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B

R

B

By Kurt Vonngut Jr.

Translated by a fellow translator next door.

The short story is taken from

The Project Gutenberg

library

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Everything is perfectly saturated.

No prisons, no ghettos, no insane asylums, no cripples, no poverty, no war.

Disease was conquered. So is aging.

Death is a voluntary adventure. Except only from accidents

The population of the United States is held constant at forty million.

One bright morning in Chicago A man named Edward K. Wehling Jr. was waiting in the hospital for his wife to give birth. He was the only one sitting and waiting. People are not born every day like before.

Wehling was fifty-six. He was only a young man among the population with an average age of one hundred and twenty-nine years.

X-rays showed he was expecting triplets. This was the first time he was going to have a child.

Young Wehling sat curled up in a chair. head in hand The body was so pale that it was colorless. As if it would fade away He camouflaged himself perfectly to the waiting room as the room itself had an atmosphere of disorder and panic. The table and ashtray were moved from the wall. The floor was cluttered with mattress pads.

This room is being redecorated. It had to be redecorated to serve as a memorial for those who voluntarily died.

A bitter old man, about two hundred years old, sat on the folded steps. Painted a mural he didn't like. Going back to a time when people were still old with age. With a face like that, I'd guess he's probably around thirty-five years of age or so. Old age took its toll on him before the cure for aging was discovered.

The mural he is working on is of an intricate garden. Men and women dressed in white as doctors and nurses plowed the soil, laid seeds, sprayed insects and spread fertilizer.

Men and women in purple clothes plucking grass. Cut down old and diseased trees, sweep up leaves and debris, and place them in the incinerator.

No, never, never—never in medieval Holland or ancient Japan would there have been such a formal or well-maintained garden. Every plant gets as much soil, light, water, air and nutrients as it needs.

A hospital employee walked down the hall, sniffling and singing a catchy song.

If you don't like kissing me, darling

I will do this

Go find the girl in the purple dress.

Kiss this sad world goodbye.

If you don't accept my love

Why must I stay?

I will leave this old world.

Then let a small child take his place.

The employee looked at the mural and the artist. “It looked so real,” he says, “that I could literally picture myself standing in the middle of it.”

“And what makes you think that you're not in a garden?” the artist said. He smiled sarcastically. “This picture is called 'The Garden of Happy Life'"

“Dr. Hitz looks great,” the employee said.

He was referring to one of the white men in the painting, Dr. Benjamin Hitz, the hospital's head of obstetrics. Hitz is so handsome that he almost goes blind when he looks at him.

“There are still many people waiting to have their faces drawn,” the employee said, referring to the faces of many people in the murals still open. It was there that the faces of important people would be drawn, whether from Chicago hospital employees or from the central end-of-life office.

“It would be nice to be able to paint a beautiful portrait like that,” the employee said.

The painter's face was scrunched up in disgust. “Do you think I'm proud of this stained wall?” he said. “Do you really think I believe this is what life is like?”

“So what is life like for you?” the employee said.

The painter points to a messy apron. “That picture should be clear,” he said. “Remember it, and you will see a picture more truthful than this one.”

“Are you a poor old duck?”

“Is it illegal then?”

The employee shrugged. “If you don't like it here, Grandpa---,” he said, ending his sentence with an auspicious phone number for those who don't want to live anymore to call. The zero in that number is pronounced nott.

The number is: “2

B R 0 2 B”

It was the phone number of an organization with a strange nickname. Whether it be: “Snack Shop,” “Bird Land,” “Can Press,” “Cat Box,” “Loser Eliminator,” “Easy Way,” “Goodbye Mom,” “Happy Hooliganism,” “Kiss Me Quickly.” “Lucky Pierre,” “Sheep Cleanser,” “Watch Out for the Blender,” “Cry No More,” and “Why Worry?”

“ToBe NotToBe” is the telephone number for the municipal gas chamber of the Central End of Life Office.

