grow up," Riley announced after a little thought, "I'm going to
make up some new ones."

"Now, listen, son," Mr. Ashton warned. "People don't do these things.
And anyone who did would be considered a--a social outcast. He might
even be called before the Committee and put in an Institution."

"Is the Committee like work? You said it was."

Mr. Ashton rubbed his bald spot helplessly.

"Well--certain civic responsibilities have to be taken care of. It
isn't like making things with your hands."

"I still think it would be nice to be a automek," Riley said.

"Young man!" Mr. Ashton's voice took on that sternness which warned
Riley he had better not say anything more. "One more word out of you
and...."

       *       *       *       *       *

So Riley didn't say anything more. But he thought a lot.

Aunt Betty came in on the World Express from London City just about
dark.

She had two chins and a bad case of hysterics.

"I'm not going back," she wailed. "People are starving, absolutely
starving. Things are awful. Helen," this to Mrs. Ashton, "you have no
idea how lucky you are."

"Now, Betty," said Mrs. Ashton, "calm yourself, and explain what you're
trying to say."

"It's the automeks," Aunt Betty moaned. "Haven't you heard? They've
quit--uh--you know. They just won't go. The agricultural automeks
didn't raise any crops last year. The warehouse automeks won't make any
deliveries. It's the most horrible thing you ever saw. The people are
being forced to leave the city."

"But, Betty, I don't understand. What's the matter with the automeks?"

Riley squinted his large blue eyes.

"I'll bet they're wearing out."

Mrs. Ashton turned her attention momentarily to her son.

"Children should be seen, dear."

"And not heard," Riley completed the statement gravely. "But I'll bet
that's just what's happening. No piece of machinery will wear forever."

Aunt Betty stared owl-eyed at her nephew.

"Where does he get such ideas? They're unbecoming to a child. Helen,
surely you're not teaching him any such radical nonsense?"

"Of course not," Mrs. Ashton snapped. "Riley, you go amuse yourself."

Riley continued talking in a thoughtful voice, as if to himself.

"And if the automeks wear out, then people will have to go back to
work."

Aunt Betty screamed at the word, and her double chins set up a
quivering dance.

"_Oh!_ Never in all my life!"

Mrs. Ashton took more drastic action. When young Riley had been
dismissed from the room, howling with the pain of the first corporal
punishment he had ever known, Mrs. Ashton tried to apologize.

"I don't know what to say, Betty. Riley never acted this way, before."

Aunt Betty sniffed.

"This younger generation. Whatever are they coming to?"




                              CHAPTER II

                        _The Planet Travelers_


Young Riley was right, although he didn't fully understand to what
extent. The deterioration of the automeks was slow, but in certain
places, especially in damp climates, they were beginning to quit.

During the years from 2866 to 2870, at least half a dozen metropolitan
cities were abandoned, simply because the machinery which supported the
populace ceased functioning. When the inhabitants of those cities felt
the pangs of hunger they took the easiest way out.

They migrated to more fortunate cities, where the climate had not
caused a breakdown in the machinery. The people began to double up in
the homes, throwing an extra burden on the automeks of those areas.

No one appreciated the true significance of the migration. No one faced
the fact that eventually all the machines all over the world would
stop. It is doubtful that the people realized such a crisis could occur.

Only Riley, with a perception far beyond his years, seemed to have any
true glimpse of the future. Or perhaps he was the only one who offered
any comment on it. And he didn't very often. He found that his ideas
brought him only grief at the hands of his distracted and apologetic
parents. Riley definitely was not in tune with his time.

Even before he was ten years old he was known in his neighborhood as
"that queer child," the one who insisted on trying to make things. He
had no playmates. Mothers forbade their children to play with him. His
language, they said, was vulgar. He frequently used the word "work".

His ideas of fun were intolerable and punishment seemed to have little
effect on him. There was some talk of having him confined to an
Institution, but since Mr. Ashton's luck with the dice was consistently
bad and he was constantly on the Committee which governed such measures
nothing came of the talk.

Naturally, Riley was lonely. He wanted company, but when he approached
any of the neighborhood children in an effort to join their play they
immediately ran away from him. As a consequence his play was solitary.
Perhaps this is why, in later life, he was so easily pleased with
commendatory words from the few persons who did become intimate with
him.

On Riley's twelfth birthday--that would be the year 2872--he discovered
the American City Museum. He came upon it suddenly, during one of his
wandering trips about the city. By that time, Mr. and Mrs. Ashton had
given up all efforts to control his activities since that involved an
unpleasant expenditure of energy. Even Aunt Betty talked less about
"our duty to the child."

Consequently Riley was left to his own devices most of the time. He
investigated the city, giving particular attention to the workings of
the various factories and the activities around the warehouses. It was
easy enough for Riley to wander about the streets.

He had the float belt which supported his weight and locomotion from
place to place was accomplished simply by tuning in the proper
loop attractor station. These attractor stations, placed at regular
intervals about the city, were operated on the electro-magnetic
principle.

       *       *       *       *       *

An automek snapped open the door to the museum, and Riley went inside.
Just within the entrance, on a table, there was a book in which
visitors were expected to write their names. With the electric pen
provided, Riley signed his name on the plastic sheet and added the date.

