Towers of Utopia. Mack Reynolds

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      Barry shook and said, “Good morning, Abernathy.” Was there the faintest of frowns present, in view of the fact that he hadn’t mistered the flunky? The hell with it.

      Barry said, “Miss Cusack tells me that Mr. Vanderfeller wanted me to drop by.”

      “Yes, that is correct,” the other said stiffly, reseating himself. “He told me to summon you.”

      Summon him, yet. Barry Ten Eyck was not directly under the authority of Cyril Vanderfeller, although Vanderfeller and Moore Construction owned the Shyler-deme complex. However, nobody with good sense and desire for advancement earned the enmity of a Vanderfeller.

      “Let’s go,” Barry said. Damn it, was this going to take all day? He had plenty to do.

      Abernathy ignored that and turned to a desk phone screen into which he spoke softly. Finally, he stood. “Mr. Vanderfeller is in his escape-sanctum,” he said loftily, and then led the way.

      Barry had been through this before on several occasions, but the rigmarole didn’t improve with age.

      They finally stood before a huge double door. There was no identity screen evident upon it, but undoubtedly a micro-spy lens was somewhere located in the hand engraved woodwork. The door looked as though it had once graced the home of some medieval Florentine but to Barry Ten Eyck’s jaundiced eye it was as out of place in this ultra-modern decor as a walrus in a goldfish bowl.

      The door smoothed open and they stepped through into what would seem a quarter acre of Victorian-era library. From past experience, Barry knew the books were real, largely first editions or other rarities, and largely not only unread but uncut.

      Cyril Vanderfeller, somewhere in his late fifties, stood by one monstrous window looking out over the extent of Phoenecia, the three other demes rearing to approximately the same hundred and ten floors boasted by Schyler-deme. The term deme had been taken from the old Greek, the unit which made up the city of Athens as reconstituted by Solon. They were set in almost an exact square, roughly a square mile of wooded and grassed areas about each and with another approximate square mile of Common land and buildings in the middle. There was an excellent view of the golf course from here, Barry knew.

      Cyril Vanderfeller turned. He affected a “hail fellow well met” air, dressed with great informality and kept his face and form appearing, at least, in the best of health.

      “Barry!” he said in warmth. “Long time, no see, my good fellow.” He advanced with his hand out.

      Barry shook and said, “Good morning, Mr. Vanderfeller.”

      The older man took his place behind an ornate wooden desk, barren of course of any phone screens in view of the fact that this was an escape-sanctum. He had gestured to a nearby straight chair although the room was amply provided with comfort chairs. The secretary remained standing and kept his trap shut in the presence.

      Vanderfeller put the tips of his fingers together, leaned his elbows on the desk, very businesslike. “My time, of course, is limited, Barry, so I’ll come immediately to the point.”

      “Yes, sir.” Barry’s own time, evidently, was meaningless compared to that of the tycoon. Well, maybe the other was right. He probably could have bought or sold all the pseudo-city of Phoenecia out of petty cash.

      “My boy, I’m on an informal tour of our demes in my capacity as a member of the board. Sort of a quick check-up, you understand. I’ll be here only a day or two. However, Abernathy and I have been checking out your administration of Shyler-deme. I was somewhat surprised to note that income from all sources has dropped below the half million a week level.”

      Barry Ten Eyck nodded. “Yes, sir. For the first time last week.”

      “Why?”

      “Occupancy has fallen off, sir. At present four thousand and fifty-two apartments, ranging from mini-apartments to duplexes with as many as twenty rooms, are occupied, but that is barely enough to make our breakeven point through our maintenance fees and our sales and services to them.”

      Vanderfeller looked at him severely. “My dear boy, when this deme was opened, approximately eight and a half years ago, every apartment was speedily taken. In fact, some of the residents had been waiting for six months or more to move in. Do you mean to tell me that nearly a fifth of them have tired of their homes—their own homes—and simply moved out?”

      Barry said unhappily, “It’s not a unique phenomenon, Mr. Vanderfeller, as you must know. Most of the empty apartments are owned by people on NIT, and there’s a high level of ne’r-do-wells and weirds among those whose only source of income is Negative Income Tax.”

      Vanderfeller maintained his severe expression.

      Barry recrossed his long legs. “Sir, as you know, when the Asian War ended, several things came to a head. There was a danger of economic collapse, since, if we admitted it or not, the economy since the Hitler War had largely been based on war or the threat of war. By that time we were spending more than a hundred billion a year directly or indirectly on the military. You couldn’t simply pull that big a prop out from under without substituting another one. At the same time automation, the computer economy, hit with a vengeance. All of a sudden there was precious little need for employees in the primary labor fields.”

      “Yes, yes,” Vanderfeller said impatiently.

      Barry went on doggedly. “That’s where Negative Income Tax came in. Oh, they had other names for it, such as Guaranteed Annual Wage or even Incentive Income Supplement, but what it actually amounted to was a dole and it wasn’t all philanthropic. It kept consumer buying up and the economy needed that badly. But NIT wasn’t enough to keep the economy booming. Something was needed to take the place of war industries. Mass construction was the answer and it fit in with other problems, such as the falling apart of the cities, air and water pollution, slums and ghettos and so forth. So the government embarked on the biggest home construction and highway development—most of it underground—in history. Every person was guaranteed a residence, be it a house, an apartment, or a mobile home. Every citizen now has a right, once in his life, to obtain a home. The government ponies up the entire amount and then, over a period of thirty years, deducts it from the citizen’s credit balance automatically through the National Bank computers.”

      “Of course, of course,” the older man said testily. “A corporation such as Vanderfeller and Moore is granted an appropriate sum to build a deme such as Shyler-deme, some five thousand apartments of varying size. The price will range anywhere from one to two hundred million. The average apartment sells for forty thousand, thus paying for the building, eventually. The complex remains in the hands of the corporation and the profit is made by selling commodities and services to the tenants who are what amounts to a captive pool of customers. They buy almost all of their food, their clothing and their other necessities through the ultra-markets in the underground areas of the deme. They rent their electro-steamers from our car pool, they pay for their entertainments such as theatres, sport spectacles, nightclubs, auto-bars, swimming pools. They have literally scores of ways provided for spending their income, be it government NIT, or earned salaries, or dividend income. But what has all this got to do with the drop off in tenancy, my boy?”

      Barry said, “Sir, they simply don’t care enough about their apartments to give a damn, if the urge hits them to move. You seldom appreciate something you haven’t put anything of yourself into. Theoretically these people own their apartments and are paying for them, but in actuality they never see the СКАЧАТЬ