Page 33 - 1959 Hartridge

Prophecy
Afterwards, in the same building, he received the “vital statistics” from the still-vivacious blonde who was head of a child welfare agency. “Married?”, he asked. “No,” she whimpered. It s very frustrating. So many men. It seems a shame; a waste of my “inner resources” to
marry just one of them.”
Intervie%ying all the owners of stores in his assigned ten blocks, Mr. X. came upon the owner of a jewelry store which specialized in merchandise of hand-wrought silver. “What depressing work it mu.st be,” she said. “Taking all those statistics, realizing through them how many unfortunate people there are in this wonderful country of ours. . . We don’t appreciate how lucky we are, do we?” A wet tear of pity streamed down her cheek. “Oh, e.xcuse me sir. . I hadn’t meant to get over-emotional, but when I think of all those poor people. . . Oh, it’s so sad!”
Going on to visit the largest hospital in Chicago, Mr. X. spoke briefly to the blonde medical technician who was struggling in vain to catch the white mice which had managed to escape from their cages. Seeing that the chase could go on for quite some time, he went on to visit Dr. Cryhard, head of the pediatrics department. Being surrounded by yowling babies, .she wasn’t in a very jovial mood when Mr. X. arrived. “Well, here’s some of your burgeoning population,” she said wryly.
“You must have quite a few of your own at home, hmm?”
She glared coldly at him, a safety pin poking from her mouth.
Later in the day, wanting to purchase something for his wife, he went to a tiny, exclusive dress shop and found himself witnessing the decline of the American Male. Not having noticed his coming in, the slim, attractive woman who owned the shop was snapping orders at her husband, a nervous, cowering creature who was attempting, with shuttering acquiescences, to dress the manikins as his wife wished him to. Mr. X. slipped out quietly.
Needing some relaxation that evening, he saw the play Moonlight in Vermont which featured Rise Kay. When visiting her backstage after the performance, she offered him some “cahfee”, saying apologetically: “I’m sorry that I can’t stay longer. Tonight was our last performance, you know, and I must be up early if I’m to catch my plane for Mad Rivah.”
Having flown back to New York to submit his report, he received a special assignment to take the next plane to Florida. He stopped first at the southern branch of ALT, whose machines were rivaling IBM for precision and efficiency. The secretary, the only human being in this jungle of grotesque monsters which did the job of ten thousand men in one- tenth the time, told him he was welcome to wait until Miss T. returned, and watch the blinking lights on the machines in the meantime. But the census-taker, having other assign­ ments to fulfill, no-thank-you’d his way out and left.
Cape Canaveral was still a burning spot of interest, and it was there that he found the head of Operations. She was at the head of the control board, and although they were finally supposed to be giving the countdown to send the first human being into space, she was in a deep state of concentration, compo.sing her esoteric poetry. Afraid to disturb her, the census-taker waited until the rocket was off the ground. “That was my husbaiid in the rocket,” she calmly informed him. “Tm glad I convinced him to go. He was, you’ll forgive me, an absolute bore.”
With all accomplished, he headed back for New York, and then home to Connecticut, where his sociologist wife was plotting to get rid of his Grey Flannels, somehow!
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