When the signal rang, George told the door to answer itself, but the mailbot insisted on a thumbprint signature for the delivery. With a sigh, he was forced to make the extra effort of doing it in person.
“Hello, Mr. J!” said the cheery, buzzing voice of the mailbot. In his metal arms he carried a large crate. “Special delivery for you. Boy, I wonder what it is.”
George pressed his thumb against the scanning plate on the mailbot’s smooth forehead. “Jane!” he called over his shoulder. “What have you been ordering now?”
Jane, his wife, walked up with a bounce in her step. “George, dear, you know I don’t order anything anymore. The catalogs make the purchases all by themselves.”
He frowned. “Well, I certainly didn’t order this.” He stepped aside to make room for the mailbot. “You don’t expect me to carry that heavy thing?”
“Of course not, Mr. J. You can expect service from your postal service.” The mailbot strutted inside and set the crate in the middle of the floor.
Creaking along, Rosie the maidbot wheeled forward, tsking at the condition of the box. “Just look at those smudges and the dust. Very unsanitary.” She bustled about, tidying up the package’s exterior.
George waited for the big crate to open automatically, then realized he would have to do it manually, since the package had no standard automation. He struggled with the flaps and seals. “Whatever it is, we’re not ordering from this company again.”
Inside, he found a sealed envelope (which, again, he had to open by hand) and a sheet of actual paper. Not quite sure what to do, George slipped the paper into a reader and the words spilled out, announcing his name and address and I.D. number in a very official-sounding voice.
“We regret to inform you that your Uncle Asimov has died. These are his personal effects, and you are his only known heir. He has also bequeathed you his property and his home. By accepting his package and reading this letter, you have agreed to the terms of his estate.”
George started to grin at their windfall, but then the letter-reader continued, “Mr. Asimov owed a substantial amount of back taxes and assessments. Your account has been debited to pay off these debts, as well as the delivery fee.”
“Your Uncle Asimov?” Jane asked. “George, dear, isn’t he that crazy old hermit out in the desert?”
“Yes, it was the last place in the country where he could live off the grid. He actually liked that sort of thing.” He looked down to scrutinize the contents of the box, hoping that the value of the items inside would at least pay for the delivery charge. He sneezed.
Rosie wheeled forward like a steel filing drawn to a magnet. “Dust! Real dust! Let me take care of that before you catch some sort of disease.” The maidbot sprayed disinfectant all around the area.
When she was finished, George rummaged around inside the crate. Jane peered over his shoulder. “It’s like a museum in there.”
“Or a junkyard.” George picked up round, cylindrical metal containers, each with a faded label. He realized they were cans of food, preserved chili and soup. He sniffed one of the cans, smelling nothing but old metal. The picture on the label certainly looked unappetizing.
“Why would anybody want this stuff?” Jane asked. “Do you suppose that means Uncle Asimov didn’t even have a food replicator out in the desert?”
“I don’t think he even had electricity, Jane. Maybe not running water, maybe not even a self-cleaning hygiene station.”
The maidbot buzzed her disapproval while Jane shuddered in horror.
Next, he found actual hard copies of books and magazines so old that the paper was brown and crumbly. Underneath those was a stack of yellowed newspapers, wasteful old-fashioned informational devices that were published only once daily, regardless of how often the actual news changed.
George was still digging items out of the crate when his blonde teenage daughter, Judy, and his boy, Elroy, arrived home from the preprogrammed school simulations. Seeing the crate and instantly assuming they had received gifts from someone, Judy let out a delighted shriek, then frowned in disappointment.
George had picked up a pack of a powdery brown substance that smelled vaguely like a cup of coffee from the food replicator, though he couldn’t see how the ground substance could turn itself into coffee. Next to it was a strange contraption, like a pitcher made of metal. He took the pieces apart but couldn’t understand their function.
Boisterous Elroy piped up, “That’s a coffee percolator, Pop! We studied that in ancient history class.”
“A coffee percolator? You mean Uncle Asimov had a special machine just to make coffee?” George held up the filter basket, peering through the tiny holes. “Can it be reprogrammed to do other things?”
“No, Pop. You add the water yourself and then…” he hesitated. “Well, then you do something to it. I wasn’t exactly paying attention in class.”
“Tell you what, Elroy-if you figure out how this percolator works, I’ll consider it your ancient history homework. Afterward, what do you say we spend some quality time together? We can watch those holos of people throwing a baseball back and forth.”
“Gee, Pop, I’ll do it!” The boy spent two whole minutes digging through one informational archive after another until he found a set of rigorously detailed instructions. After all that effort, George certainly considered that the boy had earned his reward…
Much later, exhausted from watching the holos of people engaged in strenuous exercise, George tucked Elroy into bed, patted the kid on the head, then went about his evening routine. He went back to look at the coffee percolator, perplexed. He thought of his mysterious and eccentric uncle, unable to understand what could have driven the old man to shun everyday modern conveniences. Why would Uncle Asimov intentionally make his life more difficult than it needed to be? As George read through the complicated instructions, on a whim, he decided to go through the process.