He regarded the previous entries with much curiosity. Apparently, the
last visitor to the museum had been there on the fifteenth of January,
the previous year. He had signed himself John Ward. But before that
entry there had been no signatures for well over three hundred years.

Of course, this did not necessarily mean that there had been no other
visitors. It was only a rare person of the twenty-ninth century who
could either read or write. Riley had learned the accomplishments as a
means of passing away the lonely hours.

In the city library, where he spent much time, there were some
excellent records on reading and writing. This ability was one of the
things which made people regard Riley as "queer."

Riley speculated for some time as to who John Ward might be. He hadn't
supposed that anyone else in American City was interested in a museum,
or for that matter could write. Riley had thought, rather proudly,
that he was unique in his ability. And here in front of his eyes was
definite evidence that someone else could read and write.

"Must be from another city," Riley decided. "Someone who was forced to
leave his home because the automeks quit working."

Dismissing John Ward from his mind he wandered down one of the halls.
The first exhibit he came to was pictures of extinct insects. He read
the descriptions aloud, his words echoing noisily through the lonely
halls.

"The mosquito was known for hundreds of years to be a carrier of
disease. Not only was it a carrier, but it was a nuisance because of
its habit of sucking blood and leaving irritating welts on its host.
The hum of its tiny, fast-moving wings was synonymous with discomfort.
Fortunately the last of these pests was exterminated in the year two
thousand three hundred and fifty-five."

The next picture and description was of a grasshopper, extinct, so the
legend explained, since 2318. The grasshopper was characterized as a
destroyer of crops.

"Furthermore," ran the description with unintentional irony, "the
grasshopper never made provision for its future. It existed only for
its own amusement."

"Hmph!" Riley said. "Just like people."

Passing along the hall, away from the insect exhibit, he came upon
a number of statues in company with pictures of flying machines.
These latter were similar to the giant, robot-controlled, intercity
transportation vehicles of his own day.

Riley began to read the history of the men whose statues were on
exhibit and found himself entranced with the accounts of the early, and
for that matter the only, attempts at inter-planetary travel.

"Rufus Smith," he read, "was the first man to attempt a trip to the
planet Venus. Having made three trial trips about the moon, this
intrepid adventurer took off in his Smith-Wickham Rocket at noon, July
ninth, two thousand one hundred and sixteen, with the intention of
rocketing to Venus. According to his radio reports Smith was making
excellent progress until, on the two hundred and sixty-third day of his
flight, his ship apparently exploded."

       *       *       *       *       *

There followed a day by day account of Rufus Smith's radio reports.
Riley read the accounts avidly, his blood thrilling to the saga of
adventure. When he had exhausted that report he passed on to the next
account and the next.

Those were men of reckless courage and iron determination--Rufus Smith,
Billy Fenton, Alexander Williams and a score of others. But not one of
them returned from his adventure.

Last in this exhibit was a rocket machine in its actuality, cased in
transparent plastic. The ship was a hundred and fifty feet long, with
a cross-sectional diameter of forty feet. On the legend was the date
2345. He read:

"Inter-planetary rocket designed by Arthur H. Wilpinham. This ship
was to carry a crew of three and was to be piloted by John Ward of
American City. Mr. Ward's accidental death, while testing another ship,
terminated the venture. The Wilpinham rocket was never flown.

"The last of the planet travelers," breathed Riley reverently.

He knew why Ward was the last. The people had lost interest, they had
become solely concerned with forwarding their own amusement. Riley
searched for a way to get inside the plastic case. He wanted a closer
view of the big flying machine, but he couldn't find any entrance.

He also noticed that the name of the flyer, John Ward, was the same as
the name on the visitor's book at the museum entrance. He pondered this
coincidence without coming to any conclusion. After two hours he left
the exhibit and passed on to another room. And here he got the biggest
thrill of his twelve years.

The room was equipped as a workshop. There were lathes and presses,
saws and tools of all kinds, together with a considerable amount of raw
materials. Along one wall ran a chemical laboratory, with a number of
plastic molds. What was even more fascinating to young Riley Ashton was
that the equipment was set out where anyone who wanted to could get at
it.

He didn't know whether there were prohibitions against a person using
the equipment, but after some deliberation he decided that probably
no one would ever know and, if anyone did find out, wouldn't take the
trouble to stop him. Riley unearthed a small library of books on the
uses of the various machines and went to work.

For the next nine years he spent most of his waking hours in the museum
shop. In the natural course of events he became an excellent machinist
and laboratory technician.

From the books he learned to handle plastics. And from the city
warehouses he took whatever raw materials he needed to supplement the
stock in the museum. He made things, odds and ends, little mechanical
toys and the like.

Each day, as he went to and from the workshop, he passed the insect
exhibit. Each time he passed he stopped for a moment. The mosquitoes
especially fascinated him. He often read the legend aloud.

"... The hum of its tiny, fast-moving wings was synonymous with
discomfort...."

Riley would shake his head, grin at the picture for some reason unknown
even to himself and move on.

       *       *       *       *       *

He was so engrossed with his daily routine that he sometimes failed to
note the events which were fast shaping up in the world around him. He
did know, of course, when the automeks of the City of Paris began to
fail.

It was followed by an influx of people to the cities on the American
Continent. American City, itself, had more than doubled its population.
The housing situation was becoming acute.