The painter put his thumb on his nose and pointed at the employee. “If I were to decide when I was going,” he said, “I probably wouldn't be going in the sheep wash.”

“Ah, you'll do it yourself, right?” said the employee. “It's a mess, Grandpa. Don't you think about the hearts of the people who have to come clean up after the business is finished?”

The painter expresses with a gutsy expression that conveys his complete disinterest in this difficult existence. “The world probably won't be alright. If it gets a little messier,” he said.

The employee laughed and moved on.

Waiting Father Wehling Mumbling something while keeping his head down. before going quiet again

A woman who looked neither graceful nor intimidating took long steps. Entering in high heels, her shoes, stockings, coat, bag, and sailor hat were all purple. Purple, as the painter calls it The color of grapes on the Day of the Last Judgment

On the pendant on her bag is the badge of the service unit in the Central End of Life Office. It was an image of an eagle perched on a revolving door.

This woman has a lot of hair growing on her face. It's definitely a mustache. One strange thing about the gaslighting girls is that No matter how cute or girly they were when they first arrived. They grow mustaches after about five years of work.

“Is this not where I have come?” she said to the painter.

“A lot of times it depends on what your business is,” he said. “You're not going to have a baby, are you?”

“He told me to do some modeling,” she said. “My name is Leora Duncan,” she paused.

“Then you work dunking people,” he said.

“What?” she said.

“Let it be,” he said.

“That picture is really beautiful,” she said. “It's like heaven.”

“Something like that,” said the painter. He pulled out a list of names from his work shirt pocket. “Duncan, Duncan, Duncan,” he said as he searched for her name on the list. “Yes--- there you are, Mr. Earn the right to be remembered forever. See these headless people? Which one do you want me to draw you to wear?

We still have options left.”

She observed the frescoes coldly. “Well,” she said, “they all look the same to me. I have no knowledge of art.”

“All bodies are the same, right?” he said. “Well, as an expert in fine arts, I suggest taking someone here.” He was referring to the faceless woman who was carrying dead, dry branches to the incinerator.

“Um,” Leora Duncan said, “Isn’t that the garbage collector? That is, I work in service. I don't pick up trash.”

The painter clapped his hands and sneered happily. “You say you have no knowledge of art. And the next moment you proved that you were more knowledgeable than me! Surely a pretty girl like you is not suitable for the job of carrying a porter! A pruner or a tiller would be more suitable for you.” He pointed to a person in purple who was cutting dead branches from an apple tree. “This person?” he said. “Do you like this person?”

“God--” she said, her face blushing in condescension. “Right---that's right next to Dr. Hitz.”

“Does that make you uncomfortable?” he said.

“Yes, where? No!” she said. “It's---it's an honor.”

“Ah, you admire him, right?” he said.

“Who doesn't admire him?” she said, revering Hitz's paintings. In the picture, he has a tan body, white hair, and the intuition of Zeus. Two hundred and forty years old “Who doesn't admire him?” she said again. “He was the founder of the first gas chamber in Chicago.”

“Nothing soothes me,” said the painter, “as drawing you beside him all the time, trimming the pieces---that catch his eye and deem them worth cutting.”

“The work I do is similar to this,” she said. She is shy about her work. Her job is to make people feel at ease when she's killing them.

And while Leora Duncan stood as the model for her portrait. It was in the waiting room that Dr. Hitz came jumping in. He is seven feet tall. Radiant with excellence, success, and joy in living.

“Oh, Mrs. Duncan! Mrs. Duncan!” he said, cracking a joke. “What are you doing here?” he said. “This is not a place where people go out. This is where people come!”

“We will be in the same picture,” she said coyly.

“Great!” said Dr. Hitz cordially. “And that picture doesn't really work?”

“I couldn't be happier to be in that picture with you,” she said.

“Let me tell you,” he said, “I would be honored to be in your picture.” This wonderful world we live in would not be possible.”

He shook her hand and walked towards the door that led to the delivery room. “Guess who just happened to be born,” he said.

“I don't,” she said.

“Triplets!” he said.

