THE DOWNHILL SIDE OF THIRTY BY VIRGIL F. SHOCKLEY _Health was no longer a problem for the aged. All they had to do was ban sex and tobacco to those over thirty-five...._ [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, August 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Chuck Dane patted shaving lotion on his face, enjoying the second of vicious sting. He closed the medicine cabinet and stood for a minute examining himself in the fluorescent lighted mirror. He was lean and hard and, of course, tanned. A few grey hairs flecked the sideburns, but he didn't think that he looked thirty-five. And, damn it all to hell! he didn't feel thirty-five! He opened the bathroom door, and hesitated. He dreaded to walk through the photoelectric beam and set off that odious disc! Sometimes he got down on hands and knees and crawled under. But he felt so damn silly! Well, he couldn't stand there all day. It was Monday and they would expect him at the office. He squared his shoulders and walked into the hall. "Lung Cancer, Heart Attacks! Heart Attacks, Lung Cancer! Beware, old man, Be ... ware!" * * * * * The tinkly message followed him up the hall. "I could jam the damn thing!" he thought, "but they'd only repair it at daily Gov-Apts Inspection and report me again!" He pushed his hands into his pants pockets and walked into the dining ell. He slouched in his chair, and watched Sally swish back and forth from the kitchen as she set the table. She was in blue nylon pajamas and fuzzy blue mules. Her red hair was tied up in a provocative pony tail. She felt him watching her, gave him a devilish grin. "Sleep well last night, dear? In your own little bed?" "You know damn well I didn't!" God, he wanted a cigarette. After two years he still wanted one! When would the hunger for them ever stop? "You knew where I was sleeping. The door was unlocked!" She came to him, suddenly compassionate, and sat on his lap. She pulled his head against her. He felt, on his face, the slickness of the nylon, and underneath her firm body. She whispered, "You know honey, no matter what the government says, I'm not made for sleeping alone!" "And I'm thirty-five and not 'spose to!" "Thirty-five and eighty-nine days! How well I know! The toast!" She scooted off his lap and ran into the kitchen. How she managed to burn toast in an electronic toaster beat him. By sending it down twice, he suspected. He picked up the paper by his plate and unfolded it. The first page, as usual, was devoted to the Propagandists. Headlines proclaimed: "375 died this weekend doing _you know what_." The second line asked: "Will you be next?"