The strain on the automeks to supply the increased population with
food, clothing, and other necessities was so great that Riley
anticipated an early breakdown in American City. But he more or less
shrugged the situation aside as being something with which he was
unable to cope.

At the time of his twenty-first birthday Riley Ashton was a handsome
young man. He was six feet tall, tanned of face, with a shock of unruly
blond hair, set off with large blue eyes. In spite of his reputation as
a non-conformist, many of the young ladies of American City found him
fascinating--but at a distance. Since he was not received socially, he
had no feminine company.

October 8, 2281, began as uneventfully as most days. During the
previous evening, Mr. Ashton had had a meeting with the Committee, in
which they had got around for the first time to a discussion of the
influx of people to American City. Mr. Ashton wasn't inclined to let
the findings of the Committee interfere too much with his enjoyment of
life. But he did mention them at breakfast.

It appeared, Mr. Ashton reported, that some of the automeks in Boston
City had quit functioning on October 6. Probably a part of the
inhabitants of Boston City would migrate to American City.

Riley squinted his eyes at this announcement.

"There's not room for them here."

"No," Mr. Ashton agreed, pleasantly rubbing his bald spot. "That's what
the Committee decided."

"What's the Committee going to do with them?"

"Oh, we'll just have to tell them to go somewhere else," Mr. Ashton
said complacently.

"Where?"

Mr. Ashton was vague.

"Oh, somewhere."

"There's no place for them to go. They'll starve if they don't work and
we've already seen, time and again, that they have no intention of--"

"Now, Riley," Mrs. Ashton interposed, "I've asked you not to use that
vulgar word around home. I don't see why you insist on being so coarse."

"Because that's the only word that fits the conditions," Riley said
flatly.

Mr. Ashton floated across the room and thoughtfully selected a button
on the telecast panel.

"Why worry about Boston people?" he said.

Music from the American City Telecast Station flooded the room, and Mr.
Ashton settled back comfortably to enjoy it. An automek removed the
breakfast dishes.




                              CHAPTER III

                           _Enter John Ward_


Riley drifted to the door on his float belt, about to leave the
house for his daily trip to the museum, when the music was suddenly
interrupted. The figure of a man appeared on the television screen. He
was a rather lean, slender man, with sharp eyes, not tall, but having
the appearance of wiry toughness.

"I am John Ward," the man stated abruptly. "I have interrupted the
usual program you receive at this hour to bring you a message of vital
importance.

"Ten days ago, the automeks of India City ceased functioning. The
people of India City migrated, as has become the custom recently," he
said this with sarcasm, "to Canton City. Canton City already had three
times its normal population.

"They had no room to receive any more people. A riot followed. It
quickly became a small but bloody war. The people of India City were
thrown back into the hills in the first war this world has known in
almost nine hundred years."

The figure in the screen paused briefly to pound his right fist into
his open left palm.

"Think of that! The first war in almost nine hundred years. Why?
Because people are hungry, because they are cold and starving. There
in the hills outside Canton City they are settling down to starve to
death. A third of them are dead already. Why?

"Because they don't know how to work. Because they won't work even
if they are shown how. Think about that! People in this world--this
pleasant, peaceful world--are dying because they won't work."

Aunt Betty had caught her breath at last.

"The _idea_!" she squealed. She turned to Mr. Ashton. "Charles, shut
that dreadful man off."

Riley sprang forward.

"Wait. I want to hear what he says. If it's too shocking for you, Aunt
Betty, stick your fingers in your ears."

John Ward had become persuasive.

"You are probably wondering how this affects you. Listen. The day
before yesterday the automeks quit working in Boston City. There were
five million people living in Boston City yesterday. Tomorrow, there
won't be five hundred.

"Boston City will be dead. Those five million people will move--to
Denver City, to the City of Los Angeles, and to others. A good
proportion of them will come to American City--your own home.

"I understand that the Committee has agreed to refuse them admittance.
If it does the lives of those people will be on your heads. If they
starve it will be your fault.

"At the present time, American City can absorb its share of those
people and you can continue to live as you now are living. But
soon--can't tell you how soon--maybe five years or twenty-five--but
soon, if you are to avert complete disaster, it will be necessary for
you--and you--and you to learn how to work.

"You will be forced to work with your hands, with your brains and with
what tools you will have left to you. If you refuse, if you sit idly by
hoping, then starvation will fall upon the world. Starvation will be
upon _us_!"

Abruptly, the figure disappeared from the screen.

"The impudence!" Aunt Betty gasped. "Charles, you are a member of
the Committee. You'll have to do something about that man. Imagine!
Telecasting such an outrageous statement."

"I will," Mr. Ashton promised grimly. He began punching buttons and
calling the Committee members while Aunt Betty wailed on about the
general state of immorality in the world and Mrs. Ashton looked vaguely
disturbed.

Riley went out the door and shot rapidly down to the telecasting
station. When he got there he found it deserted except for the automeks
arranging the usual programs for the day. He wanted to meet John Ward.
He had a great admiration for any man who would speak out as Ward had
done. But though he stayed around until the Committee arrived he saw no
trace of the man who had made the telecast.

The Committee had blood in its collective eye. Riley was uncertain
whether the wrath of the members was caused by the unpleasant truth
they had heard or whether the various Aunt Bettys throughout the
city were demanding action to stop such outrages to their delicate
sensibilities. Riley wondered if he could help John Ward.

