"Sure," the man said. "Haven't had a bad one all year. These new models here have built-in voices. They don't light up like the old ones." Carrin sat down where the man had sat and waited for the first washing machine to come through. His job was the soul of simplicity. He just sat there and the machines went by him. He pressed a button on them and found out if they were all right. They always were. After passing him, the washing machines went to the packaging section. The first one slid by on the long slide of rollers. He pressed the starting button on the side. "Ready for the wash," the washing machine said. Carrin pressed the release and let it go by. That boy of his, Carrin thought. Would he grow up and face his responsibilities? Would he mature and take his place in society? Carrin doubted it. The boy was a born rebel. If anyone got to Mars, it would be his kid. But the thought didn't especially disturb him. "Ready for the wash." Another machine went by. Carrin remembered something about Miller. The jovial man had always been talking about the planets, always kidding about going off somewhere and roughing it. He hadn't, though. He'd committed suicide. "Ready for the wash." Carrin had eight hours in front of him, and he loosened his belt to prepare for it. Eight hours of pushing buttons and listening to a machine announce its readiness. "Ready for the wash." He pressed the release. "Ready for the wash." Carrin's mind strayed from the job, which didn't need much attention in any case. He wished he had done what he had longed to do as a youngster. It would have been great to be a rocket pilot, to push a button and go to Mars. --ROBERT SHECKLEY Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _Galaxy Science Fiction_ December 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note.