 And now, a tale well-calculated to keep you in suspense. I only ask the place and time enough to give some small meaning to the meaningless, and point to having lived. Listen now to 2462, starring Lawson's Irby, and written especially for suspense by George Bamber. I woke up on the floor, shivering. All my clothes were gone. It was like a nightmare, a nightmare I had dreamed many times before, and dreaded coming true. At first I thought I'd awakened in my own room, that somebody had taken all my furniture as well as my clothes. But then I realized it wasn't so much a room as it was a cube, an empty sterile cube with luminescent walls that hummed with a soft blue-green light. I jumped up then, and threw myself against the walls, trying to find a way out. And there was none, no door, no window, not even a ventilation tube. I banged on the walls and screamed, but no one answered me. Nothing but the smooth plastic blue-green walls that hummed with the electric current in them, that gave them light and air, and death. I slumped back down to the soft foam plastic floor of myself, afraid to admit to myself where I was, and squeezed my eyes tight against the walls because I was afraid I was going to cry. Just then, the wall in front of me slid back on its tracks, and in the pale light of the corridor, I could see a large, shambling man in prison coveralls with a nine-digit number tattooed on his forehead. What do you want? Follow me. He turned his back on me and stepped on the moving conveyor in the corridor. I stumbled after him because I was afraid to be alone, and I had to know what was happening. Where are you taking me? No talk. Follow me. I could tell by the steady movement of his jaw and the dull, faraway look on his face that I could question him all day, and it wouldn't do any good. He was chewing tranquil gum, and the effect of that stuff lasted for a week. I could scream at him, and it wouldn't bother him. Nothing would bother him unless I tried to escape. I knew where I was now. There could be no doubt of that. I rode behind my silent guard, up and down what seemed like endless corridors, past row on row of cells just like the one I had left. Some of them had their reverse scanners on. That means you could see in, but the prisoners couldn't see out. Some of them were sitting in the middle of their cube, staring at nothingness, but most of them were slumped on the floor asleep. Kept that way by somnogas, a gentle gas that kept the inmates unconscious and manageable until their cases came up. I knew one day I would wind up here, and here I was in the most scientific escape-proof termination center in the world. In here. The guard stepped off the conveyor in front of a heavy chrome door marked courtroom and pushed a button. I moved through the doorway like a schoolboy called upon to recite. The room was not much bigger than the cell I had left, and as empty. A lieutenant sat behind a desk, his plastic bars gleamed at me brightly from his shoulders. I heard my guard close the door behind us, and then I noticed that one wall was completely covered with the sleepy face of a computer. Sit down. Sit down. I did as I was told on the only other piece of furniture in the place, a small three-legged stool in the middle of the room. I wished that they had given me some sort of clothes to cover my nakedness because there was a young girl, a secretary, sitting on an electrowriter, taking down everything that was said, feeding it into the computer. Your identity. Frank Smith. I said your identity. I told you, sir. Do not hold up the proceedings. Time is precious. You are issued a combination serial social security and telephone number that was imprinted on your forehead at birth. From here it appears to be 108-303-715. Is that correct? That is the number tattooed on my head. Clerk, let the record show the subject is hostile. Yes, sir. Let us proceed. Case of the people versus 108-303-715, convened in the first court at 1800 hours in this day of our world, 18 of November, 2462. 108-303-715, you are charged with two counts. One, writing non-productive literature, and two, wasting government time. How do you plead, true or false? I don't understand. Do you or have you not written poetry? I'm a clerk in the space department. True or false? False. I have here some hundred pieces of doggerel. I shall read a portion of one. See if you recognize it. In my treeless, greenless office, mid the bustling mad despair, I hunger after exile from the chrome and filtered air. Well... It's not a very good poem, is it? Did you or did you not write this poem? True or false? I hardly see... Answer, true or false? False. Account, then, for the fact that this poem was written on your electro-typewriter. There are millions of electro-writers. As you may or may not know, each electro-writer has its own characteristics, as individual as fingerprints. An expert has identified this poem as coming from your machine. I can call him in to testify if you like. There are two shifts. I'm not the only one assigned to that machine. You are not only a poet, but you are a very stupid one. Every electro-writer imprints the date and hour of transmission. In every case, the poems are written on your machine, while you are supposed to be sitting at it doing the invaluable work of the space department. What have you to say? What can I say? You are charged with two very grave counts in this court, writing non-productive literature and wasting government time. How do you answer? How else can I answer? Guilty. 