THE GOOD WORK
BY THEODORE L. THOMAS
In the cities, 350 billions swarmed
like termites in a hill; but Jeremiah
Winthrop still called himself a man....
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, February 1959.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Tall and rawboned was Jeremiah Winthrop. Narrow of shoulder and shallowof chest he was, but no matter. There was a dignity to the man thatshowed itself in every movement. Here was one who still called himselfa man, one whose traditions sprang from the rocky New England soilthat had nourished his forebears. The mold that produces such a man isnot easily bent or broken, not even in a world of three hundred andfifty billion people, not even in a world where the rocky New Englandsoil lies buried and forgotten beneath the foundations of monstrousbuildings.
Jeremiah Winthrop rode the spiral escalator up, up to the two-partcubicle he called home on the one hundred and forty-eighth floor.He stood swaying slightly as the escalator wound its serpentine wayupwards. Others rode with him, tight people, tense people, pushedtogether, staring straight as they rode the spiral escalator up. Andnow and then at a turn or a bend a man would elbow his way out. He'dleave the upflowing river of people and step onto a landing as hisfloor came by. But the escalator was still crowded as it passed the onehundred and forty-eighth floor and Winthrop stepped off. He was not oneof the lucky ones who lived high near the roof where it was at leastpossible to think about the air and the light and the sun.
Winthrop boarded a moving belt that carried him over to his owncorridor. He walked down the corridor for ten minutes. It was easywalking, for there were far fewer people now. Finally he came to hisown door. He inserted his thumb in the thumbhole, slid the door openand walked in. A tousle-headed youngster sat on the floor playing witha plastic box. The boy looked up as Winthrop entered.
"Daddy!" he shouted. He flung himself to his feet, dashed across theroom and grabbed his father around the legs.
"Hello, Davy," said Winthrop, ruffling the curly brown hair. "How's thelittle man?"
"Fine, Daddy. And Mommy says we can go up on the roof in another month.Will you come with us? This time? You never go with us, Daddy. Will youcome up with us in a month from now?"
Winthrop looked over the boy's head at his wife, Ann. The smile fadedfrom his face. He said, "A month? I thought it was our turn again in aweek. What happened?"
Ann shook her head and pressed the back of a hand against herforehead. "I don't know. They have had to re-schedule everybody.Another eighteen hundred babies born in the building this week. Theyall have to get a little sun. I don't know."
Winthrop pushed Davy gently to one side and held the boy to him as hewalked over to Ann. He put a hand in the small of her back and held heragainst his chest. She rested her head against the upper part of hisarm and leaned against him.
Ann lifted her head, stood on her toes and kissed Winthrop. She pulledaway and led him over to a chair, Davy still hanging on to his leg."You must be tired," she said. "Ten hours you've been out. Were youable to.... Did you—"
"No," said Winthrop. "Nothing. Not so much as a soybean." He lookedat his wife and smiled. "I guess the time has come for us to eat thatpotato. We've been saving it for a month."
Ann's eyes wrinkled as she look