Produced by Greg Weeks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net Transcriber's note: This etext was produced from Amazing Science Fiction Stories October 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. The Table of Contents is not part of the original book. AMAZING STORIES SCIENCE FICTION NOVEL THIS CROWDED EARTH By ROBERT BLOCH ILLUSTRATOR FINLAY BOOK-LENGTH NOVEL COMPLETE IN THIS ISSUE * * * * * CONTENTS 1. Harry Collins--1997 2. Harry Collins--1998 3. President Winthrop--1999 4. Harry Collins--2000 5. Minnie Schultz--2009 6. Harry Collins--2012 7. Michael Cavendish--2027 8. Harry Collins--2029 9. Eric Donovan--2031 10. Harry Collins--2032 11. Jesse Pringle--2039 12. Littlejohn--2065 * * * * * 1. Harry Collins--1997 [Illustration: The evils of long and dangerous years finally erupted in blood.] The telescreen lit up promptly at eight a.m. Smiling Brad came on with his usual greeting. "Good morning--it's a beautiful day in Chicagee!" Harry Collins rolled over and twitched off the receiver. "This I doubt," he muttered. He sat up and reached into the closet for his clothing. Visitors--particularly feminine ones--were always exclaiming over the advantages of Harry's apartment. "So convenient," they would say. "Everything handy, right within reach. And think of all the extra steps you save!" Of course most of them were just being polite and trying to cheer Harry up. They knew damned well that he wasn't living in one room through any choice of his own. The Housing Act was something you just couldn't get around; not in Chicagee these days. A bachelor was entitled to one room--no more and no less. And even though Harry was making a speedy buck at the agency, he couldn't hope to beat the regulations. There was only one way to beat them and that was to get married. Marriage would automatically entitle him to two rooms--_if_ he could find them someplace. More than a few of his feminine visitors had hinted at just that, but Harry didn't respond. Marriage was no solution, the way he figured it. He knew that he couldn't hope to locate a two-room apartment any closer than eighty miles away. It was bad enough driving forty miles to and from work every morning and night without doubling the distance. If he did find a bigger place, that would mean a three-hour trip each way on one of the commutrains, and the commutrains were murder. The Black Hole of Calcutta, on wheels.