Towers of Utopia. Mack Reynolds

and to the phone screen. He activated it and said, “Carol Ann? Get me Chief Ben Snider, over at Administration, will you?”

      Barry, still flabbergasted, couldn’t see his secretary from where he stood, but he could hear her voice. “Coming up, Mr. Hardin, and if Mr. Ten Ecyk is there will you remind him we’re due in the Auditorium in ten minutes for the monthly Deme-Assembly.”

      On the way over to the deme Auditorium, Carol Ann chattered at him excitedly.

      Barry said, “It’s not important. He can’t get very far. A man on the lam doesn’t make much sense these days. He can’t use the ultra-highways without using his TV phone-Credit Card to rent an electro-steamer. If he does use it, they have him. He can’t buy anything without it, including food or shelter. He can’t even have it on his person or the police will get a fix on him and track him down, no matter where he is. And you simply can’t live in the world as it is without a credit card, Miss Cusack.”

      “Golly,” she said, the expression incongruous from her lips.

      Barry Ten Eyck said, as they approached the door of the Auditorium, “I’d like to cut this as short as possible today.”

      She looked at her notes. “There doesn’t seem to be much besides this petition for the Moroccan restaurant. Well, except some of the older residents want to begin heating the swimming pools already this year. And we have a letter here from the occupant of Apartment 84, eightieth floor, Tower-Two, suggesting that at least one elevator be designed to have less acceleration.”

      He looked at her from the side of his eyes. “Why? We’ve had beefs before from those upper-floor people wanting more speed, not less.”

      “He’s elderly and afraid of falling and claims that there are enough others in his age group to support the request.”

      “He might have something, at that. It’s all we need, some of the oldsters breaking their legs in our high speed elevators.”

      The Auditorium doors were open. Barry and Carol Ann made their way down to the rostrum. As usual, there were about a thousand persons present. Ten to fifteen thousand potential voters in Shyler-deme, and only this percentage bothered to turn up to debate and vote upon their own affairs.

      Barry Ten Eyck took his place, Carol Ann to one side, and banged with his gavel. He hurried through the preliminaries, waived reading of the minutes of the previous session and got to the several subjects for the day’s discussion.

      There was little talk over the heating of the swimming pool and the slower elevator and both motions passed. Barry refrained from ruling against them.

      He looked at Carol Ann and she said, “The petition for a Moroccan restaurant.”

      Barry looked up at the thousand-odd residents of the building he managed. “Ah, yes. Any discussion?”

      Down in the front row, someone began waving frantically.

      Barry Ten Eyck recognized the president of the Gourmet Club, one of perhaps forty clubs that had been organized in Shyler-deme. The man’s name was Samuelson, Fred or Frank, or something like that. An aggressive little type who attended all Deme-Assemblies and almost invariably spoke on every subject debated. He was thinner and more intense than you would have expected a gourmet to be.

      Barry said, “Mr. Samuelson?”

      Mr. Samuelson was belligerent.

      He waggled his head and said, “I know how you people think and how you figure. A deme is run like a dictatorship. Sure, supposedly us residents have a big say in the way the public facilities are run, but actually you managers can overrule anything. But all I’ve got to say is this. Us residents have our rights and we’ve got our needs. And we members of the Gourmet Club say we ought to have more selection when we go out to dine. We spend our pseudo-dollars and we ought to get what we want.”

      “Of course,” Barry nodded.

      But the other was still belligerent. “We got more than fifteen hundred signatures on this petition …”

      Barry Ten Eyck knew the way of petitions. Lord knows, he saw enough of them. Anybody with a little push could get another resident to sign a petition for just about anything. Homes for homeless pigeons, or whatever. He could hear Carol Ann Cusack, next to him, sigh.

      “… We got more than fifteen hundred signatures and we want to see this through. Now we know that as Demecrat you can overrule any project we residents vote for, but we also know that at any time we can vote for your dismissal and the owners of Shyler-deme have to remove you and put up for our approval a new Demecrat. And I warn you now, Mr. Ten Eyck, that if you overrule this petition, the Gourmet Club is going to start a campaign for your removal …”

      Barry held up a restraining hand. “Mr. Samuelson …”

      “I’ve got a right to have my say!”

      Barry said, “Of course you have, but I don’t think that you want to talk just for the sake of talking.”

      Samuelson, taken aback, shut up abruptly.

      Barry said, “I’ve already decided to honor your request. The Moroccan restaurant will be opened. You will be pleased to know that our Head Chef, Monsieur Daunou, is well acquainted with Moroccan cuisine.”

      Samuelson was flabbergasted.

      Barry Ten Eyck came to his feet. “You will also be interested to know, I am sure, that I am taking measures to open a Hungarian and a German—that is, Bavarian—restaurant. And I urge you members of the Gourmet Club to inform your various publications to which you subscribe, and your friends among gourmets, that Shyler-deme is also embarking on a program that will involve Russian restaurants, Swedish, Danish, Greek, Turkish and Vegetarian Hindu. And we are open to other suggestions from our residents. In short, ladies and gentlemen, in the future, Shyler-deme will have as its theme, gourmet attributes, not only in our restaurants but in foods and wines in our ultra-market and available through the automated public kitchens.”

      He looked at Carol Ann, who was a bit on the wide-eyed side. “If that is all, Miss Cusack?”

      She nodded.

      He rapped the gavel. “The Deme-Assembly is adjourned.”

      On the way to the door, he said to her, “I want you to get in touch soonest with the two chefs that they let go at Victory-deme the other day, a Hungarian and a Bavarian. Sign them up. Also, I want to place some ads in the publications devoted to swapping apartments. The general idea is that Shyler-deme is now the most food-conscious deme in the United States and that we invite gourmets to take residence. Also I want you to get in touch with every one of our former residents who have moved. Let them know that we are interested in helping them expedite selling their equity in their apartments so that new tenants can move in.”

      Carol Ann groaned at the prospect of that amount of work. She said, “You haven’t any other brain children, have you?”

      “Just one more item, Miss Cusack,” he said severely.

      “Mrs. Cusack,” she said. “Yes, Mr. Ten Eyck?”

      “In the morning, when I come in, I want no more than four crises.”

Part Two: Bat Hardin

      As always, Bat Hardin awakened at first dawn. He yawned uphappily, ran the back of his fist over his thickish lips. He got up and threw the covers up in such wise that it would be easier for the automatic to make the bed. Sometimes the things jammed it up, although he understood the later models were just about perfect.

      He pressed the button that folded the bed into the wall and made his way into the bath, still yawning. His place was not quite a mini-apartment but it was by no means large. In fact, he had precious little more space than he had enjoyed in his mobile home back when he’d worked at being a policeman in the mobile art colony of New Woodstock.

      The usual washing and shaving routine over, he went over to