       *       *       *       *       *

He went on to the museum. But he couldn't settle down to work. The
words that John Ward had spoken and the voice that he had used to make
his points filled Riley with an excitement that drove everything else
from his mind. He dallied around, winding an armature, moulding a few
sheets of plastic, finally began to read an old chemistry book.

After a time Riley looked up. A man was standing in the door. He had
no way of knowing how long the man had been standing there, but he put
the book down and surveyed the newcomer, trying to hide his excitement
under an air of composure. For here, he knew, he had met a kindred
spirit at last.

"You're John Ward, aren't you?" Riley asked.

The little man wore the usual khaki tunic and knee length pants. It
failed completely to conceal the supple development of his body.
He looked strong and quick. His eyes were deep brown, not hard but
continually alert. With his fingers he stroked a wispy, dark mustache.
His age, Riley decided, was in the late twenties.

"You heard my telecast?" John Ward demanded. He had a way of clipping
his words which made his speech jerky.

Riley nodded.

"How did it strike you?"

Riley hesitated.

"It just made the people angry."

"I know. I know. Committee's looking for me, no doubt. My ideas are
shocking to the dear people. Going to tear me limb from limb. But what
I'm interested in, now, is what you think."

"I think it was swell," Riley said with enthusiasm. "It's about time
somebody started telling--"

"Okay, okay." John Ward interrupted. "So we're agreed."

He turned to look back down the corridor.

"All right, Sue. Come on in."

"My sister," he said. "We heard you working. Decided the museum would
be the last place the Committee would look for us. Just wanted to check
on you first."

"The Committee wouldn't hurt you," Riley protested. "They might put you
in the Institution for a while, but they wouldn't--"

"Not worried about your Committee," John Ward said. "Not much.
Committees of a dozen cities, all over the world, would like to get
their hands on us. Dangerous reactionaries--that's Sue and I. Here's
Sue, now. Meet Riley Ashton. Got your name from the visitor's book at
the entrance."

Sue Ward smiled at Riley.

"Hello," he said.

That was all he could say. He just looked. Sue Ward was as strikingly
pretty and self-possessed as her brother was quick and wiry. She wasn't
a day over twenty. Her eyes were hazel and her hair was long and glossy
brown. She was almost as tall as her brother.

"Want to throw in with us?" John Ward demanded.

"Sure," said Riley without taking his eyes from Sue.

Sue laughed.

"Not so fast, Mr. Ashton. You don't even know what we're doing."

"I don't even care," Riley retorted boldly, "if _you're_ in it."

"And we don't know what you're doing," the girl said pointedly.

"Gosh, she's pretty!" Riley thought.

"Use your eyes, Sue," John Ward said impatiently. "Look at his work.
Look at this!"

       *       *       *       *       *

From the workbench he picked up a miniature automek. He pressed a
button at the base of the toy and the little machine began dipping sand
from one bucket and carrying it to another. John Ward set the bucket of
sand behind a stack of books on the bench. The automek promptly went
behind the books and reappeared with a dipperful of sand.

"Know anyone else that can make an automek?" Ward demanded. "I
couldn't. You couldn't. No one in the world could except Riley. You say
you don't know what he's doing. He can work. All we can do is talk. We
can use a man who knows how to work. The world can use him.

"Here's the program," Ward went on in his jerky fashion. "We're making
all the larger cities all over the world. Giving talks. Any place we
can get into the telecasting station."

"Is that all?" Riley asked.

"What else can we do?" Ward demanded impatiently.

"I don't know. The talks just make people angry. There should be some
way to make people work."

"We're trying," the girl said. "If you can think of anything better
we'll try it, too."

They talked through the rest of the morning. Ward had another telecast
to make in American City and then they planned to move on to Denver
City. Riley promised to go along, though he wasn't certain how he could
prove useful in the campaign.

At noon Riley left the museum to go to lunch, promising to bring
something back for Ward and Sue.

He found the house in an uproar. Aunt Betty was crying and wringing her
hands. Mrs. Ashton was floating around the room with a bewildered look
on her face. And Mr. Ashton was frantically punching buttons on the
automek control panel.

"What's wrong?" Riley asked.

"Everything," Mr. Ashton snapped. "We can't get anything to eat."

Apparently the automeks which delivered the prepared meals from the
neighborhood kitchen had quit functioning. There were five thousand
neighborhood kitchens in American City to supply a population which
was now in excess of twelve million persons. It appeared that only the
automeks of the one kitchen were not working. Riley suggested that they
go out after food.

"No indeed," Mrs. Ashton said with rare positiveness. "What would the
neighbors think?"

"What difference does it make what the neighbors think?" Riley demanded
half-angrily. "Would you rather starve to death than do anything to
remedy the situation?"

"We'll just have to move to another neighborhood," Mrs. Ashton decided.

Aunt Betty brightened immediately.

"Let's do that."

Riley laughed shortly.

"They'll probably throw you out, just as the Committee's planning to do
with the people from Boston City."

"Oh, we've decided not to throw them out this time," Mr. Ashton
interposed. "We've decided it's our duty to share whatever we have."

       *       *       *       *       *

Riley slammed out of the house. The attitude his parents were taking
didn't make sense to him. It was clear that they and Aunt Betty
preferred to stay at home and be hungry rather than go to one of the
neighborhood kitchens after food.

