Mack Reynolds - Earth Unaware

In fact, if anything, the problem was already greater in some lands than it was in the United Welfare States of America. England, for instance. There were riots in London, Manchester and Birmingham. Evidently they were senseless, meaningless riots, not directed toward anyone or anything in particular. Simply the rioting of crowds of people with nothing to do.

Ed Wonder felt a cold apprehension edge up his spine. He had seen that mob the night before. In fact, he had been manhandled by it.

He had skimmed quickly through the paper looking for the story of the lynch mob who had all but finished off the unhappy movie projectionist who had been blamed for the failure of the film. He had trouble, to his amazement, finding the item. Ed would have thought it called for front page coverage, in a town no larger than Kingsburg. It was probably the only attempted lynching in the city’s history. But no, it was buried in the inside and the story passed over more as a joke than a serious affair in which hundreds had been sprayed with high pressure fire hoses and police brought in by the dozen to quell the fury.

Ed got it. The story was deliberately being played down. The city fathers, or whoever, didn’t want to bring to the attention of the populace how easy—and perhaps how entertaining—it was to riot. Face reality, during the height of the trouble last night, that mob was having the time of its collective life—men, women and teenagers.

He went back to the front page. The president had made with some sort of gobblydygook explanation of the disruption of TV and radio. He hadn’t gotten to the movies yet. When he did, that was going to be a dilly. Sun spots to foul up TV reception? Sure. Possible. Or strong radio emanations from space? Well, yes. Possible. But movies? How were they going to explain the fact that movies no longer flickered in their well-established way?

Ed shook his head. He was just as glad he wasn’t chief executive of the United Welfare States of America. That job President Everett MacFerson could have.

There was another item from Greater Washington. A plea on the part of the White House for all retired actors, circus performers, vaudeville veterans, musicians, singers, carnival attractions and all others however remotely attached to show business, and however long ago, to report to the auditorium of the nearest high school. There was a barb on the end of the plea. Failure to comply would automatically cancel any unemployment insurance benefits being enjoyed by those involved.

Ed Wonder rubbed the end of his nose with a thoughtful forefinger. That would include him. He would have to report. The conclusions were obvious. The radio-TV curse had only come about a few days ago, but already Greater Washington was deciphering handwriting on the wall. Ed wondered uneasily just how bad those riots in England had been.

He went into his kitchenette and dialed himself a lunch. It tasted nothing, in spite of the fact that he hadn’t had a decent meal since the day before. He threw it, half-eaten, into the disposal chute.

He began to think about Helen. Strange about Helen. Somehow, these past few days had altered his feelings about her. He liked her fine enough, but there was no urgency about it. One week ago and she had been the most important single matter on his mind.

He took the elevator down to the street. This was a new development. There was a crowd outside the liquor store and a fat tub of a man standing in the doorway itself explaining something or other. When Ed Wonder got nearer, he got the message.

“Sorry folks, not a thing left. Sold out. Waiting for new deliveries.”

“Well, how about gin or rum?” somebody called to him.

“No, I mean everything. Whiskey, gin, rum, brandy. Everything. All sold out.”

“Nothing at all ?” Somebody else said incredulously.

The proprietor was apologetic. “All I got is a few bottles of Creme de Menthe.”

“What’s that?” the inquirer grumbled. “Is there alcohol in it?”

“It’s a cordial,” Ed told him. “Sweet and tastes like peppermint. Not quite as strong as whiskey.”

“How would it mix with Coke?” somebody else said.

Ed closed his eyes and shuddered.

“Well, I’ll take a bottle. I gotta have something around the house. It’s driving me batty.” The speaker had no need to mention what it was that was driving him batty.

“Let me have one too.”

The group pushed in. The fat proprietor said hastily, “Only one bottle to a customer, folks. I only got a few bottles left. And you got to realize this is special stuff. Fifteen bucks a bottle.”

Ed Wonder walked back in the direction of his apartment.

On the corner a crowd was gathered. He came closer and stood on tiptoes to make out their interest. There was a trio of kids in the center, doing tricks, minor tumbling tricks. The crowd watched them glumly, although every once in a while somebody would call out encouragement. From time to time the youngsters would be tossed a coin or two. The repertoire was strictly limited.

It reminded Ed that he was going to have to go to the nearest high school and report as an unemployed member of show business. He did that the next day. It didn’t take him long. There weren’t as many actors, musicians and show folk in general as there once had been. And evidently no vaudeville, circus or carnival veterans at all in Kingsburg. Automation had come to the world of entertainment as well as to every other field. Given TV and a comparative handful can entertain two hundred million persons at once, where in the old days of vaudeville a couple of thousand at a time was maximum. Given movies and a dozen actors can perform a play for the million mass, while in the day of the legitimate theatre a few hundred at most could follow the show. Given radio, a pop singer’s voice could become known on a worldwide basis, while a nightclub singer of old could bring alcoholic sobs to the occupants of a few score tables at best. And musicians? But here automation had reached its ultimate with the canned music of record and tape.

No, there weren’t as many show business folk as there had been even a decade ago, not to speak of a quarter century or more.

Ed proved a disappointment when his turn for interview came up. They took down in detail all that he had ever done, and evidently decided it was precious little that would benefit them.

Did he think that he could act as an M.C. for vaudeville shows?

Ed Wonder sighed. Yes, he thought he could.

They’d keep in touch with him.

He left and climbed back into his hovercar.

He had to do something. Over and over it came back to him that he, Buzzo and Helen were the only three outside the Tubber circle who actually knew what was going on.

A boy with a heavy stack of papers under his arm was yelling an extra. It came to Ed that it had been a very long time since he had heard a newsboy shouting extra. Radio and TV news commentators had put an end to that newspaper institution of old.

He made out what the boy was shouting. Race riots, somewhere or other. He didn’t have to read the paper to get the picture. Bored people wandering up and down the streets with nothing to do.

Race riots. He wondered how long it would be before people got around to religious riots. Riots between races, riots between different religious creeds, riots over politics. It gave you something to take up time, didn’t it?

He simply had to do something. There must be some starting point. He changed his direction. He drove out along the road to the south and eventually pulled onto the university grounds.

He was in luck and had no difficulty in finding Professor Varley Dee in his office at the Department of Anthropology. Ed Wonder had had the crisp anthropologist on the Far Out Hour several times as a panelist, but had never met him before on his home grounds.