He opened the package of ground beans, assembled the gadget’s components, then asked the household computer to find an adapter so that he could plug the machine into the power grid. The coffee-making steps were quite intricate, and George had never done anything so convoluted before. It took him three separate tries before he finally figured it out. “People used to go through a great many tribulations just to make a simple cup of coffee,” he said to himself. Uncle Asimov had presumably gone through the grueling process every single day!
When George was finished, however, listening to the gurgle of water pumping through the filter basket and grounds, it all made a certain amount of sense to him. When the smell of coffee rose into the air, it seemed delicious, fresh.
Jane came out, ready for bed. Sniffing the air, she looked at him and the coffee percolator. “George, dear, what are you doing?”
Triumphantly, he said, “I’m making coffee.”
“If you want coffee, just tell the replicator to make you a cup.”
“It’s an experiment, dear. Let’s try some.” He burned his fingers as he lifted the percolator from the wrong end, then poured two cups of the steaming black liquid.
Jane came forward skeptically. “It smells like any other cup of coffee.”
He drew in a deep breath, then took a sip. “Deliious! I think it’s better than what the replicator makes.”
Jane took a drink with great trepidation, as if afraid the old hermit’s supplies might be laced with some unusual toxin. “It tastes exactly the same as the coffee we usually drink, George.”
But he insisted that wasn’t so. Perhaps the very effort he had expended in making the hot beverage increased his own satisfaction. Jane was not sure what to make of this change in her husband’s behavior. He gave her a peck on the cheek. “You can go to bed without me, dear. I think I’ll stay up a while longer.”
She went to bed, leaving him to his unusual preoccupation. George drank the cup of coffee, then poured a second one.
He picked the faded old magazines from the crate and gingerly began thumbing through the pages. Uncle Asimov had kept these publications for so many years. How many times had he read them? George considered feeding the pages into the automatic reader so he could enjoy the articles. Then, drawing a deep breath and setting his jaw with determination, he sat back with his hand-made cup of coffee and read the words for himself. He found it quite an unusual experience. Though he hadn’t intended to, George stayed up long into the night.
The next day at his job in the factory, George looked down at the industrial line, the clanking conveyor belts, the whirring robot arms busily producing the best sprockets money could buy, the mechanical inspectors that monitored all the steps in the operation. Wearing his supervisor’s cap and uniform, George stood at his post and watched the robots, just as he had done every day in his career.
Though he was a supervisor, George didn’t exactly know what he was doing. The more he thought about it, he realized that he had never really known what he was doing.
He saw his boss in the glassed-in office, lording it over the assembly line. He was a short, balding man with dark hair and a large moustache. George had always thought of him as a good boss, though the man’s temper was often on a short fuse. George had never really thought about it before, but he didn’t quite understand what his boss did either. His job seemed to entail looking down at George and his fellow supervisors, as they in turn looked down at the robotic assembly line. The robots automatically did everything on their own.
George left his station, his brow furrowed with questions. He took the whirring lift platform that raised him up the boss’s office. The balding man was quite surprised to see him.
“Why have you left your post? That simply isn’t done!”
“But why not, Mr. S?” He fumbled to articulate his question. “What am I actually doing down there?”
“The assembly line can’t be run without you. A supervisor at every station, and a station for every supervisor. How do you expect sprockets to be made and for us to meet our inventory goals if you shirk your duties? The whole company depends on you, um-” He looked at the name patch on George’s shirt. “George.”
“But, sir, what is my job? I don’t even know what a sprocket is.”
The boss scratched his moustache and sat down at his desk. “George, don’t ask me such complicated questions. Sprockets are vitally important items, and you’ve got a job to do.”
“Actually, sir, the robots are doing it. They run everything on the assembly line. In all my years of working here at the sprocket factory I haven’t had to push a single button.”
“Then that proves you’re doing a good job. No breakdowns, no emergencies. Keep up the good work, George.”
“Mr. S, does anybody really know how anything works in this factory?”
“That’s in the hands of the general manager.” With a jerk of his head, Mr. S. nodded toward the ceiling, indicating other floors in the skyscraper overhead.
George went back to his station and watched the robots continue to work for the rest of the day.
That night he came home from work with a brilliant idea. The rest of the family considered it a disaster.
While Judy and Elroy sat at the table and Jane pondered the evening meal in front of the food replicator, George sauntered into the kitchen holding a can of chili and a can of soup. “Let’s try these. It’ll be like nothing we’ve ever had before.”
Judy seemed horrified. “The pictures on the label look gross.”
