By ROBERT SILVERBERG
Illustrated by SCHOENHERR
"Choose!" said the robonurse.
"Choose!" echoed his entire world.
But either choice was impossible!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Infinity June 1957.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
That morning, when Larry awoke, the robonurse was standing at the footof his bed, smiling benignly. It made no attempt to help him into hishousecoat and give him his morning unworry capsule. Instead it waited,poised delicately on its humming treads, making no motion toward him.
"I'm awake," Larry said sourly. "Why aren't you functioning?" Hepaused, frowning slightly, and added, "And where's my capsule?"
"This morning is different," said the robonurse. "This is yourbirthday, young man!" It clicked twice, hissed, and rolled forward atlast, holding Larry's capsule-box in its grips. The box flew open asthe robot approached Larry's bed, and the boy saw, within its gleaminginterior, three capsules—one the usual light blue, the other two aharsh green and a bright yellow respectively.
"What's this?"
"Choose," the robonurse said inexorably.
The trigger-word echoed in the room for an instant. "Choose," therobot said again, and the repetition unlocked a chain of synapses,unleashed data hypnotically buried in Larry's mind years before, openeddoors and brightened dark corridors.
Choose. The terrifying word held promise of conflict, pain, anxiety.Larry's fingers quivered with terror for a moment; his hand hoveredover the capsule-box, wavered for a long second of indecision, while aglistening bead of sweat rolled down his smooth face.
His hand grazed the light-blue capsule, the capsule that could end thesudden nightmare forever. He fingered its glossy surface for a moment,then shook his head and touched the bright yellow one. A shudder offear ran through him as he did so, and he swept up the green capsulehurriedly and swallowed it.
"Okay. I've chosen," he said weakly.
The robonurse, still smiling, closed the capsule-box and rolled away.It replaced the box on its shelf and said, "You've chosen, Larry—butall you've chosen is postponement of final decision."
"I know." His voice was dry. "I—I'm not ready yet. But at least I tooka step forward. I didn't take the unworry drug."
"True enough," the robonurse said. "You can still go in eitherdirection—back to the unworry of childhood, or on to the full anxietyof adult life."
"Let me think," Larry said. "That's why I took the middle capsule. Tothink this out."
"Yes, let him think!" Larry glanced up and saw the stooped figureof his father at the door of the bedroom. The robonurse scuttledaway hummingly, and Larry swung around in bed. His father's face,wrinkle-etched, baggy-eyed, and despairing, stared intently at him.
The tired face broke into a feeble grin. "So you've arrived at the Ageof Anxiety at last, Larry! Welcome—welcome to adulthood!"
Behind Larry lay an entire seventeen-year lifetime of unworrying—andbehind that lay the three centuries since Koletsky's development of theunworry drug.
It was tasteless, easily manufactured, inexpensive, and—despite itsmarvelous properties—not permanently habit-forming. Adults under theinfluence of the unworry drug found themselves free from anxiety,from nagging doubts about the future, from any need to worry or growulcers or to plan and think ahead. Koletsky's drug made them completelyirresponsible.
Naturally, the drug was highly popular among a certain group of adultswith low psychic resi