108-303-715. You insist on imposing on this court concepts of legality as ancient as 1962. In this court, subjects are neither guilty nor not guilty. They are simply productive or non-productive, social or antisocial. I repeat, are these charges against you true or false? Answer one or the other. False. Very well, clerk. Yes, sir. Signal the judicial computer that all facts and considerations of this court are now at hand, and submit the subject's work record, fitness report, sanity estimation, IQ, cooperation portion. I watched like a sleepwalker as the lieutenant handled the thin punched and tabulated cards that were the history of my life. I watched with a gambler's fascination as one by one she fitted them into the monster's mouth and the lights blinked and flitted across its face, digesting my life and worth on earth and estimating in hours and minutes how much longer I would be permitted to stay. Suddenly, I realized the computer had stopped. The lights across its face were dark. The machine's mouth spat out a thin red plastic card and the girl handed it to the lieutenant. Number 108303-715. It is the decision of this court that you are no longer essential or desirable to life on this earth. On the 343rd day of the year 2462, you will be taken from your cell to the Division of Agriculture for processing. No. Your corporal body will be reduced to its basic components. Oh, no. And your existence on earth will be terminated. No. Oh, no, no, no. Oh, in God's name, give me another chance. It is a decision of this court. You can't condemn a man to die just for writing a few lines of poetry. Not for writing a few lines of poetry, for being a poet. If you were a scientist or an engineer, we could afford to overlook these recessive characteristics in your personality. Forgive the writing of a few lines of doggerel, but you are not a scientist or engineer, or even a mathematician. You're a clerk in the space department. And according to your work record, not very good at that. I have no head for figures. At a time when the world is crying out a need of mechanical and technical brains, the best you're suited for is rhyming lists of words on scraps of paper. Can you possibly imagine the last priority? I stood, looking at the young man who was a lieutenant, saw his eyes on me, his lips move, but no sound came out. Everything he said was true. The world was in trouble. 300, 400 years ago, they thought they were having a population explosion. They should see it now. People live as far beneath the ground as they did above. New York was built out 30 miles over the water, and people commuted to work from as far away as Ohio and Michigan. Even the deserts were populated. It took mathematical and technical brains just to keep it all going, to mention the problem of finding new worlds in space. It must be apparent that even if you had some mechanical ability for the service and repair of computers, machines... I could try to learn. If you have no mechanical ability, your aptitude tests show that. Well, just give me a chance to learn. There is no time. The world needs these talents now, not a year from now, months from now. Well, all I want is to live. We all want to live. That's the whole problem. The function of this court is to weed out the people who are not necessary to the continuation of life from those who are. Artists, philosophers, theologians, and poets are not necessary. You have been found to be a poet. I appeal to the mercy of the court. There is no mercy in a mathematical equation. Give me another chance, just one. Number 108-303-715, you are wasting the court's time. I have many more cases to deal with today. As you stand now, you are a drain on the Earth's natural resources. In exactly 20 days from now, you will contribute to them. Case dismissed. Look, I have one favor to ask. Everyone has granted one last request. What is it? I have the right, do I not, to spend my remaining days conscious? Yes, but you should request some gas. Time goes much faster when you are asleep, and then the end is not so painful. I want to spend my last days conscious. Conscious? Why? So I can write. Write? Yes, write. I wouldn't have to have an electrowriter in my cell, just an asthmatic pen would do. I know how to use a pen and some paper. I know you have no power over the decision of the court, but just this one last request is one man to another. Very well. Orders will be left, that a pen and paper are to be placed at your disposal. Oh, thank you, sir. Thank you. No more can be granted than the law allows. You may spend your remaining days on Earth conscious and writing gibberish or poems or whatever you wish. Next case. I had to bite my tongue to keep him shouting and turning handsprings all the way back to my cell. I had won the right to remain conscious during my last days on Earth. The right to have one more chance at life and freedom. I realized fully how small that chance was. In the days when men still believed that crime was cured by punishment, my cell would have been a jailer's dream. The smooth plastic walls were flawless. I searched the whole cube and found no more than the first time I saw them, not even the little pinholes that admitted the gas that finished you. I had hoped to dig under the soft foam rubber plastic on the floor with the point of my pen, but I dug at it and couldn't even scratch it. For what must have been five days, I studied the prison routine in hopes of jamming the door and overpowering one of the guards. But it was impossible. Once a day, the wall was rolled back and food was tossed in, wrapped in electroethylene, and then rolled back again before you could get to them. It was impossible to wait near the wall because the guards could see you waiting there and would not open it until you were well back in the center of the cell. On what must have been the tenth day, I began to have hallucinations. People began to appear in my cell and chat with me. People who had long since been dead. To stave off madness, I picked up the broken stub of my pen and began to write feverishly. I wrote a poem to the girl I had seen once on his 14th, and then I wrote about the last blade of grass I had seen. I wrote faster and faster until I was completely wrapped up in the joy of writing. Writing about all the things I could remember until I lost all track of time, of place, and... Oh, no. No, it isn't time. I still have 20 days left. 20 days, he said. Quiet, son. You still have two days to go. What do you want? To talk. You mind if I come in? It's your prison. He didn't come all the way in, but stood in the door out of sight, off the hall, but blocking my way. He was a very old man with mottled parchment skin. His prison coveralls hung on him like elephant skin. Oh, who are you? I'm the night duty guard. What do you want? Oh, just to talk. I've never seen you before. Oh, but I've seen you. Every night I've been looking over your shoulder, reading the things you write. I hope you enjoyed yourself. I did. I haven't read any new poetry in 50 years since the computers came in. You've got away with words. Thank you, sir. That's all