dared quit filing claims. That's when the government took over. They simplified things. Once a day you turn your slips into Central and the Machine audits your account. That's all there is to it."

"But there's nothing else to do," Mark objected. "No entertainment, no work."

"Why should there be entertainment? Entertainment means work for somebody. No, Central—which is the government, of course—has eliminated work for everybody and at the same time has provided something to keep everybody busy. What work must be done is done by automatic, self-lubricating, self-repairing, self-renewing machinery." She sighed. "It's a brave new world. Everything is neatly worked out. Everybody spends all their time gathering points to offset the points they lose gathering points—and nobody seems to mind except a few rebels like you and me. I saw that rebellious look in your eyes when you signed my slip. That's why I invited you to come along with me. But, as I said, Central keeps everybody busy all day and half the night trying to balance themselves. There's no labor problem, no unemployment, no relief, no worry about anything." She paused, to dip the vitamins out of the dissolver. "The only catch is—it's so damned monotonous."

Mark blinked, but Penelope whirled on him, the dissolver in one hand. "Why do you think I sit out there and put on my act all day long? Not to get points, though I confess the points are the measure of my success—but because life is too dull otherwise." She dished out the vitamins.

"You say the government did all this?"

"Yes."

A thought struck Mark. "Who is the government?"

Penelope was filling glasses from the ice-water faucet. She turned her head and stared at him like a bright-eyed bird. "To tell you the truth, Mark, as far as I know the men who used to make up the government disappeared after the last war, about the time all this automatic machinery was put in. We used to have an election every so often, but I haven't heard that word for twenty-five years. Do you know what I think?"

"No," Mark said attentively.

"I don't think there is any more government!" Penelope said dramatically. "I think all that's left are the Machine and Central Audit Bureau—which is nothing but a giant posting machine."

"Have you seen it—Central, I mean? I see the concourse where we line up every day to have our cards posted—but what's behind those twelve hundred windows?"

She nodded briskly. "I saw it from one of the last planes. Central covers miles and miles in both directions. They said then it was the biggest machine on earth—and do you know, Mark"—she paused dramatically—"I think the Machine is the government! Roll up your chair, Mark."

Mark did. "But doesn't there have to be somebody to take care of the Machine?" he asked, holding her chair.

"Not that I know of. They said it was perfect—that barring an earthquake it would run for a thousand years without a human hand."

The iron-juice cocktail was pretty good, the way Penelope had flavored it with enzymes. But Mark inevitably got back to the thing that worried him. "What will happen when that release slip of mine goes through for thirty-five thousand points?"

Penelope raised her white eyebrows. "I don't know, but undoubtedly something drastic. I'll tell you what. I'll hold your slip for a while and you go out and see if you can get some points on your credit side. Stir up a little trouble. Get the points first and argue after."...

Mark went out and tried to get some points next day, but he couldn't seem to get his heart in his work. It was all so pointless. Why couldn't the old lady give him back that slip, anyway? Mark got pretty much in the dumps, and after he managed to get his foot stepped on and demanded three hundred points, only to be countered by a claim of four hundred for hurting the other man's instep, he began to feel very low indeed.

At the end of the week he was walking slowly along the street watching for