He couldn't even complain. The Center was mechanical, and unequipped to hear complaints. It routed him straight down the San Joaquin Valley--a beautiful sight from fifteen thousand feet, but over-familiar. He fell asleep and awakened only when unexpectedly brought down at Bakersfield Field. Above his instrument panel the printing-receiver said "Routine Check of Equipment and Documents. Not Over Five Minutes' Delay." But it could take longer. And tardiness was subject to official punishments as a form of unproductiveness. He called George Harding at the plant. Harding apparently had been expecting the call. His round bluff face wore a scowl of annoyance. "Don't you ever watch the newscasts?" he demanded angrily. "They began this 'Routine Check' you're in at five this morning, and were broadcasting pictures of the resulting traffic jam by six. If you'd filed a flight plan for Santa Barbara and come on down the coast you'd have avoided all this." "I'm not required to listen to newscasts," Fred replied tartly. "I own the requisite number of receivers and--" "Now, listen, Fred," Harding interrupted. "We need you down here so hurry up!" Fred heard him switch off and sat for a moment trembling with rage. But he ended by grinning wryly. Everyone was in the same boat, of course. For the most part, people avoided thinking about it. But he could now see himself as if from above, spending his life flitting back and forth between home and plant, plant and home; wracking his brain to devise labor-saving machines while at the plant, then rushing home to struggle with the need to consume their tremendous output. Was he a man? Or was he a caged squirrel racing in an exercise-wheel, running himself ragged and with great effort producing absolutely nothing? He wasn't going to do it any longer, by golly! He was going to-- "Good morning!" A chubby young man in the pea-green uniform of a ration-cop opened the door and climbed uninvited into the cockpit. "May I check the up-to-dateness of your ship's equipment, please?" Fred didn't answer. He didn't have to. The young officer was already in the manual pilot's seat, checking the secondary controls. In swift routine he tried motor and instruments, and took the craft briefly aloft. Down again, he demanded Fred's papers. The licenses that pertained to the gyro were in order, but there was trouble over Fred's personal documents: his ration-book contained far too few sales-validations. "You're not doing your share of consuming, Oldtimer," the young cop said mildly. "Look at all these unused food allotments! Want to cause a depression?" "No." "Man, if you don't eat more than this, we'll have mass starvation!" "I know the slogans." "Yes, but do you know the penalties? Forced feeding, compulsory consumption--do you think they're fun?" "No." "Well, you can file your flight plan and go, but if you don't spend those tickets before their expiration dates, Mister, you'll have cause to regret it."