“Where’s your sense of adventure? We’ll heat up our own food… as soon as I figure out how to do it.”
Elroy got into the spirit of the challenge. “Don’t we have to rub sticks together or something, Pop?”
“Of course not. Maybe we can use a heating plate. I wonder how long it takes.”
The first experiment turned into an unpleasant experience. The instructions printed on the label-which George was proud to read by himself-didn’t say anything about having to open the can first before exposing it to high heat. The soup exploded into a dripping, hot mess.
Rosie the maidbot complained as she wheeled back and forth to clean up every drop.
George did better with the can of chili, and soon each of them had a small bowl of a lumpy red-brown mixture that didn’t look even as appetizing as the faded illustration on the label. Elroy, sitting beside his father, good-naturedly took several bites. Jane was stoic as she tasted the meal. Judy refused and slipped over to the replicator to make herself a different snack, much to George’s disappointment.
He expected that most of them would prepare a different meal for themselves later on, but he insisted that this was quite tasty. The fact he’d made it for himself added a sense of accomplishment that increased the flavor of the meal (though his stomach gurgled unpleasantly and his mouth tasted strange for hours afterward).
In the evening, when it was time for them to plan their upcoming family vacation, Judy was the first to pipe up, bubbling with excitement at her own suggestion. “I’ve always wanted to go to CentroMetropolis. We can see the shows and the museums.”
“And the boys,” Elroy added sarcastically.
“And the shows,” Judy insisted.
“Sounds boring,” Elroy said. “I want to go on a virtual immersion vacation! Every kind of game simulation! We’ve got a dome right here in the city, and Pop can get discount tickets from the factory.”
“We’re not all going to play virtual games.” Judy rolled her eyes. “That’s for kids.”
Jane sighed. “Wouldn’t a few days at a spa be nice? Temperature-controlled water jets, zero-gravity relaxation chambers, massagebots that can work your sore muscles for hours? It’s not easy being a homemaker these days, you know. You kids just wait until you grow up and have families of your own.”
George, however, cut off all further argument. He had already made his decision, and he was sure his family would enjoy it. It would be quite an exciting experience, if only they kept open minds.
“This year we’ll do something we’ve never done before. We’re going out to visit where my Uncle Asimov lived.”
George flew the family bubblecar out past the city and into the next city (which looked exactly the same as the last), then to the next city, and the next. He remained cheerful, anticipating what they would find out in the rugged swatch of uncivilized land in the middle of the barren, reddish desert.
The bubblecar whistled and hummed as it cruised along under its computerized guidance.
Though George sat in the driver’s seat, he didn’t actually fly the craft. The guidance systems took care of everything for him, but he had always felt in control. He ignored the two kids picking on each other in the back seat as the bubblecar streaked onward. Beside him in the front, Jane seemed quite uneasy about where they were going.
“Are we there yet?” Elroy said. “It’s been an hour.”
“It’s been fifty minutes,” George said.
“Seems like forever,” Judy complained. “When are we going to stop? Shouldn’t we take a rest break?”
Eventually, the neatly organized buildings dropped away, the traffic thinned, and soon the landscape was like something George had seen on a Martian pioneer adventure video. The ground was rocky and barren, dotted with sagebrush and cactus, broken by huge outcrops of rock that didn’t look at all like real skyscrapers.
Judy squealed when she saw dark, four-legged creatures munching on the unappetizing foliage. “Look, wild animals! We’re not actually going down there, are we?”
“Those are cattle, I think, Judy. Real cattle.” He searched his memory. “They were the inspiration for many of the meat products our food replicator makes.” Gazing down at the clumsy creatures, though, George didn’t think they looked at all like any of the steaks, burgers, or sausages he happily received on a plate that came out of the delivery chute.
“Do they attack people, Pop? Are they dangerous?”
“Of course not, son. We won’t be going anywhere close to them.”
The bubblecar’s metallic voice said, “Reaching end of automatic guidance network. Air travel no longer safe or recommended. It is advised that you turn around and go back.”
“See, Daddy? We shouldn’t have come here. Let’s go to CentroMetropolis.”
“Aww, that’s two hours from here,” Elroy complained.
George’s voice was firm. “We’re almost there. Uncle Asimov’s trailer is just up ahead.”
The bubblecar said, “Without grid guidance, it is suggested that you land and proceed on foot from this point.”
“On foot!” Judy cried. “Does that mean… walk?”
“Yes, I think it’s only a mile.”
“What’s a mile, Pop?” Elroy asked.
“A long, long way,” Jane said. “George, are you sure this is a good idea?”
He landed the bubblecar in the middle of the desert. They seemed to be far from anywhere. Had anyone ever been so alone, so isolated? As the transparent dome lifted and they climbed out into the hot sun, George took a deep breath, noting the strange smells, the dust in the air, the spice of sage.
