What Shall It Profit?
BY POUL ANDERSON
"If you would build a tower, sit
down first and count the cost, to see
if you have enough to finish it." ...
The price may be much too high.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, June 1956.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
"The chickens got out of the coop and flew away three hundred yearsago," said Barwell. "Now they're coming home to roost."
He hiccoughed. His finger wobbled to the dial and clicked off anotherwhisky. The machine pondered the matter and flashed an apologetic sign:Please deposit your money.
"Oh, damn," said Barwell. "I'm broke."
Radek shrugged and gave the slot a two-credit piece. It slid the whiskyout on a tray with his change. He stuck the coins in his pouch and tookanother careful sip of beer.
Barwell grabbed the whisky glass like a drowning man. He would drown,thought Radek, if he sloshed much more into his stomach.
There was an Asian whine to the music drifting past the curtains intothe booth. Radek could hear the talk and laughter well enough to catchtheir raucous overtones. Somebody swore as dice rattled wrong for him.Somebody else shouted coarse good wishes as his friend took a hostessupstairs.
He wondered why vice was always so cheerless when you went into a placeand paid for it.
"I am going to get drunk tonight," announced Barwell. "I am going toget so high in the stony sky you'll need radar to find me. Then Ishall raise the red flag of revolution."
"And tomorrow?" asked Radek quietly.
Barwell grimaced. "Don't ask me about tomorrow. Tomorrow I will beamong the great leisure class—to hell with euphemisms—the unemployed.Nothing I can do that some goddam machine can't do quicker and better.So a benevolent state will feed me and clothe me and house me and giveme a little spending money to have fun on. This is known as citizen'scredit. They used to call it a dole. Tomorrow I shall have to be moresystematic about the revolution—join the League or something."
"The trouble with you," Radek needled him, "is that you can't adapt.Technology has made the labor of most people, except the first-rankcreative genius, unnecessary. This leaves the majority with avoid of years to fill somehow—a sense of uprootedness and lostself-respect—which is rather horrible. And in any case, they don'tlike to think in scientific terms ... it doesn't come natural to theaverage man."
Barwell gave him a bleary stare out of a flushed, sagging face. "Is'pose you're one of the geniuses," he said. "You got work."
"I'm adaptable," said Radek. He was a slim youngish man with dark hairand sharp features. "I'm not greatly gifted, but I found a niche formyself. Newsman. I do legwork for a major commentator. Between times,I'm writing a book—my own analysis of contemporary historical trends.It won't be anything startling, but it may help a few people think moreclearly and adjust themselves."
"And so you like this rotten Solar Union?" Barwell's tone becameaggressive.
"Not everything about it no. So there is a wave of antiscientificreaction, all over Earth. Science is being made the scapegoat for allour troubles. But like it or not, you fellows will have to accept thefact that there are too many people and too few resources for us tosurvive without technology."
"Some technology, sure," admitted Barwell. He took a ferocious swigfrom his