"You have used up your allotted quantity of information," the voice said. And clicked off.

Joe waited exactly three minutes and then redialed the number.

"Good evening. What info do you require, sir or madam?"

"The book on Sirius five," Joe said. "Which is alleged to tell everything that has been—"

"Oh, it's you again. Well, your trick won't work anymore; we store voice patterns now." It rang off.

That's right, Joe realized. I remember reading in the newspaper about that. It was costing the government too much money the way it was—when we did what I tried to do just now. Nuts, he said to himself. Twenty-four hours before he could get any more free information. Of course, he could go to a private enterprise encyclopedia booth, to Mr. Encyclopedia. But it would cost as much as he had stored in his asbestos bag: the government, when licensing the nonstateowned enterprises such as Mr. Attorney and Mr. Encyclopedia and Mr. Job, had seen to that.

I think I got aced out, Joe Fernwright said to himself. As usual.

Our society, he thought broodingly, is the perfect form of government. Everyone is aced out, in the end.

3

When he reached his work cubicle the next morning he found a second special delivery letter waiting for him.

SHIP OUT TO PLOWMAN'S PLANET, MR. FERNWRIGHT, WHERE

YOU ARE NEEDED. YOUR LIFE WILL SIGNIFY SOMETHING; YOU

WILL CREATE A PERMANENT ENDEAVOR WHICH WILL OUTLAST

ME AS WELL AS YOU.

Plowman's Planet, Joe reflected. It rang a bell, although dimly. Absentmindedly, he dialed the encyclopedia's number.

"Is Plowman's Planet—" he began, but the artificial voice interrupted him.

"Not for another twelve hours. Goodby."

"Just one fact?" he said angrily. "I just want to find out if Sirius five and Plowman's—" Click. The robot mechanism had rung off. Bastards, he thought. All robot servo-mechanisms and all computers are bastards.