Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe Aug-Sept 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
[_Time-travel continues to exercise its mesmeric fascination upon writers, readers and editors of science fiction alike. Probably because almost all of us, at one time or another, have longed greatly to visit either the future or the past. Perhaps, in view of the dangerous paradoxes such travel must involve, it is a good thing that such horological journeys have to date been confined to the printed page._]
the house from nowhere
_by ... Arthur G. Stangland_
New neighbors are always exciting. But the anachronistic MacDonalds offered a bit too much.
* * * * *
The morning paper lay unread before Philon Miller on the breakfasttable and even the prospects of steaming coffee, ham, eggs and orangejuice could not make him forget his last night's visitors.
On the closed-circuit Industrial TV screen glowed the words, _FoodPreparation Center breakfast menu for July 24, 2052. No. 1, orangejuice, coffee, ham and eggs. No. 2, waffle, coffee...._
Automatically he punched the button for _No. 1_. Oh, his visitors hadmade matters appear justifiable. The presidential election campaignwas going badly, Rakoff the chairman said, and his poll-quota for theelection had been upped from twenty-five grand to fifty.
A stainless-steel capsule popped into the transparent wall dock. Ofcourse the party quota system was taken for granted, he mused,removing the capsule, but it was an obligation you didn't welsh on.The muscle boys in the party organization saw to that. But still,fifty thousand....
Across the table John, his sixteen-year-old adopted son, stirred. "Iguess you aren't as hungry as I am, Phil."
"What? Oh, sorry." John--down here for breakfast? What was thematter? The kid sick or something? Every morning he took his meal tohis room to eat in solitude. Funny kid.
Philon removed the food capsule from the wall dock, stopping the softgushing of air in the suction tube. Setting it on the table he snappedit open and removed the individual thermocels of food.
Philon poured coffee from the thermos and absently stirred in creamand sugar. Fifty thousand....
John was well into his breakfast already. "Phil, I was down to visitthose people on the corner--you know, the house that appeared thereover-night."
"Um."
"Their name is MacDonald," John said. "And they have a son, Jimmie,just my age, and a younger girl, Jean. Gosh, you ought to see theinside of their house, Phil. Old-fashioned! At the windows they gotsomething called venetian blinds instead of our variable mirrorthermopanes. And you know what? They don't even have an FP connection.They prepare all their meals in the house!"
John's excitement finally aroused Philon's attention. "No FoodPreparation service? But that's unheard of!"
"They're sure swell people though."
"Where in the world did they come from?" Philon poured more coffee.
"Some place out West--Oregon, I think. Lived in a small town."
"How come their house appeared over-night?"
"Yeah, I asked them about that," John said. "They said their house isa prefab and it was cheaper to move it from Oregon than to buy onehere. So they moved in one night--lock, stock and barrel."
John looked at Philon with a tentative air. "And another thing--Jimmieand Jean are their real children."
Philon began to frown in disgust. "Real children--how vulgar! No onedoes that anymore. That custom went out years ago with the Eugenic Actof two thousand twenty-nine. Breeding perfect children is the job ofselected specimens. Why, I remember the day we passed our check overto Maternity Clinic! You were the best specimen in the place--and youcarried the highest price tag too--ten thousand dollars!"
At that moment Ursula, his wife, her green rinse tumbling in stringytufts over her forehead pattered into the breakfast room. Her righteye was closed in a tight squint against her cigarette smoke.
"Well, do I get my share of breakfast," she muttered, "or do I have toscrabble at the trough like the rest of the hogs around here?"
Philon nodded at a third thermocel in the capsule. "That's yours,Ursula." He fixed her with a cocked eye. "What time did that gigologet you home this morning?"
Ursula blew the hair out of her eyes, then took a good look at herhusband. "Why all the sudden concern about my affairs? I feel likegoing to the Cairo I call up Francois. He dances divinely. I feel likemaking love I call up Jose...." She shrugged. "So, I say, why thesudden concern? All these years you say nothing. Every minute awayfrom home you're involved in big deals to make money, stealmoney--maybe even eat it."
He looked at her cryptically. "I've got to raise a fifty-grand quota."
Without even looking up from her breakfast Ursula said absently, "Oh,that. It _is_ election year again, isn't it?"
"And I'll have to ask you to cancel all unnecessary expenditures forthe time being."
She shook her head. "Can't--I've already reserved _Love's Passion_ forthis afternoon and a whole block of titles for three months."
Philon compressed his mouth, then practically blew the words at her."Damn it, Ursula, you're spending too much time psycho-dreaming thesecheap plays. You know the psychiatrist has warned you to lay off them.Stimulates your endocrine system too much. No wonder you live onsleeping pills."
"Oh, shut up!" She stared at him, the anger in her tugging at herloose mouth. "If I feel like a psychoplay I'm going to have me apsychoplay. It's the only stimulation I get any more."
Muttering, "T'hell with it!" Philon got up from the table and walkedinto the living room. Slipping into his gray top coat and hat heascended to the copter roofport.
Before stepping into the copter seat he paused to study the MacDonaldhouse on the corner. Odd-looking house at that. Mid-twentieth century,yet it looked brand new.
Then, putting the house out of mind, Philon shot his copter skywardand joined Skyway No. 7 traffic into town.
Descending on his office building he left the ship in care of theparking attendant and by elevator dropped to his floor. At a doormarked _Miller Electronic Manufacturing Co._ he walked in.
In his office he slouched into his chair and stared at the smallcalendar on his desk. Rakoff wanted the fifty-thousand before RoyalPastel Mink Monday. One week--that wasn't very much time.
Flinching from the unpleasant problem, he stared at the city skyline,his mind drifting lazily. He thought about Royal Pastel Mink Monday.Some said it was just another Day dreamed up by furriers to makepeople fur-conscious. Others said it commemorated a period of greatpublic indifference which cost large numbers their freedom to vote.
Of course the other party had their symbology too--like the TeapotCelebration. No one seemed to know for sure what it meant. Anyway, whyworry how they started? Why did people knock on wood for luck--orthrow salt over their left shoulder?
But then once in awhile there arose some who spelled out a strangelonely cry, calling themselves the conscience of the people. Theyspoke sternly of the thin moral fiber of the country, berating thepeople for what they called their amoral evolution brought on byindifference and negligence until they no longer could hear the stillguiding voice of their conscience. But they were scornfully laugheddown and it seemed to Philon he heard less and less of these men.
In the late afternoon a whip from party headquarters dropped in."Hello, Feisel," Philon said with little enthusiasm for theswarthy-faced man.
With
out even the formality of a greeting Feisel smiled down at Philonin a half-sneer. "Well, Philon, how we doin' with the fifty grand,eh?"
Philon tossed a sheaf of papers on the desk with a gesture ofimpatience. "Now look, I'll raise the fifty G's by the end of theweek."
Feisel lifted a thin black eyebrow and shrugged elaborately. "Justinquiring, my friend, just inquiring. You know--just showing friendlyinterest."
"Well, go peddle your papers to somebody else. You make me nervous."
Feisel sniffed with injured pride. "That's gratitude for you. And justwhen I was going to put a little bee in your bonnet. I thought you'dlike to know what happened to another guy just like you. You see, hegot ideas, instead of digging to get his quota. He tried to lam outand you know where they
The House from Nowhere Page 1
