, Harlan Ellison Alone Against Tomorrow 

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efficiently-for them. But if you have your mortgage with a bank that s
computerized, and they make a mistake, before the big machine can clear its
throat and set things right, you can be a DP. So we fight back, some of us. In
small ways, because there aren t enough of you yet who ll risk the wrath of
the machine. We fight back by overpaying our phone bill
73¢
a month, which costs the phone company about fifty dollars to trace the error
and clear the records properly. We fight back by spindling, folding and
mutilating. And we often yell-
Are You Listening?
THERE ARE SEVERAL WAYS I wanted to start telling this :
First, I was going to begin it:
I began to lose my existence on a Tuesday morning. But then I thought about it
and:
This is my horror story.
Seemed like a better way to begin. But after thinking it over (I ve had a
devil of a lot of time to think it over, you can believe me), I realized both
of those were pretty melodramatic, and if I wanted to instill trust and faith
and ah that from the outset, I had just better begin the way it happened, and
tell it through to now, and then make my offer, and well, let you decide for
yourself.
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Are you listening?
Perhaps it ah began with my genes. Or my chromosomes. Whichever or whatever
combination made me a Casper Milquetoast prototype, that or those are to
blame, I m sure. I woke up a year ago on a
Tuesday morning in March, and knew I was the same as I had been for hundreds
of other mornings past. I
was forty-seven years old, I was balding, my eyes were good-and the glasses I
used only for reading. I slept in a separate room from my wife Alma, and I
wore long underwear; chiefly because I ve always picked up a chill quickly.
The only thing that might possibly be considered out-of-the-ordinary about me
is that my name is
Winsocki.
Albert Winsocki.
You know, like the song...
 Buckle down Winsocki, you can win Winsocki if you ll only buckle down...
Very early in life I
was teased about that, but my mild nature kept me from taking offense, and
instead of growing to loathe it, I adopted it as a sort of personal anthem.
Whenever I find myself whistling something, it is usually that.
However-
I woke up that morning, and got dressed quickly. It was too cold to take a
shower, so I just daubed water on my wrists and face, and dressed quickly. As
I started down the stairs, Zasu, my wife s Persian, swept past between my
legs. Zasu is a pretty stable cat, and I had never been quite snubbed before,
though the animal had taken to ignoring me with great skill. But this morning
of which I speak, she just swarmed past, and not even a meowrll or a spit. It
was unusual, but not remarkable.
But just an indication of what was to come.
I came into the living room, and saw that Alma had laid out my paper on the
arm of the sofa, just as she had done for twenty-seven years. I picked it up
in passing. and came into the dinette.
My orange juice was set out, and I could hear Alma in the kitchen beyond. She
was muttering to herself as usual. That is one of my wife s unpleasant habits,
I m afraid. At heart she is a sweet, dear woman, but when she gets annoyed,
she murmurs. Nothing obscene, for goodness sake, but just at the bare
threshold of audibility, so that it niggles and naggles and bothers. She knew
it bothered me, or perhaps she didn t, I m not sure. I don t think Alma was
aware that I really had any likes or dislikes of any real strength.
At any rate. there she was, muttering and murmuring, so I just called out,
 I m down, dear. Good morning. Then I turned to the paper, and the juice.
Acidic.
The paper was full of the same sort of stuff, and what else could orange juice
be but orange juice?
However, as the minutes passed, Alma s mutters did not pass away. In fact,
they got louder, more angry, more annoyed.  Where that man? He is knows
I despise waiting breakfast! Now look...the eggs are hard. Oh, where he?
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is
This kept up for some time, though I repeatedly yelled in to her,  Alma, [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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