Independent as Riley was, himself, he couldn't understand how popular
opinion could be so strong. But he didn't underestimate its strength.

He went to the neighborhood kitchen. Not only had the automek delivery
broken down, but apparently the automek cooks also had stopped. Nothing
had been cooked. Riley gathered up three raw steaks, a head of lettuce,
and a few other odds and ends. He carried them down to the museum.

"Can you cook?" he asked Sue Ward.

Sue looked doubtful.

"The kitchen broke down," Riley explained. "If we want to eat, we're
going to have to cook."

"I can try," said Sue, even more doubtfully. "But I'll need a cooking
unit of some kind."

"Okay." Riley took a length of wire, fastened it in the lathe chuck and
wound it in a long spiral. He coiled the spiral on a metal plate, and
attached the wire to a power source. In a couple of minutes he had a
makeshift hot plate.

Riley thought it was the best meal he had ever eaten, even if the
steaks were a bit charred around the edges and underdone in the middle.
Perhaps the fact that Sue was the cook had a lot to do with his
appreciation of the food.

"Do you want me to fix something to take to your parents?" Sue asked.

Riley squinted his blue eyes.

"It won't hurt them to miss a meal. I'm going down and try to repair
those automeks. All that's wrong, I think, is that the main power unit
broke down."

In his diagnosis Riley was correct. With Ward's help, incompetent as
the little man was at things mechanical, he managed to repair the power
unit during the afternoon so that by evening the kitchen again was
operating at full efficiency.

"What I ought to do," said Riley, feeling a bit of pride in his repair
work, "is to go around from city to city and fix up all the broken down
machinery."

John Ward snorted his disgust at the suggestion.

"Never traveled, have you?"

"No," Riley admitted, "but I guess I could travel a little."

Ward waved his hand impatiently.

"Not what I mean. You've no idea how big the world is. There are ten
thousand major cities today. No telling how many smaller ones. Suppose
you spent ten days in each city--well, figure it out for yourself."

"I see," said Riley in a small voice.

"Got to make them work," John Ward said. "Got to teach them to work."

"And the big question," Sue added, "is how."

"But if people won't work in the face of utter disaster," Riley argued,
"how can we persuade them just by talking?"

"We can keep trying," Sue answered.




                              CHAPTER IV

                         "_I'm Your Mechanic_"


On The following morning, Riley went to the telecasting station ahead
of Ward to be certain that no one was there. It was just possible,
the little man told him, that some of the Committee members might be
waiting to catch their unwanted speaker.

In Wales City, once, Ward had been caught and locked up in an
Institution for eighteen months before he managed to escape. He didn't
want that to happen again, especially now that Sue was working with him.

Riley reported that the telecasting station was deserted, and Ward made
his talk. It was similar to the one he had made the previous day and
unquestionably had the same effect. While they were returning to the
museum, they encountered two Committee members, Mr. Jackson and Mr.
Waine.

"Pretend you don't see them," Ward cautioned. "If they stop us we'll
have to fight." He said scornfully, "They don't even know how to fight."

"I don't either," Riley admitted.

Ward stroked his little mustache.

"Suppose you don't, at that. My father taught me. Handed down from
generation to generation, you see. Look. No, don't look, now. They're
watching us.

"Double up your fist, and if they say anything take the guy on the
left. Wallop him on the chin, then in the stomach, then on the button
again. He won't know how to hit back."

Mr. Waine hailed them at that moment.

"Good morning, Riley. I suppose you, also, are looking for that
scoundrel, John Ward. You and your companion."

He peered uncertainly at Ward.

"Why--uh--_you_ are John Ward, aren't you? Young man," he said, puffing
out his chest, "I must inform you that our citizens are very distressed
at the uncouth telecasts you are making. Very distressed, sir. It is my
painful duty to apprehend you.

"And you, Riley Ashton, should be ashamed of yourself, consorting with
such a character. Your father will be very put out, Riley. I shall
report you to the Committee for such action as they deem necessary."

"You take the windbag," Ward said to Riley. "He's the smaller."

Riley doubled up his fists and, with his heart pounding wildly,
approached Mr. Waine. As he moved forward he heard the sudden splat of
Ward's fist on Mr. Jackson's chin. Then Riley struck the first blow of
his life. Deliberately and with malice aforethought he walloped Mr.
Waine on the button.

The crunch of his fist against Mr. Waine's chin filled Riley with a
wonderful sense of delight. He lowered his arm and punched awkwardly at
Mr. Waine's middle. Mr. Waine doubled up with a grunt which, for some
funny reason, was like music in Riley's ears.

He drew back his right arm, crouching until his fist was almost at
his heel, and swung a roundhouse blow to Mr. Waine's chin. Mr. Waine
suddenly buckled at the knees and dropped to a horizontal position,
supported only by his float belt.

"Say, Riley, lad," John Ward chuckled, "you're coming right along."

"Did I do all right?" Riley asked panting with excitement.

"Pretty good for an amateur," Ward said judiciously. "Need a little
polish. I'll teach you that. Now we'd better get going."

       *       *       *       *       *

John Ward kept his promise. That evening he gave Riley the first of a
series of lessons in the science of fighting, lessons that they planned
to continue while they toured the world lecturing on the necessity of
work. If it hadn't been for Riley's idea, they would have made that
world tour.