right. There's one poem you wrote night before last. I wonder if I could see it again. Which one, sir? The one about a man's going to die and doesn't know why. Oh. You mean this one? Yes. Yes, that's the one. Would you mind reading it for me? My eyes tire easily. Okay. In the monumental silence of a long and pointless strife, I'm pained at my reluctance to let go this last of life. I only ask the place and time enough to give some small meaning to the meaningless and point to having lived. I like that. Who would you like to get out of here? Are you crazy? No. Nobody leaves here alive. Guards do. But I'm not a guard. You could be. Oh, now I know you're crazy. You could be if you put on my clothes, my uniforms. That wouldn't do any good. They'd still recognize me but the number on my forehead. That's what gave me the idea. Look at your number and look at mine. 108-808-715. Only the eights are different. We could take that pen of yours and make your threes look like eights. But you're an old man. I'm young. They'd recognize the difference immediately. Oh, no, no. They wouldn't. The only one who sees me is the guard that relieves me and he's unhappy gum. The only thing he looks at is my number. As long as that's right, he's happy. He couldn't tell you what I looked like if his life depended on it. But why? I don't know why. Maybe I just like poetry. Maybe it's because I'm going to die anyway. Look at me. I'm 110. Yesterday I read where they're going to start eliminating everybody over 102. It'll probably be law before the year is out. But that's still a year to live, maybe more. A year of what? I can't smell any more. My taste buds are gone. My hands and feet are always cold. That's not the real reason, is it? No. No, it isn't. Then what is? I have a granddaughter about your age. Beautiful girl. She used to write and paint some when she was young. Of course, we had to discourage it after the computers came in. It just would make me feel good to know they hadn't stamped out the genes for poetry completely. I hate to live in a world where you don't get anything more than what comes blasting in at you over the telecommunicator. Well, what do you say? Are you willing? I'm willing, if you are. Oh, good. Now listen carefully. He sat up most of the night explaining his job to me. Cross-questioning me to be sure I remembered it right. His job was simple, mostly just pushing buttons. The difficult part would be finding my way out of the huge prison without looking like I was groping and getting off the overhead rail at the right stop to find his daughter's home. Finally, when he was convinced I had it right, he left, promising to change places with me the following night. I was almost afraid to believe him. The hours of what was to be my final night on earth crept by. The day had been bad enough, but the night was worse. A hundred times I decided the night was over that it had all just been a sadistic trick for the old man so he could watch the agony of my final hours on earth to pass the time. I was just about to beat against the walls and scream when... Quickly, help me out of these coveralls. I thought you wouldn't come. I'd have to wait till just before the end of the watch so you'd have the best chance of escaping. How much time do I have left? About 20 minutes. The day guard will be coming to relieve me soon, so hurry, will you? Where's your pen? I'll change these threes to eights. Remember, stay on the overhead rail until you get out of Arizona. My daughter is the next stop after that. There, you're finished. Goodbye. I don't want to say... Don't say anything. Say goodbye before I change my mind. That best courage is a quick silver thing. Goodbye, old man, and thanks. Quick, close the door. I did as I was told, raising my hand to break the circuit, and I watched the old man smile at me at the control board and take up his position in front of it. The clock on the board said ten minutes to five in the morning. Ten minutes before I would be released. How's it going? I said, how's it going? Everything quiet? Oh, oh, fine, fine, fine. I recognized him as the guard that was supposed to relieve the old man. For a minute, I was afraid he recognized me when his eyes drifted across my face, but then they flicked up to my forehead, checked my serial number, and he resumed his steady, quiet chewing. I came in a little early. You can never tell about the overhead rail when it's going to get jammed up. Yes, I know. Things are a mess. What's that? Trouble in cell number 84. See the flashing light on the board. Yes, yes, I better turn it off. Cell 84, that was my cell, the one I just left. That meant the old man was probably banging on the walls. I see cell 84 is scheduled for termination this morning. Probably lost his nerve. They should make them all stay under somey gas while they're here. Make some easier to handle that way. I can't turn the alarm off. Of course you can't. As long as he's hammering on the walls and screaming that way, you better go down and see what he wants. Do I have to? Of course you do. It's the law. He might have something more he wants to say. I walked down the hall, feeling the guard's eyes on my back. I didn't dare argue with him anymore for fear that he would become concerned. It was all over now. I knew it was all over. I could see the old man bidding on the walls of his cell beyond the transparent plastic wall screaming soundlessly. He had changed his mind. He wanted to live. In a minute, he would be running down the hall, shouting for help. And in two hours, I would be dead. I raised my hand to break the electric circuit. There you are. I was afraid you wouldn't come back. You took the poems with you. And I couldn't remember that one. All I can remember is I only ask the place. I can't remember how it ends. I only ask the place and time enough to give some small meaning to the meaningless and point to having lived. Yes. Yes. That's it. And point to having lived. This is a story where Robert Randall is the lieutenant, Bob Dryden is the old guard, William Mason is the young guard, and Rosemary Rice is the court stenographer. Listen again next week when we return with Please Believe Me, written by Ben Kagan, another tale well calculated to keep you in. Suspense. They're the most being Crosby and Rosemary Clooney weekdays on the CBS radio.