The assembled gentlemen smiled the sort of smiles acquired at poker tables and board meetings.
“A more important question might be,” said a red-faced man with a clipped white mustache, “can you get the analogue facilities? I thought that was all owned by the government.”
“No, Colonel,” said the chairman, “I believe you will find that the Kusko Psychiatric Institute is a private, non-profit institution, licensed and subsidized by the government. The use of the analogue facilities is controlled by statute, but it is an interesting fact that according to the law, anyone can get analogue treatment, for a fee, to prevent him from doing anything he does not wish to do, except of course for legally compulsory acts. Gentlemen—”
He spread his hands. “I have too much respect for your intelligence to belabor the obvious to you. Let me be brutally frank. There it is. If we don’t take it first, somebody else will.”
2130: INSIDE the multiple carapace formed by his two thin undershirts, the heavier, weighted stole, young Arthur Bass itched intolerably.
Sweat trickled down his ribs across the exact focus of the itch, not relieving it but coaxing it to still greater virulence. Bass clenched his teeth and stared rigidly out across the massed hats of the Sunday crowd. Under the cod-like eye of Senior Salesman Leggett, he dared not scratch, wriggle or even change his expression.
Cursing himself silently for the frailty of his flesh, he waited until Leggett had done with his customer, then entered the amount of the last purchase on his machine, totaled it, and tore off the itemized tab, together with the customer’s credit card. The customer, a jaundiced, shriveled little woman, thrust out a liver-spotted hand for them, but Leggett’s voice stopped her.
“There is still time to alter your purchase, madam. This sweater”—he pointed to the image on the screen behind him —“is acceptable enough, I grant you, but this one— (thirty-seven-oh-nine-five, Bass, quickly)—is guaranteed to wear out in half the time.”
Bass relaxed, sweating harder, having managed to finish punching the code just as Leggett ended his sentence. The customer stared timidly at the flimsy, bright-pink garment that was now displayed on the screen, and said something totally inaudible.
“You’ll take it, then,” said Leggett. “Splendid. Bass, if you please—”
“No,” the customer said in a louder voice, “I can’t, Salesman. I jist can’t. ‘V go m’ worshing-machine payments to make, and m’ houserent’s due, and m’ husband’s been crippled up with’s back all this month. And I can’t.”
Leggett achieved a noteworthy sneer simply by exposing an additional eighth of an inch of his rabbity incisors. “I understand perfectly, madam,” he said. “There is no need to explain to me.” His cold eye raked her and passed on. “Next!”
Crushed, the little woman turned away without seeing the tab and credit card that Bass held out to her, and he had to lean down from his platform and press them into her hand. In the process, as stole and jacket swung away from his body, he plunged his free hand under them and raked his nails across his short ribs, once, twice, before he straightened again.
The relief was exquisite.
The next customer was a stout man in a plain unquilted jacket and breeches, with not more than a half-dozen bangles at his wrist. Beside him, as he climbed up to the dais below Leggett, was a moon-faced boy of about eleven, dressed in blouse and knee-breeches so much too small for him that he could barely move.
“Onward, Salesman,” the fat man wheezed. “It’s my boy Tom, come to get his first suit of man’s clothes.”
“Onward. High time, too, I should say,” Leggett rejoined frostily. “How old is the boy?”
“Just ten, Salesman. Big for his age.” Leggett’s glance visibly congealed. “How long since his birthday?”
“He’s just ten, Salesman, hardly past it.”
“How long?”
The fat man blinked uneasily. “Just a few weeks, Salesman. It’s the first chance I’ve had to bring him in, Salesman, I swear to you.”
Leggett made a sound of disgust and glanced at Bass. “Seventeen-eight-oh-one,” he said.
BASS, who knew his superior, had the number almost before Leggett finished. The item which now appeared on the screen was the most expensive boys’ intermediate suit the Store carried; the fabric showed wear readily, the dye was light in color and not fast, and the stitching was treated to disintegrate after four months, rendering the garments completely useless.
Leggett stared at the man, silently daring him to object.
The customer read the price and licked his lips. “Yes, Salesman,” he said miserably. “That’ll do main well.”
Bass entered the item.
“Ninety-one-two-seven-three,” said Leggett. That was overshirts, of the same quality, in lots of five.
The next item was undershirts, in lots of ten. Then underpants; then socks; then neckscarves; then shoes.
“Step down, Tom,” said the fat man at last, wearily. “Onward, Salesman.”
“A moment,” said Leggett. He leaned forward in his pulpit and affected to peer with sudden interest at the fat man’s magenta overshirt.”
“Your shirt, man, is fading,” he said. “You had better have a dozen new ones. Fifty-three-one-oh-nine, Bass.”
” ‘Scuse me, Salesman,” the fat man said jerkily, “that’ll better wait till next time. I’ve bought so much for the boy, I’ve nothing left to buy for myself.”
Leggett raised one gray eyebrow. “You surprise me,” he said. “Bass, what is the man’s credit balance?”
Bass tapped keys. “One hundred ninety point fifty-three, Salesman Leggett,” he said.
Leggett stared down his nose at the customer. ” ‘Nothing left,’ you said.”
“Two hundred’s legal,” the fat man said, his jowls quivering, “and it’s not even the end of the month yet. I know my rights—you can’t intimidate me—I need that money for expenses. C’mon, Tom.”
A murmur of outrage arose from the crowd. Peering down slantwise without moving his head, Bass could see the fat man and his son descending into a barrage of angry stares.
Despite himself, Bass too was trembling with disgust. The very fatness of the two was unspeakably offensive—the greasy swollen jowls, the necks folding over collars, the barrel thighs. How anyone could get himself into that condition on an orthodox diet, Bass was unable to imagine. They must gorge themselves like squirrels, eating till they choked, storing their wealth up under their skins because they could express their selfishness in no other way. Who did they think they were—Stockholders, perhaps, or Executives?
Leggett was silent, hands folded across his red-and-silver stole, staring down at the two through half-closed eyes. Here and there in the first ranks of the crowd, Bass saw a man or a woman surge abruptly forward with red face and uplifted fist, and as suddenly fall back, listening to angelic voices audible to them alone. If this were the bad old days, he thought, there would be a riot.
The fat man turned at the foot of the dais. “I know my rights,” he said angrily, and held up a balloon-fingered hand. “Give me my card.”
Bass stood motionless, waiting.
Leggett said expressionlessly, “You know your rights, man, but you have not yet learnt your duties. I therefore offer you a choice. Will you appear in Sumptuary Court with your boy and his birth certificate—and explain why you did not equip him with intermediate clothing until he had all but burst out of his last primaries—or will you make this additional purchase for the benefit of your soul? Eleven-five-two-six, Bass.”