"I've been thinking," Riley said, while they rested from the boxing
lesson. "I've decided that it's going to take something besides a major
disaster like starvation to convince people that they're going to have
to work."

Ward was gently sarcastic.

"Brilliant deduction."

"What is it you're thinking?" Sue asked. She had been acting as
appreciative audience for the sparring bout.

"They need some constant irritant, some little something to keep them
moving. I don't know whether it would work, but come with me and I'll
show you what I mean."

Riley led the way through the museum halls to the insect exhibit. He
stopped in front of the mosquito picture and read aloud:

"... The hum of its tiny, fast-moving wings was synonymous with
discomfort...."

Ward plucked at his mustache.

"So?"

"What we need," Riley said, squinting his blue eyes thoughtfully, "are
some mosquitoes."

Sue began laughing. Laughter came easily to her. And Ward responded
with his usual sarcastic chuckle.

"Turn them loose on an unsuspecting world? Riley, I don't know whether
you're a nut or a genius. But it might work."

"I just remembered," Riley said with sudden gloom. "There aren't any
mosquitoes. The last one died over five hundred years ago."

"That's so." Ward took fifteen or twenty steps along the hall, pulling
abstractedly at his little mustache.

"Always wanted to do an adventure," he said, half to himself.
"Something really new and big." He seemed to come to some inner
conclusion. "See here, Riley, lad. Don't know about mosquitoes, but
think I know where we can get some insects that might do. Only there's
a very, very excellent chance we'd never get back."

"What do you mean?"

Ward motioned with his thumb. Riley and Sue followed him down to the
flying machine exhibit. He stopped in front of the Wilpinham Rocket.

"See that name on the card--John Ward? One of our great, great,
ever-so-great grandfathers. Planned to fly that machine to Venus. Got
killed testing another rocket. They never flew the ship."

"What's that got to do with mosquitoes?"

"The old man wrote a book on Venus. What he expected to find there.
Climate hot and mucky--nasty. Full of disease, insects and what-not. If
there's any place where we might find mosquitoes, it's Venus.

"There's the ship. You're the mechanic--I'm the pilot. Mosquitoes or
not, the adventure should be worth the price. What do you say, Riley,
lad?"

Riley took a deep breath. There was fire in the depths of his blue eyes.

"I'm your mechanic," he said.

       *       *       *       *       *

Sue Ward tossed her long brown hair. "You don't need to think you're
going to leave me behind."

"Of course not," Riley said promptly.

Ward teased her.

"We'll take you along as cook, Sue. If we can find a cook book. After
those steaks, I know you need some practise."

Sue began strapping on her float belt.

"I'll go over to the library now, after a cook book."

"Get some books on medicine," Ward suggested. "We'll need medicine if
there's disease on Venus. And some books on navigation."

For nine months the three labored on the preparations for the trip.
Riley cut his way through the plastic cage surrounding the big ship,
tore it down piece by piece and rebuilt it. When he was through he was
satisfied that he knew the workings of the jet engines, the oxygen
equipment, the generators, the controls and all other parts of the ship.

[Illustration: For months they labored on preparations for the trip to
Venus.]

From a book on aeronautics he designed and rigged a training device in
which all three spent many hours under simulated flying conditions,
learning to handle the controls. While most of the actual flying would
be done by an automek pilot, it was important that they know how to
handle the ship during take-off and landing and for emergency purposes.

As a part of their education John Ward insisted that they all become
familiar with the use of weapons. From one of the museum exhibits he
took seven guns, handling explosive atomic charges, and they spent an
hour each day firing the weapons at improvised targets.

"No telling what we'll find on Venus," Ward said grimly. "If we get
there."

It hurt the little man's vanity that Sue developed into a better shot
than he did. Riley didn't care. He was much too fascinated by the ship
and its intricate workings to worry about who could handle the guns
the best. In fact, he was a little proud of the facility that Sue
developed. And as a cook, he told her that she was better than the
automeks.

Food was a problem. It was straining the resources of the city to
supply the population with enough to eat, but eventually they managed
to obtain sufficient staples for the trip. They estimated they would be
gone two years.

On the other hand, fuel was easy to get. A half dozen trips by Riley
and Ward to the World Express Station provided them with a thousand
oxy-hydro bricks, which they stacked in the fuel compartment of
the ship. These bricks vaporized at a temperature of one hundred
twenty-five degrees, Centigrade, and the vapors were exploded under
pressure.

On a moonless night, July 16, 2882, the preparations were complete.
Riley and Ward, working from float belts, burned out the museum ceiling
over the Wilpinham Rocket. They fastened seventy belts to the ship, bow
and stern, and coupled them magnetically to the ship's batteries.

Ward took the pilot's seat, Riley stood by the engines and Sue rounded
out the crew of three.

"Let 'er go," Ward ordered softly.

Riley threw the switch to the batteries and the hundred and fifty feet
of ship began rising slowly through the hole in the ceiling, floated by
the belts. Straight up, a thousand feet in the air, it rose.

"Heat the engines," Ward ordered.

Riley snapped the heater shut on an oxy-hydro brick and turned on
the electric unit. With his eye glued to the gauge he watched the
temperature rise to one hundred twenty-five degrees. The pressure of
the gases increased rapidly.

"She's heated," Riley yelled.

