Commune 2000 AD. Mack Reynolds

metallic voice said, “We do not have this item in stock but can secure one from the warehouses in Kingston within ten minutes, sir.”

      “Please do,” Ted said. He put his pocket transceiver on the payment screen to have the amount involved deducted from his credit balance.

      That brought to mind the fact that he would probably be incurring more than usual expenses during the following weeks. He said into the screen, “Credit balance please, of S-204-121645M.”

      The screen said, “Three thousand and forty-two pseudodollars and fifty-four cents.”

      Well, that should be more than ample, especially since there was a quarterly payment of his Universal Guaranteed Income due to him in less than a month. Ted Swain seldom used up the full amount of his income. In fact, few did. When you didn’t, your balance reverted to the nation; there was no such thing as letting it accumulate or leaving it to someone in a will. Ostentatious spending was largely a thing of the past. Not completely, but largely. At long last the country had achieved the point where it could produce an abundance for all. With it had dropped away the old keeping-up-with-the-Joneses disease. No one bothered to attempt to surpass his neighbor’s possessions.

      While waiting for the electronic bug to arrive, he went into the bath. He threw his underwear, socks and the Yucatan shirt into the disposal chute, then went back into the kitchen-dining room and dialed himself fresh clothing from the ultramarket, after putting his transceiver on the payment screen. It was delivered immediately and by the time he had donned it the minirecorder equipment had arrived in the vacuum-tube delivery box.

      He opened the container and took the device and its directions back into his study. He sat down and read the instructions. It was simple enough. The bug itself was tiny and had a pin with it which you could stick in some out-of-the-way part of your clothing. Just about any place would do, evidently. You left the recording box sitting right on your desk, or wherever else you wanted to put it. When you wished to record, you activated the bug and what it picked up was beamed to the disk in the recording box.

      Very simple indeed. He tried it a few times, just to be sure, and was pleased with the excellent reception. He wiped the disk, on which he had been recording, and pinned the bug on the inner side of his jacket lapel.

      All set to go. He dialed himself a two-seater electrosteamer and, while he waited for it, left a message on his TV phone. “I’ve gone away for a time to do some research on a new project and haven’t the vaguest idea of when I’ll be back.” Actually, of course, anyone who wanted him badly enough could always find him on their pocket transceiver.