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A HAPPY DAY IN 2381

by Robert Silverberg

The author of this story is one of the most productive writers of science fiction-recent novels are Thorns and Hawkshill Station, a past president of the Science Fiction Writers of America, a non-fiction specialist in archaeological and historical themes-Mound Builders of Ancient America: The Archaeology of a Myth, and sometime world-traveler. He is also a student of social affairs, as this story proves, taking a close look at the untrammeled joys of a happy, productive, crowded, overpopulated world.

Here is a happy day in 2381. The morning sun is high enough to reach the uppermost fifty stories of Urban Monad 116. Soon the building's entire eastern face will glitter like the sea at dawn. Charles Mattern's window, activated by the dawn's early photons, deopaques. He stirs. God bless, he thinks. His wife stirs. His four children, who have been up for hours, now can officially begin the day. They rise and parade around the bedroom, singing:

"God bless, God bless, God bless! God bless us every one!

God bless Daddo, God bless Mommo, God bless you and me!

God bless us all, the short and tall, Give us fer-til-i-tee!"

They rush toward their parents' sleeping platform. Mattern rises and embraces them. India is eight, Sandor is seven, Mane is five, Cleo is three. It is Charles Mattern's secret shame that his family is so small. Can a man with only four children truly be said to have reverence for life? But Principessa's womb no longer flowers. The medics have said she will not bear again. At twenty-seven she is sterile. Mattern is thinking of taking in a second woman. He longs to hear the yowls of an infant again; in any case, a man must do his duty to God.

Sandor says, "Daddo, Siegmund is still here. He came in the middle of the night to be with Mommo."

The child points. Mattern sees. On Principessa's side of the sleeping platform, curled against the inflation pedal, lies fourteen-year-old Siegmund Kluver, who had entered the Mattern home several hours after midnight to exercise his rights of propinquity. Siegmund is fond of older women. Now he snores; he has had a good workout. Mattern nudges him. "Siegmund? Siegmund, it's morning!" The young man's eyes open. He smiles at Mattern, sits up, reaches for his wrap. He is quite handsome. He lives on the 787th floor and already has one child and another on the way.

"Sorry," says Siegmund. 'I overslept. Principessa really drains me. A savage, she is!"

"Yes, she's quite passionate," Mattern agrees. So is Siegmund's wife, Mattern has heard. When she is a little older, Mattern plans to try her. Next spring, perhaps.

Siegmund sticks his head under the molecular cleanser. Principessa now has risen from bed. She kicks the pedal and the platform deflates swiftly. She begins to program breakfast. Indra swatches on the screen. The wall blossoms with light and color. "Good morning," says the screen. "The external temperature, if anybody's interested, is 28°. Today's population figures at Urbmon 116 are 881,115, which is +102 since yesterday and +14,187 since the first of the year. God bless, but we're slowing down! Across the way at Urbmon 117 they added 131 since yesterday, including quads for Mrs. Hula Jabotinsky. She's eight-

een and has had seven previous. A servant of God, isn't she? The time is now 0620. In exactly forty minutes Urbmon 116 will be honored by the presence of Nicanor Gortman, the visiting socio­computator from Hell, who can be recognized by his outbuilding costume in crimson and ultraviolet Dr. Gortman will be the guest of the Charles Matterns of the 799th floor. Of course we'll treat him with the same friendly blessmanship we show one an­other. God bless Nicanor Gortman! Turning now to news from the lower levels of Urbmon 116-"

Principessa says, "Hear that, children? We'll have a guest, and we must be blessworthy toward him. Come and eat."

When he has cleansed himself, dressed, and eaten, Charles Mattern goes to the thousandth-floor landing stage to meet Nicanor Gortman. Mattern passes the floors on which his broth­ers and sisters and their families live. Three brothers, three sisters. Four of them younger than he, two older. One brother died, un­pleasantly, young. Jeffrey. Mattern rarely thinks of Jeffrey. He rises through the building to the summit. Gortman has been tout­ing the tropics and'now is going to visit a typical urban monad in the temperate zone. Mattern is honored to have been named the official host. He steps out on the landing stage, which is at the very tip of Urbmon 116. A forcefield shields him from the fierce winds that sweep the lofty spire. He looks to his left and sees the western face of Urban Monad 115 still in darkness. To his right, Urbmon 117's eastern windows sparkle. Bless Mrs. Hula Jabo­tinsky and her eleven littles, Mattern thinks. Mattern can see other urbmons in the row, stretching on and on toward the horizon, towers of superstressed concrete three kilometers high, tapering ever so gracefully. It is as always a thrilling sight God bless, he thinks. God bless, God bless, God bless!

He hears a cheerful hum of rotors. A quickboat is landing. Out steps a tall, sturdy man dressed in high-spectrum garb. He must be the visiting sodocomputator from Hell.

"Nicanor Gortman?' Mattern asks.

"Bless God. Charles Mattern?"

"God bless, yes. Come."

Hell is one of the eleven cities of Venus, which man has re­shaped to suit himself. Gortman has never been on Earth before. He speaks in a slow, stolid way, no lilt in his voice at all; the inflection reminds Mattern of the way they talk in Urbmon 84, which Mattern once visited on a field trip. He has read Gortman's papers: solid stuff, closely reasoned, "I particularly liked Dynam­ics of the Hunting Ethic'," Mattern tells him while they are in the dropshaft. "Remarkable. A revelation."

