The serving android was making harsh scraping sounds now. It had stopped by the bed of a small quiet old man. The man was flat on his back, not moving, breathing softly through his mouth. His hair was long and fine and his skin was a transparent blue-white. “Good morning. Have a happy day,” said the android, propping the old man up and spoonfeeding him from the cauldron.
“That’s Guttenberg,” said Harrison. “He’s eighty.”
“I bet he doesn’t know who he is either,” said Carlisle.
Penrose watched Harrison finish breakfast. “Is everyone sick here?”
“No,” said Harrison. “You must know all about the Senior Citizens’ Terminals. Think about it.”
Penrose leaned back against the metal head rest. “The Senior Citizens’ Terminals,” he said, “are under the jurisdiction of the United States Welfare Squad. And are free to all. The problem of the aged is at a stage of solution never before known. Nearly one hundred old-timers are collected each month in each terminal. Because of the Welfare Squad these old folks can live out their golden days without fear of burdening their friends and relations.” Now that he thought about it Penrose realized he knew a lot about the terminals. But he didn’t know why he was here.
“You’re doing excellently,” said old Harrison. “Do you recall the recruiting part of this setup?”
“Stop now,” said Carlisle. “I’m trying to recollect who I really am and your talk is unsettling to me.”
“You’re Carlisle,” said Harrison. “A retired data processor.”
“No, I’m not,” said the heavy old man. “I’m a spry young fellow with a name that starts with W.”
“About recruiting,” Harrison said to Penrose.
Penrose concentrated. “It is the function of the Welfare Squad to recruit at least a minimum quota of old folks each collection period. Those old timers who are not reclaimed in thirty days are then processed at no extra cost.”
“Quit,” called out Carlisle. “I don’t want to hear about that.”
“He’s been here twenty-eight days,” said Harrison.
The fifth man in the room stood up on top of his cot. He was small with straight-standing white hair and black pockets under his pale eyes.
He said.
“That’s Remmeroy,” said Harrison. “He gets processed next week.”
Remmeroy’s bed was suddenly pulled out from under him and slid back into the gray metal wall. The old man thunked to the floor.
Harrison swung out of his cot just as it shot away and he caught Penrose up and out of his. “We arise abruptly in this place.”
The serving android opened a panel in the wall and buzzed out of the room. “Have a happy day.”
The big blond recreational android joggled Penrose by the shoulder. “No wool gathering, Fowler. This is letter-writing time.”
Penrose had almost remembered something important. “I’m not Fowler,” he said.
The second joggle was harsher. “Letter writing time, pops.”
“Sorry,” he said. He picked up the speaker tube of the lap letteriter. The andy moved on and Penrose dictated, “To whom it may concern. I still don’t know what I’m doing here. I am confused and depressed.”
The letteriter jumped out of his lap and began bouncing on the floor, making a bleating sound. “Negative, negative.”
The blond andy was at his shoulder again. “Fowler, you’re not doing so good today.”
“I guess not.”
“You guess? Gramps, you know not. Now I want you to speak a nice pleasant letter. Get me?”
“Yes, sir.” The letteriter crawled up his left leg and settled into his lap, nudging him sharply in the groin. “I’m not sure,” said Penrose, “who it is I’m writing to.”
“The therapy,” said the blond android, “is in the act and is not involved with the recipient at all.”
“Hello, everybody,” dictated Penrose. “I’m having a great time here.” He felt the android’s grip lessen. “I’m having a happy day.” The hand was lifted away but Penrose kept saying cheerful things.
Carlisle was having trouble. “I’m trying to communicate with my girl friend,” he told the rec andy. “Her name begins with an F or an S.”
“Just say you’re fond of her,” answered the android.
“I am, I am,” said Carlisle. “I can’t start off the letter with ‘Dear F or S.’ You see?”
“Start.”
“Sweetheart,” said Carlisle into his tube.
Remmeroy used his letteriter standing up. He was hunched in a corner with it under his arm.
“That’s right,” said the passing android, “keep it cheerful.”
Guttenberg, his hands limp at his sides, was propped in a chair. “Come on, gramps,” said the android. “Talk. Send off something friendly to your loved ones.”
Penrose turned to Harrison, who was sitting next to him, his letter writing done. “Why don’t they leave Guttenberg alone? He can’t even speak, can he?”
“No,” said Harrison.
“It doesn’t make sense.”
“Not efficient, is it?”
Penrose hesitated. “The Welfare Squad has an able and qualified staff of checkers, the Efficiency Detail. It is their duty to make a thorough inspection periodically of each and every Senior Citizens’ Terminal.”
“Yes, that’s true,” said Harrison.
“Of course,” said Penrose, “fellows in the Efficiency Detail are overworked and underpaid. Sometimes they can’t be as thorough as they’d like to be.”
The recreational andy held the speaker up near Guttenberg’s mouth. “A ten-word message, pops. You can do that much. Come on.”
“Can’t we stop him?” Penrose asked.
“He turns off automatically when the recreation period ends. Guttenberg is able to hold out till then.”
“This happens every day?”
Harrison nodded.
“Therapy time,” announced a crisp voice from the wall.
The blond android let go of Guttenberg.
The therapist was shaped like a portable safe and had a gun-metal finish.
“Now,” said Penrose when it was his turn, “this is going to sound odd to you.”
“Not at all, Mr. Fowler,” said the metal box in a warm voice.
Penrose fidgeted on the armchair that had come up through the floor. “First off, I’m not Fowler. I’m Penrose. Now, here’s the situation as I see it. Let me, by the way, apologize for being vague in some of the details. I realize now that I’ve probably been given some kind of medication. Look,” he said, rolling up the sleeve of his tan shirt, “you can’t help but see the needle marks, several of them. And some in my backside, too. While I appreciate the smooth efficient way I was given medical aid I have to say I’m disturbed that I haven’t snapped out of it better.”
“Yes, of course, Mr. Fowler,” said the therapist.
“No, I’m not Fowler. Let’s skip that for a minute. I think I had some sort of accident or something and was taken maybe to the nearest hospital. Fine. However, there seems to be a mistake being made. I’m not this Fowler. In fact, you can see that I’m not even old. I’m not a senior citizen. It’s hardly efficient, is it? To keep me on here.”