“Yes, Man Forrester, but the danger—”
“You argue too much. Over and out,” said Forrester. “Oh, except one thing. Find me another job.”
But the joymaker didn’t.
Time passed, and it still didn’t. It didn’t speak to him at all.
Back in his room, Forrester demanded of the joymaker, “Come on, what’s the matter? You computers don’t have human emotions, do you? If I hurt your feelings I’m sorry.”
But there was no answer. The joymaker did not speak. The view-walls would not light up. The dinner he ordered did not appear.
The room was dead.
Forrester conquered his pride and went to Adne Bensen’s apartment. She was not there, but the children let him in. He said, “Kids, I’ve got a problem. I seem to have blown a fuse or something in my joymaker.”
They were staring at him, bemused. After a moment Forrester realized he had blundered in on something. “What is it, Tunt? Another club meeting? How about it, Mim?”
They burst out laughing. Forrester said angrily, “All right. I didn’t come here for laughs, but what’s the joke?”
“You called me Tunt!” the boy laughed.
His sister giggled with him. “And that’s not the worst, Tunt. He called me Mim! Charles, don’t you know anything?”
“I know I’m in trouble,” Forrester said stiffly. “My joymaker doesn’t work any more.”
Now their stares were round-eyed and open-mouthed. “Oh, Charles!” Obviously the magnitude of the catastrophe had overwhelmed their defenses. Whatever it was that had been occupying their minds when he came in, they were giving him their whole attention now.
He said uncomfortably, “So what I want to know is, what went wrong?”
“Find out!” cried Mim. “Hurry, Tunt! Poor Charles!” She gazed at him with a compassion and horror, as at a leper.
The boy knew what practical steps to take—at least, he knew enough to be able to find out what Forrester had done wrong. Through his pedagogical joymaker, the boy queried the central computing facilities, listening with eyes wide to the inaudible response, and turned to stare again at Forrester.
“Charles! Great sweat! You quit your job without notice!”
“Well, sure I did,” said Forrester. He shifted uneasily in his seat. “All right,” he said, to break the silence. “I did the wrong thing, huh? I guess I was hasty.”
“Hasty!”
“Stupid,” Forrester amended. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry!”
“If you just keep repeating everything I say,” said Forrester, “you might drive me crazy, but you won’t be exactly helping me. I goofed. All right. I admit it.”
The boy said, “Yes, Charles, but didn’t you know you forfeited your salary? And you didn’t have anything much else, you know. A couple K-bucks sequestrated for the freezers, but not much loose cash. And so you’re—” The boy hesitated, forming the words with his lips. “You’re broke,” he whispered.
If those were not the most frightening words Forrester had ever heard, they certainly were well up in the running. Broke? In this age of incredible plenty and high-velocity spending? He might as well be dead, again. He sank back in his chair, and the little girl sprang helpfully forward and ordered him a drink. Forrester took a grateful swallow and waited for it to hit him.
It didn’t hit him. It was, of course, the best the girl could get for him on her own joymaker, but it had about as much kick as lemon pop.
He put it down carefully and said, “See if I’ve got this straight. I didn’t pay my bills, so they turned off the joymaker. Right?”
“Well, I guess you could say that.”
“All right.” Forrester nodded. “So the first thing I have to do is reestablish my credit. Get some money.”
“Right, Charles!” cried the girl. “That’ll fix everything up!”
“So how do I do that?”
The two children looked at each other helplessly.
“Isn’t there anything I can do?”
“Well, sure, Charles. Sweat, there’s got to be! Get another job, I guess.”
“But the joymaker wouldn’t get me one.”
“Sweat!” The boy gazed thoughtfully at his joymaker, picked it up, shook it, then put it down again. “That’s bad. Maybe when Mim comes home she can help you.”
“Really? Do you think she’ll help?”
“Well, no. I mean, I don’t think she’d know how.”
“Then what do I do?”
