Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net What Shall It Profit? BY POUL ANDERSON _"If you would build a tower, sit down first and count the cost, to see if you have enough to finish it." ... The price may be much too high._ [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, June 1956. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] "The chickens got out of the coop and flew away three hundred years ago," said Barwell. "Now they're coming home to roost." He hiccoughed. His finger wobbled to the dial and clicked off another whisky. The machine pondered the matter and flashed an apologetic sign: _Please deposit your money_. "Oh, damn," said Barwell. "I'm broke." Radek shrugged and gave the slot a two-credit piece. It slid the whisky out on a tray with his change. He stuck the coins in his pouch and took another careful sip of beer. Barwell grabbed the whisky glass like a drowning man. He _would_ drown, thought Radek, if he sloshed much more into his stomach. There was an Asian whine to the music drifting past the curtains into the booth. Radek could hear the talk and laughter well enough to catch their raucous overtones. Somebody swore as dice rattled wrong for him. Somebody else shouted coarse good wishes as his friend took a hostess upstairs. He wondered why vice was always so cheerless when you went into a place and paid for it. "I am going to get drunk tonight," announced Barwell. "I am going to get so high in the stony sky you'll need radar to find me. Then I shall raise the red flag of revolution." "And tomorrow?" asked Radek quietly. Barwell grimaced. "Don't ask me about tomorrow. Tomorrow I will be among the great leisure class--to hell with euphemisms--the unemployed. Nothing I can do that some goddam machine can't do quicker and better. So a benevolent state will feed me and clothe me and house me and give me a little spending money to have fun on. This is known as citizen's credit. They used to call it a dole. Tomorrow I shall have to be more systematic about the revolution--join the League or something." "The trouble with you," Radek needled him, "is that you can't adapt. Technology has made the labor of most people, except the first-rank creative genius, unnecessary. This leaves the majority with a void of years to fill somehow--a sense of uprootedness and lost self-respect--which is rather horrible. And in any case, they don't like to think in scientific terms ... it doesn't come natural to the average man." Barwell gave him a bleary stare out of a flushed, sagging face. "I s'pose you're one of the geniuses," he said. "You got work."