Robert Silverberg - A Happy Day in 2381

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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 socio-computator 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 an-other. 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 broth-ers and sisters and their families live. Three

brothers, three sisters. Four of them younger than he, two older. One brother died, un-pleasantly, young. Jeffrey.

Mattern rarely thinks of Jeffrey. He rises through the building to the summit. Gortman has been tout-ing 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 Jabo-tinsky 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.

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Robert Silverberg - A Happy Day in 2381

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