Brave New Worlds

beans! Jelly. . . beans? Now wait a second—a second accounted for—no one has manufactured jelly beans for over a hundred years. Where did he get jelly beans?
    That's another good question. More than likely it will never be answered to your complete satisfaction. But then, how many questions ever are?
    The middle you know. Here is the beginning. How it starts:

    A desk pad. Day for day, and turn each day. 9:00—open the mail. 9:45—appointment with planning commission board. 10:30—discuss installation progress charts with J. L. 11:45—pray for rain. 12:00—lunch. And so it goes.

    "I'm sorry, Miss Grant, but the time for interviews was set at 2:30, and it's almost five now. I'm sorry you're late, but those are the rules. You'll have to wait till next year to submit application for this college again. " And so it goes.

    The 10:10 local stops at Cresthaven, Galesville, Tonawanda Junction, Selby and Farnhurst, but not at Indiana City, Lucasville and Colton, except on Sunday. The 10:35 express stops at Galesville, Selby and Indiana City, except on Sundays & Holidays, at which time it stops at . . . and so it goes.

    "I couldn't wait, Fred. I had to be at Pierre Cartain's by 3:00, and you said you'd meet me under the clock in the terminal at 2:45, and you weren't there, so I had to go on. You're always late, Fred. If you'd been there, we could have served it up together, but as it was, well, I took the order alone. . . " And so it goes.

    Dear Mr. and Mrs. Atterley: In reference to your son Gerold's constant tardiness, I am afraid we will have to suspend him from school unless some more reliable method can be instituted guaranteeing he will arrive at his classes on time. Granted he is an exemplary student, and his marks are high, his constant flouting of the schedules of this school makes it impractical to maintain him in a system where the other children seem capable of getting where they are supposed to be on time and so it goes.

    YOU CANNOT VOTE UNLESS YOU APPEAR AT 8:45 AM.

    "I DON'T CARE IF THE SCRIPT IS GOOD, I NEED IT THURSDAY!"

    CHECK-OUT TIME IS 2:00 PM.

    "You got here late. The job's taken. Sorry."

    YOUR SALARY HAS BEEN DOCKED FOR TWENTY MINUTES TIME LOST.

    "God, what time is it, I've gotta run!"

    And so it goes. And so it goes. And so it goes. And so it goes goes goes goes goes tick tock tick tock tick tock and one day we no longer let time serve us, we serve time and we are slaves of the schedule, worshippers of the sun's passing, bound into a life predicated on restrictions because the system will not function if we don't keep the schedule tight.
    Until it becomes more than a minor inconvenience to be late. It becomes a sin. Then a crime. Then a crime punishable by this:

    EFFECTIVE 15 JULY 2389 12:00:00 midnight, the office of the Mas-ter Timekeeper will require all citizens to submit their time-cards and cardioplates for processing. In accordance with Statute 555-7-SGH-999 governing the revocation of time per capita, all cardioplates will be keyed to the individual holder and—

    What they had done was devise a method of curtailing the amount of life a person could have. If he was ten minutes late, he lost ten minutes of his life. An hour was proportionately worth more revocation. If someone was consistently tardy, he might find himself, on a Sunday night, receiving a communiqué from the Master Timekeeper that his time had run out, and he would be "turned off " at high noon on Monday, please straighten your affairs, sir, madame or bisex.
    And so, by this simple scientific expedient (utilizing a scientific process held dearly secret by the Ticktockman's office) the System was maintained. It was the only expedient thing to do. It was, after all, patriotic. The schedules had to be met. After all, there was a war on!
    But, wasn't there always?

    "Now that is really disgusting," the Harlequin said, when Pretty Alice showed him the wanted poster. "Disgusting and highly improbable. After all, this isn't the Day of the Desperado. A wanted poster!"
    "You know," Pretty Alice noted, "you speak with a great deal of inflection. "
    "I'm sorry," said the Harlequin, humbly.
    "No need to be sorry. You're always saying ‘I'm sorry. ' You have such massive guilt, Everett, it's really very sad. "
    "I'm sorry," he said again, then pursed his lips so the dimples appeared momentarily. He hadn't wanted to say that at all. "I have to go out again. I have to do something. "
    Pretty Alice slammed her coffee-bulb