“What if one of those… cattle comes after us?” Judy asked.
“Uncle Asimov was fine. He lived out here by himself most of his life.”
“Yes, Daddy, and he died.”
George strode forward, leaving footprints on the ground in the real dirt. He pointed to a white structure on a rise in the distance. “There’s his trailer.” Even Jane was uncertain about how far away it looked, and she was concerned they might get lost, though the bubblecar was perfectly visible and so was the trailer.
Elroy bounded ahead, and Jane warned him to watch out for rattlesnakes, scorpions, tarantulas, jaguars, and any other terrible creature she could think of. After five minutes, the boy lost his steam and began complaining. Judy whined about how dirty she was getting. Tight-lipped, Jane followed with obvious disapproval.
The trailer turned out to be a ramshackle affair made of patched metal siding, solar-power panels on the roof, a water pump in the back. George tried to imagine being out here all by himself day after day without any instant news updates or real-time transmissions of the latest robotic baseball games.
“He really was a caveman!” Elroy looked around with eyes as wide as saucers.
When George pulled open the door, it creaked unnervingly Jane stepped inside and shuddered. “Rosie would blow an entire circuit bank if she looked at this. There’s dirt everywhere!”
They poked around, looking at the kitchen cabinets and a countertop that contained an actual stove and actual sink, though no one wanted to trust the water that came gurgling out of the tap. Elroy found the bathroom and the shower and called out for them to look at the exotic, primitive fixtures.
“That was called a toilet,” George said. He had looked up historical background before they’d begun their vacation.
He paced through the cramped rooms of the trailer, wondering about what his Uncle Asimov must have done all day long. When they found the small, rickety bed with its spring mattress, Jane frowned in a combination of disgust and dismay. “Unsanitary conditions and no conveniences. Your Uncle Asimov was crazy, George. It’s so sad. Just think of what kind of life he could have had if he’d gone into the city. He could have been a productive member of society.”
George faltered at the thought. Now that he had begun to pay attention to his job and home life, he wasn’t sure what he himself was doing to be “productive.”
Jane stood with her hands on her narrow hips, shaking her head. “I guess we’ll never know why he did this to himself. It’s like he was being punished.”
“Uncle Asimov knew how to take care of himself. He was self-sufficient. I bet he built most of this trailer with his own hands.”
“Do you think he used a spear to hunt for his food?” Elroy asked. “Maybe he killed some of those cattle, or jackrabbits, or prairie dogs.”
“Whatever he did, he did it his own way. He must have felt a sense of accomplishment in just getting through each day.” George recalled how good he’d felt with the single task of making a pot of coffee with the old-fashioned percolator.
“How inconvenient,” Jane insisted. “It must have been impossible for him! I’ll bet he was very miserable.”
George wasn’t so sure. “I bet he was happy.”
Judy laughed in disbelief. “Nobody could be happy out here. Just think of everything he was missing.”
“But he had things most of us don’t even remember.”
Jane remained unconvinced. “What does that have to do with anything? So much unnecessary work. It’s such a shame.”
“And now this place is all ours, for what it’s worth,” George said, grinning. “Uncle Asimov willed it to me.”
“But what do we do with this place?” Jane said with a growing horror in her voice.
“We’ll keep it. I just might come back, spend a whole two hours next time.”
“If you do that, George, you’re doing it alone.” Jane was completely no-nonsense. Under the sunshine and with her own perspiration, her always-perfect hairdo had begun to come undone.
He just smiled mysteriously at her. “That’s the idea.”
Elroy pushed the creaking door and went back out into the bright sunlight, where he saw a lizard scuttle across the sand. “Can we go, Pop? Please?” The boy’s normally cheerful voice carried a whining tone. “We could get back home in time to play a game or two in the virtual immersion dome. Wouldn’t that be neat, Pop?”
He saw that Jane had been ready to go from the moment they set down in the desert. Before the situation could grow entirely unpleasant, George agreed. Ironically, both of the kids had plenty of energy as they hurried back toward the waiting bubblecar.
George had seen what he needed to see, and he would remember this for a long time. His family grumbled and complained, but their words washed off of him as he felt a strange sense of possibilities. He had a spring in his step.
Elroy and Judy scrambled into the bubblecar, gasping and panting and moaning with the effort. Jane settled into her usual position beside him in the front of the craft. He sealed the dome over them, raised the vehicle in the air, and whirred away.
“It’ll be good to get home and back to normal, now that you’ve had your little adventure, George.” Jane had the patient tolerance of a woman who had been married a long time.
“Yes, dear.”
The bubblecar picked up speed and they flew back toward the city. When no one was looking, though, George surreptitiously switched off the autopilot, took the controls, and piloted the bubblecar by himself all the way home.