JOURNEY WORK
BY DAVE DRYFOOS
Get mad, old man, but don't give up;
you're not through by a long shot. Somewhere
there's a job for you, a job that youth can't
do ... a dangerous job, but a good one
that'll bring you fame, fortune and peace....
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, January 1955.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
In a central California tomato field a dusty-faced man opened theautodriver of a nuclear-powered truck and inserted a cannery's addresscard so the truck would know where to deliver its load.
Six old men—the tomato pickers—waited for their pay in the truck'slengthening shadow. Most of them smoked or dozed, too tired for talk.
Ollie Hollveg, tallest and oldest of the pickers, eyed the heavy-setrancher who sat at the tally table figuring the payroll. For thisday's work Ollie expected even less pay than usual; the mumbling,pencil-licking rancher—his name was Rost—seemed to be overacting therole of harried proprietor.
Soon Ollie saw his guess confirmed. A look of frustrated rage spreadfrom face to face as each of the other pickers was in turn called tothe table and paid.
All were overage. None dared protest.
At seventy a poor man without relatives willing to care for him wassupposed to let himself be permanently retired to a Home for Seniles.If he wasn't senile and didn't want a home with barred windows and abarbed wire fence, he had to lie low and keep his mouth shut.
Anyone could charge an overage person with incompetence. The charge wasnot a crime and so had no defence.
All of which was old stuff to Ollie Hollveg. He'd been dodging thegeriatricians for sixteen years. He considered himself used to thesetup.
Yet something about the rancher, Rost—maybe his excessive weight, incontrast with the pickers' under-fed gauntness, or maybe his cardboardcowboy boots and imitation sombrero—made Ollie boil in spite ofhimself.
He tried not to show his feelings. But when he was called to the tallytable the rancher scowled up at him defensively and said, "Don'tglare at me, Hollveg! If you moved as fast picking tomatoes as you docollecting your pay, you'd have earned more than this."
He pushed out a little pile of coins that came to four dollarseighty-seven cents.
"Odd pennies?" Ollie's voice broke as he fought to keep it undercontrol. "Odd pennies, when picking's at the rate of two bits a lug?That can't be right. Just because we're old, you're stealing from us!"
Rost's fat face turned livid. "Call me a thief?" he sputtered. "Get offmy land!"
Rost jumped clumsily to his feet, upsetting the tally table. Ollie bentto retrieve the coins scattered in the dust.
"Don't try to steal from me!" Rost shouted. He pulled out a small gasgun and discharged it under Ollie's nose. Ollie pitched forward ontohis face, twitched, moaned, and lay still.
The deputy sheriff held an ampoule under his nose and brought him toafter setting the squad car on the beamway, proceeding under remotecontrol toward the county seat.
The first thing Ollie thought of was his day's pay. He'd never receivedit. Worse—his bedroll was left behind. And there was no stopping norturning on the beam way.
He complained bitterly.
"You won't need that stuff," the sharp young deputy said. "Not whereyou're going."
"I suppose Rost needs it!" Ollie protested.
"He might at t