the country now is roughly three hundred million. Most of them live in pseudo-cities such as Phoenecia and in demes, the units of the pseudo-cities. A deme such as we’re in now will hold twenty thousand people. They prefer demes because of all the facilities available. Those who don’t like this anthill type of life often get mobile homes—they used to call them trailers—and join one of the mobile towns. Comparatively few, these days, like individual homes but some do, and build off by themselves or in small communities.
“But the thing is, these people get restless and kind of go through fads of where to live. When Phoenecia was built the fad was for living in the mountains. There was a lot of talk about the benefits of the altitude, the scenery, the clear air and so forth. There was no trouble at all in filling the apartments. But in a couple of years, living on the sea became all the rage and, currently, living out in the desert areas such as Arizona and Utah. And Mexico and Central America are beginning to draw people.”
Vanderfeller said in indignation, “But to simply abandon their homes?”
And be lost as customers to Vanderfeller and Moore? Barry added silently.
Aloud, he said, “They don’t always abandon them. Last week we lost two hundred and three resident families, or singles, but gained eighty-three. Sometimes they rent their places. Sometimes they sell their equities, usually precious little, to each other. If somebody here in the mountains can locate another family, say on the seashore, who wants to swap apartments, they make a deal. Of course, both continue to have the same sum deducted from their credit balance. The government continues to collect whether they leave or not.”
“But from what you say,” the tycoon said aggressively, “some simply leave without finding a new tenant.”
“That’s right. They go off and possibly buy a new apartment somewhere else, this time in the wife’s name. If they move again, they can get still another in the name of one of the kids, if they have children over eighteen.”
“What can you do about it, Ten Eyck?” the older man snapped. “You’re the Demecrat of Shyler-deme. It’s up to you to prevent the building’s income from simply melting away.”
“I’ll do what I can, sir. Obviously, we’re working on it. One thing we might do—other Demecrats have—is lower the maintenance charge. That’d make remaining here more desirable.”
Vanderfeller glared at him. “Lower the maintenance rate!”
“Yes, sir. As you know, theoretically the tenants own their own apartments; but they have to pay us a monthly maintenance fee. It averages about a hundred dollars.”
The older man was indignant. “Our income is low enough, young man. We take in some four hundred thousand dollars a month toward expenses from this source. Every bit you cut is a drain on profits.”
“Yes, sir, but it’s one way of keeping tenants. Other demes are doing it, which is one of the reasons our people move to them. For a family on NIT to pay only fifty a month maintenance, instead of a hundred, means another fifty pseudo-dollars in their credit balance.”
“What else causes them to move?” Vanderfeller demanded.
“They like new buildings, with new gadgets, new improvements, or supposed improvements. I scanned some ads the other day. New demes have Tri-Di screens that occupy one whole wall of the apartment. The figures are projected life size. That’s a big pull. Another new development is an auto-bar that has a list of two hundred drinks available. You can do a lot of fancy guzzling with a device like that in your apartment. The ones we supply as standard equipment can be rigged only for ten different drinks of your choice. One thing we might do is upgrade our bar services.”
“Bring it up with Central Management,” Vanderfeller muttered. “But it sounds expensive.”
Barry shrugged. “Any renovations of that magnitude usually are. All five thousand of our apartments would be involved.”
Vanderfeller stood, by way of preliminaries to dismissal, and made an effort to regain his jovial air of good fellowship.
He said, “Well, Barry, my boy, it’s your problem. But we of the board of directors will be expecting upbeat reports from Phoenecia in the near future.”
Barry stood, too, and repressed a sigh. “We’ll do what we can, sir,” he said. From the side of his eyes he could see Abernathy, out of view of his superior, make a face of disbelief.
The bastard.
He took the penthouse elevator down to the hundredth floor and there switched to the general elevator banks of this tower. He dropped down to the fifth basement level and made his way in the direction of the kitchen offices of the Restaurant Division.
Doors opened before him as he progressed. He spoke a word here, a word there to the technicians he encountered. Barry Ten Eyck made a point not only of knowing every member of his deme’s staff but knowing them intimately enough to be up on problems, family matters, health and welfare. It paid off.
He said, in passing, “Hi, Chuck, how’s Doris?”
“She’s better. If she’d just lay off that candy.”
He called to another, “How was the vacation, Slim?”
“Tiring. I’m glad to be back.”
The door of his Head Chef’s private office smoothed open before him, and he entered.
Pierre Daunou was standing looking at a large control screen. He grumbled, “Triple deck-aire sandwiches,” before turning to see who his visitor might be.
Barry Ten Eyck said, “Hi, Pete.”
Pierre Daunou would never fail for employment. Were there ever a surplus of first rate chefs, he could always get a job in Tri-Di shows as a stereotype chef. He was roly-poly, apple cheeked, small of mouth and with a tiny French mustache of yesteryear. Ludicrously, in this ultra-modern atmosphere, he even wore a white apron and a tall chef’s white hat.
“Bon soir, Barry,” he said. And then, meaninglessly, he snorted, “Triple deck-aire sandwiches.” He made a Gallic gesture of disgust.
Barry sank into a chair across from his head of the deme’s Restaurant Division. He said. “What about triple decker sandwiches?”
The chef plopped himself down into his own swivel chair behind his littered, phone screen desk. He flicked up a hand. “Five years I spend attending the Cordon Bleu in Paris. Ten years I spend here and there as an apprentice and then as an assistant chef. Fifteen years of study. And now what do I do?”
“You’re the best chef in Phoenecia,” Barry said soothingly.
“I am the best chef for five hundred kilometers around!” the other said in quick contradiction. “And what do I do? I design triple deck-aire sandwiches for idiots without palates!” He flicked his plump hand in the direction of the control screen he had been consulting when his superior had entered.
“Hamburgers, hot dogs, fried steak, fried chicken, triple deck-aire sandwiches, french fried potatoes, ice cream. Do you realize, Monsieur Ten Eyck, that those seven items compose half of all orders filled by this department?”
Barry chuckled. “I’m surprised it isn’t even higher.”
The