John Ward opened the throttle. The Wilpinham Rocket lurched slightly
and began to move. Ward's fingers gingerly touched the controls
again, and the Rocket blasted away through the starlit night into the
stratosphere.

Riley grabbed Sue's hand and danced a couple of steps.

"We're off!"

Ward glanced around with a brief, sardonic grin.

"Better get busy with your navigation. And Sue, you start cooking. I'm
hungry already."




                               CHAPTER V

                        _The Cycle of Progress_


Riley Ashton's journal, which is now preserved in the archives of the
American City Museum, is a comprehensive and eloquent account of this
pioneer trip to Venus.

In one place he wrote, "There is little doubt that ours was the first
space ship to land on this planet." He was probably referring to the
earlier attempts by Rufus Smith, Billy Fenton, and others to reach
Venus.

And again, "It rains most of the time, varying in intensity from what
is scarcely more than a mist to torrential outbursts. During the latter
it is impossible to travel, because of poor visibility.

"Even in the brief intervals when there is no precipitation it is
difficult to see more than a few hundred feet because the only light
we have is that which is filtered through the dense clouds perpetually
blanketing the planet. We live in a continual semi-twilight."

On the sixth day (earth time) after they landed on Venus, he recorded
with elation, "We have found our mosquitoes. Or perhaps it is better to
say that they found us. The rains ceased for several hours, and we were
thus enabled to penetrate the jungle for some miles beyond our former
exploratory trips.

"John, as usual, was leading with Sue behind him and I brought up the
rear. We came out into a large, swampy clearing. The water was covered
by a steaming grayish scum. By this time we were wading up to our knees.

"Almost immediately after we entered the swamp, swarm upon swarm of
winged insects, millions of them, rose from the scum and attacked
us. The hum of their wings was very audible. They settled over us
like a winged blanket and began drilling with their vicious, little,
needle-like mouths.

"I struck out at them futilely. At the same time I was filled with a
great sense of elation. These insects were what we had come to Venus
to catch.

"John stumbled and splashed to my side. His face was already beginning
to swell from the numerous bites.

"'Ought to get out of here,' he said. 'Come back when we're better
prepared.'

"We retreated through the rank jungle. The vicious little insects
followed us for several hundred yards before we were released from
their torture.

"Strictly speaking, they are not the same insect which was known as a
mosquito on Earth and which is now extinct, but I should think they
would serve my purpose admirably. I feel certain that they are much
more vicious than any real mosquito ever was."

Riley also relates in his journal how Sue Ward was stricken with fever,
unquestionably brought on by the poison injected by the mosquito-like
insects. Fortunately by that time they had collected about as many
of the insects as they could take care of, and began immediate
preparations for their return to the earth.

Riley wrote in his journal that he was certain Sue would not live
unless they could get her away from the fetid Venusian climate. She was
desperately ill.

"It was then," he stated naively, "that I learned how much I truly
loved Sue Ward--how much she meant to me. I felt that if she were to
die nothing else would ever matter to me again."

       *       *       *       *       *

But when they were ready to take off he discovered that the linings on
two of the port tubes were burned out. Matter-of-factly he told how he
worked for sixty-eight hours without sleep repairing the damaged tubes.

Once they were again under way, Riley divided his time between handling
the engines, nursing Sue and caring for his insects. Within a week
the girl was well on the way to recovery from her fever. As for the
insects, they thrived on Riley's attention. He kept them well fed and
watered, and over the cages he placed a high frequency oscillator,
showering them with the vibrations.

"To kill the disease germs," he explained to Ward. "It won't hurt my
little pets and it won't keep them from biting as viciously as ever."

February 4, 2884, is a memorable date. On that day, Riley Ashton
released insect pests on an indolent world that had not known such
things for hundreds of years. Before they landed Ward cruised the
Rocket over the American continent.

Riley turned loose well over a million of the mosquito-like insects
to breed and bite and make a nuisance of themselves. He turned loose
an extra load over American City, and kept out a few dozen for
experimental purposes. These he put in a box which he slipped inside
his tunic.

Ward carefully lowered the ship once again into its berth in the
American City Museum.

"I didn't get to see nearly enough of Venus," he said thoughtfully. He
fingered his mustache and watched Riley with a curious expression in
his eyes. Then, he blurted out, "I'm going back. Are you going with me?"

"Why, of course," Riley said in surprise. "That's what I've been
planning, just as soon as we can make some revisions in our equipment.
We didn't even start in to examine that planet. First, I've got to go
home to see my folks. When I get back we'll commence our preparations
for the next trip."

While he was strapping on his float belt Sue was watching him. Abruptly
he leaned over and kissed her.

"And another thing. Before we go back," he continued, "you and I are
going to get married."

Before Sue could say anything he was gone down the hall and out the
door.

"Well--he didn't even wait for my answer," the girl said.

John Ward laughed.

"Didn't need to, the way you kissed him. He's a great guy."

Mr. Ashton, Mrs. Ashton, and Aunt Betty were listening to some music by
the American City Telecasting Station when Riley entered the door. He
yelled to announce his arrival and grabbed his mother about the waist.

"Sh!" Mr. Ashton said. "This is an excellent program."

       *       *       *       *       *

Aunt Betty's double chins quivered. "Riley, you should show more
consideration for others. You make so much noise. Children, these
days," Aunt Betty complained, "don't have the proper respect for their
elders."