"You really mean that?" Gortman asks, flattered.

"Of course. I try to keep up with a lot of the Venusian journals. It's so fascinatingly alien to read about hunting wild animals." "There are none on Earth?"         '

'God bless, no," Mattern says. "We couldn't allow that! But I love reading about such a different way of life as you have."

"It is escape literature for you?" asks Gortman.

Mattern looks at him strangely. "I don't understand the ref­erence,"

"What you read to make life on Earth more bearable for your­self."

"Oh, no. No. Life on Earth is quite bearable, let me assure you. It's what I read for amusement. And to obtain a necessary parallax, you know, for my own work," says Mattern. They have reached the 799th level. "Let me show you my home first." He steps from the dropshaft and beckons to Gortman. "This is Shanghai. I mean, that's what we call this block of forty floors, from 761 to 800. I'm in the next-to-top level of Shanghai, which is a mark of my professional status. We've got twenty-five cities altogether in Urbmon 116. Reykjavik's on the bottom and Louis­ville's on the top."

"What determines the names?"

"Citizen vote. Shanghai used to be Calcutta, which I personally prefer, but a little bunch of malcontents on the 775th floor rammed a referendum through in '75."

I1 thought you had no malcontents in the urban monads," Gottman says.

Mattern smiles. "Not in the usual sense. But we allow certain conflicts to exist. Man wouldn't be man without conflicts, even here!"

They are walking down the eastbound corridor toward Mat­tern's home. It is now 0710, and children are streaming from their homes in groups of three and four, rushing to get to school. Mat­tern waves to them. They sing as they run along. Mattern says, "We average 6.2 children per family on this floor. It's one of the lowest figures in the building, I have to admit High-status people don't seem to breed well. They've got a floor in Prague-I think it?s 117-that averages 9.9 per family! Isn't that glorious?"

"You are speaking with irony?" Gortman asks.

"Not at all." Mattern feels an uptake of tension. "We like children. We approve of breeding. Surely you realized that be­fore you set out on this tour of-"

"Yes, yes," says Gortman, hastily. "I was aware of the general cultural dynamic. But I thought perhaps your own attitude-"

"Ran counter to norm? Just because I have a scholar's detach­ment, you shouldn't assume that I disapprove in any way of my cultural matrix;"

"I regret the implication. And please don't think I show dis­approval of your matrix either, although your world is quite strange to me. Bless God, let us not have strife, Charles."

"God bless, Nicanor. I didn't mean to seem touchy."

They smile. Mattern is dismayed by his show of irritation.

Gortman says, "What is the population of the 799th floor?”

"805, last I heard."

"And of Shanghai?"

"About 33,000."

"And of Urbmon 116?"

"881,000."

"And there are fifty urban monads in this constellation of houses."

"Yes."

"Making some 40,000,000 people," Gortman says. "Or some­what more than the entire human population of Venus. Remark-able!"

"And this isn't the biggest constellation, not by any means!" Mattern's voice rings with pride. "Sansan is bigger, and so is Boswash! And there are several bigger ones in Europe-Berpar, Wienbud, I think two others. With more being planned!"

"A global population of-"

"-75,000,000,000," Mattern cries. "God bless! There's never been anything like it! No one goes hungry! Everybody happy! Plenty of open space! God's been good to us, Nicanor!" He pauses before a door labeled 79915. "Here's my home. What I have is yours, dear guest" They go in.

Mattern's home is quite adequate. He has nearly ninety square meters of floor space. The sleeping platform deflates; the chil­dren's cots retract; the furniture can easily be moved to provide play area. Most of the room, in fact, is empty. The screen and the data terminal occupy two-dimensional areas of wall that once had to be taken up by television sets, bookcases, desks, file drawers, and other encumbrances. It is an airy, spacious environ­ment, particularly for a family of just six.

The children have not yet left for school; Principessa has held them back, to meet the guest, and so they are restless. As Mattern enters, Sandor and Indra are struggling over a cherished toy, the dream-stirrer. Mattern is astounded. Conflict in the home? Silently, so their mother will not notice, they fight. Sandor ham­mers his shoes into his sister's shins. Indra, wincing, claws her brother's cheek. "God bless," Mattern says sharply. "Somebody wants to go down the chute, eh?" The children gasp. The toy drops. Everyone stands at attention. Principessa looks up, brush­ing a lock of dark hair from her eyes; she has been busy with the youngest child and has not even heard them come in.

Mattern says, "Conflict sterilizes. Apologize to each other."

Indra and Sandor kiss and smile. Meekly Indra picks up the

toy and hands it to Mattern, who gives it to his younger son Mane. They are all stating now at the guest Mattern says to him, 'What I have is youis, friend." He makes introductions. Wife, children. The scene of conflict has unnerved him a little, hut he is relieved when Gortman produces four small boxes and distributes them to the children. Toys. A blessful gesture. Mattern points to the deflated sleeping platform."This is where we sleep. There's ample room for three. We wash at the cleanser, here. Do you like privacy when voiding waste matter?"

"Please, yes."

"You press this button for the privacy shield. We excrete in this. Urine here, feces here. Everything is reprocessed, you un­derstand. We're a thrifty folk in the urbmons."

...