Illustrated by Kelly FreasWASTE NOT, WANT
with it. Be a good little consumer, or the
cops will get you.... For such is the law of supply and demand!
BY DAVE DRYFOOS
Panic roused him—the blackimp of panic that lived underthe garish rug of this unfamiliarroom and crawled out at dawn tonudge him awake and stare fromthe blank space to his left whereTillie's gray head should havebeen.
His fists clenched in anger—athimself. He'd never been the sortto make allowance for his ownweakness and didn't propose to begindoing so now, at age eighty-six.Tillie'd been killed in thatcrash well over a year ago and itwas time he got used to his widowerhoodand quit searching forher every morning.
But even after he gave himselfthe bawling out, orientation cameslowly. The surroundings lookedso strange. No matter what he toldhimself it was hard to believe thathe was indeed Fred Lubway, mechanicalengineer, and had a rightto be in this single bed, alone inthis house his Tillie had neverseen.
The right to be there was allwrong. He disliked the house andhated all its furnishings.
The cybernetic cooker in thekitchen; the magnetically-suspendeddivans in the living room;the three-dimensional color broadcastshe could so readily projectto any wall or ceiling; the solartropicmachinery that would turnany face of the pentagonal houseinto the sun or the shade or thebreeze; the lift that would raisethe entire building a hundred feetinto the air to give him a widerview and more privacy—all lefthim dissatisfied.
They were new. None had beenshared with Tillie. He used themonly to the extent required by lawto fulfill his duty as a consumer.
"You must change your homebecause of the change in your familycomposition," the RationBoard's bright young female hadexplained, right after Tillie's funeral."Your present furnishingsare obsolete. You must replacethem."
"And if I don't?" He'd beentruculent.
"I doubt we'd have to invokethe penalties for criminal underconsumption,"she'd explainedairily. "There are plenty of otherpossible courses of action. Maybewe'd just get a decision that you'reprematurely senile and unable tocare for yourself. Then you'd goto a home for the aged wherethey'd help you consume—withforced feedings and such."
So here he was, in this home-of-his-ownthat seemed to belongto someone else. Well, at least hewasn't senile, even if he did movea little slowly, now, getting out ofbed. He'd warm up soon. All byhimself. With no one's help.
And as far as these newfangledgadgets in the bathroom were concerned,he could follow any well-writtenset of directions. He'dscalded himself that time only becausethe printed instructionswere so confusing.
He took a cold shower this time.
When the airtowel had finishedblowing and he was half dry—notwholly dry because the machinewasn't adapted to peoplewho took ice-cold showers—hewent in to the clothing machine.He punched the same few holesin its tape that he put there everyday, stood in the right place, andin due course emerged with hislong, rawboned frame covered bymagenta tights having an excessivelybaggy seat.
He knew the costume wasneither pretty nor fashionable andthat its design, having been whollywithin his control when he punchedthe tape, revealed both his tasteand his mood. He didn't care;there was no one in the worldwhom he want