Change the search to all print and audio medium including books, articles, and sensoracles."
"I have located 13,587,663 items that fit that description."
"Geez!" Jack exclaimed.
"Jack, I guarantee that no matter what exotic, stupid, or esoteric combination of aspects you pick, you will get a similar response. Let me do the numbers for you. Matilda, what is the current population of the S-system?"
"19,457,908,495."
"What is the current literacy rate?"
"99.456 percent."
"That means there are a lot of people out there who can read and write. Now if you estimate that there were 250,000 publications in the S-system and each one comes out once a month with, say, 10 articles, that comes to...Matilda, what does that come to per year?"
"Thirty million."
"Now take that number times 300 years and you have a lot of words. That doesn't include the works done prior to the twentieth century or all the articles that were placed on public access systems. Now take all those and add all the animated media and you have billions and billions of things to see and read. Do you really think anyone is going to come up with something new to write about or record that has not been beaten to death by hundreds, if not thousands, of authors, artists, and producers already? The old saying of ‘Nothing new under the sun’ has finally come true. We need to be under a different sun. Why do you think there are so few creative people around anymore?"
"Hey, you're beginning to depress me. Are you going to eat that dessert?"
"Now you understand what I am trying to say. And yes, I am going to eat it."
"So essentially you're saying 'There's nothing new under the sun,' so people are killing themselves because they have nothing to strive for."
"That's right. There is a malaise permeating our society, but it is so subtle that no one realizes what it is. People live to be 140 years old, but, what if during that lifetime, a person can’t come up with a single new concept or idea or invention or religious credo or whatever? Don't you think that would begin to take its toll on people and society in general?"
"But life is so great! Work is minimal. They're even considering going to an eight-hour workweek. Food is cheap and plentiful. Anyone can afford to travel. Education is readily available to all groups. Hey, and what about sex?"
"I am not saying that life is not good; I'm just saying life is not challenging. Heck, you can take a guided tour up Mt. Everest and hardly get your feet wet. I have been to Antarctica four times and to the bottom of the ocean six times. As for sex, first off I can simulate sexual relations with any woman I desire, and, for all intents and purposes, it is identical to the real thing without the commitment. By the way, I still prefer the real thing that has to be heated and pealed. Secondly, I have all the sex I want right now. And, you don't even need to have sex to procreate. With today's technology, anyone can have a child to raise. If you want, you could raise yourself as a clone."
"So what's your personal solution to this dilemma?"
"That's the problem. I don't have one. If it weren't for the fact that I can't stand being on a spaceship for long periods, I would have take one of the stellar missions. But that is not really for me. Actually I wanted to do what Steve did. Take a floater out and drive recklessly through the mountains."
"You mean you want to die?"
"No, not die necessarily, even though that would be a possibility; just take a chance."
"You know that if you’re caught—which is about 100 percent certain--you will lose your job, and they will stick you in a examination center for quite a while. Is that what you want?"
"No. But then again, I can't see doing what I am doing for another 70 years."
"Well, on that cheery note, I will go back to my work. What are you doing over the weekend?"
"I haven't decided yet. I'll call you."
"Take it easy."
At the end of the day, Roger entered his apartment, "Matilda, windows to 50 percent. Play a selection of late 21st century Mars sonic rock." The room lit up and music began playing.
"I see we are in one of those sullen moods tonight. Are you eating in?” asked Matilda's soothing voice.
"Yes.”
“Alone?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
"Oh, nothing. What would you like for dinner? Would you like a drink now?"
"You pick something for dinner, and, yeh, make me a solar flare."
"Coming up."
As he headed toward the kitchen, he unbuttoned his shirt and kicked off his shoes. "Matilda, access my personal writing file." The drink popped up on the counter, and he took a long draw. It felt like his esophagus had caught fire, and he croaked, “Nice drink. I didn’t realize these were made with turpentine.”
"Only yours, sweetie. What can I get you in your file?"