"Don't you realize that I've been gone for nearly two years?" Riley
shouted, setting his mother down.

Mrs. Ashton smoothed her hair.

"So you have. Did you enjoy yourself, dear?"

Riley stood in the middle of the room and yelled.

"I've been to Venus."

"Riley," said Mr. Ashton sternly, "do you have to shout so loud?"

"Venus? _Venus?_" Aunt Betty shook her head. "I don't think I've been
there." She remained a few seconds in thought and then looked up
brightly. "Have the automeks in Venus City quit?"

Riley didn't answer. He went to the other side of the room, where his
movements couldn't be seen, and took the box of insects from his tunic.
He opened the box, watched them hum merrily out and then sat back to
await developments.

After a moment Aunt Betty waved her hand briskly in front of her eyes.
A moment later, Mr. Ashton slapped viciously at the top of his bald
head.

"Drat!" he said.

Mrs. Ashton stared at the buzzing little pests.

"What are those things?"

"Some pets I brought back from Venus," Riley said.

"If they have those things there," commented Aunt Betty, waving her
hand futilely, "I'm never going to Venus."

Mrs. Ashton looked pitifully at Riley.

"Riley, how could you?"

An insect was drilling a hole in Aunt Betty's elbow. As she watched it
two big tears began to trickle down her fat cheeks. Finally she could
endure the drilling no longer and she made a half-hearted and wholly
ineffectual swat at the insect.

"Drat!" Mr. Ashton slapped his bald head once more, but missed his
tormentor.

For fully thirty minutes the music of the telecast was punctuated by
the steadily increasing number of slaps, each one of which was more
violent than the preceding one. Riley sat and waited patiently.

"They're hard to hit," said Mr. Ashton at last.

He managed to stand it for another ten minutes and then abruptly
switched on his float belt and disappeared from the room. From the
rear of the house came a great pounding and ripping, and an occasional
vehement, "Drat!"

This continued for nearly an hour. When he returned to the room he was
carrying in his hand a makeshift swatter, with which he began pursuing
the insects about the room. Finally, he caught and killed one.

"_There!_" said Mr. Ashton with a satisfied smirk. "I guess that's the
way to fix them." He held up his swatter proudly for all to see.

To Riley's knowledge the swatter was the first thing Mr. Ashton had
made during his entire life. It was a triumph for Riley.

The television screen glowed. In it appeared the images of a number of
the Committee members, including Mr. Waine. Mr. Ashton paused in his
complacent contemplation of the swatter.

"We're not supposed to have a Committee meeting today."

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Waine made an awkward slap at something on his leg before answering.

"Special meeting, Charley," he said grimly. "Something came up."

"What?"

Mr. Waine slapped again.

"These--these things, whatever they are. They're eating us alive."

"Oh!" Mr. Ashton beamed suddenly, and held up his swatter. "You need
one of these. I'll show you."

He began to chase one of the mosquito-like insects around the room,
while the Committee members watched in bewilderment. Finally Mr. Ashton
caught and killed another insect.

"There!" he cried triumphantly. "See. That's the way to fix them."

"Where did you get that gadget?" Mr. Waine asked.

"Made it."

"You _made_ it?"

Mr. Ashton glowed at the tone of Mr. Waine's exclamation. He held up
the swatter again.

"I made it," he repeated and added confidingly, "it was fun. You can
really smack 'em down with this."

"How long did it take you to make it?" asked one of the other members.

"It didn't take long," Mr. Ashton said with even more satisfaction.
"Not even an hour, did it?" He appealed to Mrs. Ashton.

"Will you make one for me?" Mr. Waine pleaded.

"And me. And me," the other members echoed.

Mr. Ashton hesitated.

"Well, I--I don't know."

Riley interrupted in a low voice.

"Make a trade with them."

"A trade?"

"Sure. You don't like being on the Committee, do you?"

"Oh!" Mr. Ashton understood suddenly. He turned to the television
screen. "Tell you what, Waine. You arrange it so I don't have to serve
on the Committee and I'll make one for you."

Mr. Waine was electrified by inspiration. He held up his hand for
silence.

"I've just thought of something," he announced importantly. "Everyone's
going to need one of those things, what with these--these--" he waved
his hand helplessly, at a loss for a word to describe the mosquito-like
insects. "Anyway, everyone's going to want one. Let's all make them and
trade them to the other citizens. Then, won't any of us have to be on
the Committee."

"Excellent. A splendid idea," Mr. Ashton chortled. And the other
members echoed, "Excellent. Splendid."

"I invented it," Mr. Ashton said. "I'll run the organization. We'll
call it--let's see--we'll call it the Ashton Swatter Company. ASC for
short."

"Excellent," said the members. "Splendid."

       *       *       *       *       *

Riley got up and stretched slowly. He could see that the cycle of
progress could be made to swing once again toward a workaday world. A
new company, made up of human members, had been established.

They would be making something which no automek had been set up to
make. There would be other companies formed once other people got the
idea. Here was something they could trade for something they wanted.
Trading and then business would sweep the world again.

Mrs. Ashton stopped laughing long enough to look at her son.

"Going somewhere, Riley?"

"Yes," said Riley. "I've got a date on Venus. What the world needs is
about ten billion more mosquitoes or a reasonable facsimile thereof."