"Access my manuscript 'The Stellar Detective'." He grabbed the drink from the counter and headed for the living room, where he took a seat on the sofa. "Make a comparison to all other stories that have similar plot lines and characters. Give me the info in decreasing correlation."
"I have found 23,498 similar stories: 455 within 98 percent correlation, 693 within 95 percent, 3,390 within 90 percent...."
"Okay, I get the picture. Check all my writings and give me the most original."
"Your story about the FTLT liner destroyed on its way to the Crab Nebula has a hit rate of only 2487 with 289 within 98 percent."
"Great, that sounds really original. How many publishers are still putting out original work?"
"There were currently 35 on Earth and 55 in the S-system."
"Geez, three less than last week. Oh what the hell's the use? I guess that kills that career option. Music off. Give me a holographic comedy from around 2080 with lots of nudity situated on a space station. And I'll take dinner now."
"There are 150 shows that fit that criterion, and your dinner is ready."
"Damn, don't rub it in. Just pick one." He headed to the kitchen, and, as he left, his living room changed into the inside of a space station, and a group of actors standing in this virtual environment began talking among themselves. The credits were scrolling across one wall. They were all wearing spacesuits, except for one beautiful woman who was totally nude. Roger walked back into the room carrying his dinner. The beautiful woman pulled a laser gun out of god-knows-where and began shooting the people in the spacesuits. Roger sat his dinner on a tray and sat down in his heavily padded chair near the center of the room. People in spacesuits were screaming and bursting into flames all around him. Roger leaned back in his chair, relaxed, and immediately fell asleep.
Matilda turned the movie off and said softly, “Good night, Roger.”
The next morning, Roger woke up immediately alert and still seated in his living room chair. "Matilda, windows to 20 percent opaque. I feel great. Make me a breakfast sequence 8. What time is it?"
"It is now 10:34 AM on Saturday, December 6th, 2199. Breakfast will be ready in 10 minutes. Glad to hear you are feeling well. All your vital signs seem to bear out your feeling."
After dressing quickly and eating, Roger headed down to the garage and settled into his floater. "Matilda, take me to The Outer Rings floater repair store." The floater lifted up and headed for its destination.
When it arrived, Roger exited the floater and walked up to the main desk of the store. "I would like to talk to Jake R.T.Y. Smithson."
An artificial voice said, "He is being notified. Please have a seat."
A few minutes later, a man came through the door at the back of the room. He is dressed in a clean room suit, which covers him from head to foot. He removes the hood, exposing the dark-skinned face of a man about 70 years old with sad eyes and dark black hair.
"What can I do for you?'
"Listen, my name is Roger. You helped a friend of mine the other day...."
"Whoa, come back to my office."
> They went in the same door that Jake had come through and down a hallway for a short distance, where they entered an office. Once inside, Jake shut the door. "I know who you are, and I know your friend Steve. I understand he got vaporized in the desert two days ago. Shame. He seemed pretty nice. Now what is it you want exactly?"
"I want you to remove all the safety devices from my floater like you did to Steve's. Is that doable?"
"Of course it is, but it's going to cost you."
"How much?"
"For you, I have a special price. One million credits."
"You're kidding. That's outrageous!"
"Hey, take it or leave it. Your late friend Steve paid one and a half million."
"Sure, but he didn't plan to live past yesterday. I do."
"That's funny, he didn't say anything about dying. I thought he was just going out for a joy ride," Jake laughed.
"Okay, okay. I'll pay. I guess crime has not been totally eliminated. Should I drop my pants and bend over?"
"Tempting, maybe later. In the meantime, I need the payment up front."
"Matilda, transfer one million credits from my account to Jake's account."
Matilda voice came out of Roger's hip-mounted personal assistant speaker. 'Roger are you sure you want to do this?"
"Yes, I do. Make the transfer."
“Well hold your scanner up to your eye and I’ll consider it.”
“You know it’s me. You’re just harassing me.” Roger held his PA up to his right eye.
“Identity confirmed. Jake, please identify yourself and tell me the account in which to put the credits."
"This is Jake R.T.Y. Smithson, ID 3435-908-2340-1098, and