“Triplets!” she said, shocked by the legal consequences of triplets.

The law states that no newborn child will survive if the parents cannot find someone willing to die in their stead. The triplets, if they were to all survive Then you need to find three people who volunteer.

“Does his ruler have three volunteers?” Leora Duncan said.

“Last time I heard,” Dr. Hitz said. “They have one person. Searching for two more.”

“I don't think they were able to make it in time,” she said. “No one has made three appointments with us. Not at all. There was only one person today. Unless someone contacts me after I go back. What are their names?”

“Wehling,” said the waiting father. Look up Eyes bloodshot and unsightly. “Edward K. Wehling, Jr. is the name of a happy man about to become a father.”

“Oh, Mr. Wehling,” said Dr. Hitz, “I didn't even notice you.”

“The Invisible Man,” Wehling said.

“They just called to tell me that your triplets have been born,” Dr. Hitz said. “They are all healthy. So does the child's mother. I'm going to go take a look right now.”

“Hurray,” Wehling said emotionlessly.

“You don't sound very happy,” Dr. Hitz said.

“What kind of person would be happy in my situation?” said Wehling, using his hands in a gesture that conveyed a carefree simplicity. “All I have to do is choose one child to have. Then he took my grandfather to Sukjai, a hooligan, and returned with the receipt.”

Dr. Hitz stood tall in front of him, feeling tense with Wehling. “Don't you believe in population control, Mr. Wehling?” he said.

“I think it's a perfect fit,” Wehling said defiantly.

“Do you want to go back to the good old days, when the world's twenty billion people would become forty billion? And eighty billion people And a hundred and sixty million people? Do you know what a druplet is, Mr. Wehling?” Hitz said.

“No,” Wehling said sullenly.

“A druplet, Mr. Wehling, is a small round lump. One block is one blackberry seed,” says Dr. Hitz. “If the population is not controlled, We humans still live crowded together on the old earth. This looks like a druplet on a blackberry! Think!”

Wehling continued to stare at the same spot on the wall.

“It was 2000,” says Dr. Hitz, “before scientists were laying the groundwork for the law. There wasn't even enough water to drink. There was nothing to eat but seaweed. But people still insist that they have the same right to reproduce as wild rabbits. He also said that if possible, he would also like to keep the right to live forever.”

“I want to keep the child,” Wehling said quietly. “Keep all three of them.”

“Of course you would,” Dr. Hitz said. “That's how we humans are.”

“I don't want my grandfather to die either,” Wehling said.

“No one is happy when they take their loved ones to the cat box,” Dr. Hitz said sympathetically.

“I don't think we should call it that,” Leora Duncan said.

"what?"

"I don't think we should call it 'cat box' and things like that," she said. "It misleads people."

“You said it exactly right,” Dr. Hitz said. “Forgive me,” he corrected himself, using the official name of Hom Gassed. A name that no one had ever used in conversation before. “I should call it ‘A suite for ethical suicide,'” he said.

“It sounds so much better,” Leora Duncan said.

“Your child, whoever you choose to keep, Mr. Wehling,” Dr. Hitz said, “he or she lives on a happy, open, clean, and prosperous world, a world like the one in that mural. Thanks to population control.” He shook his head. “Two hundred years ago. When I was young The world is such a hell that anyone would think that they would not be able to survive another twenty years.

Centuries of peace and abundance will last as long as our imaginations can dream.”

His smile shines.

That smile faded as he saw that Wehling had just pulled out a revolver.

Wehling shoots Dr. Hitz until death “Here, there is room for one person. It's big too,” he said.

And then shot Leora Duncan. “It's just death,” he said as she fell. “This is it! There's room for two."

Then he shot himself. This makes three places for three children.

No one ran to look, no one, as far as I could see, heard the sound of a gunshot.

Painter sitting on a folding ladder Looking down to consider the tragic scene

A painter ponders the sorrowful mysteries of life. want to be born Once born, I want to grow. Spread your wings and stay as long as possible. To do it all in this little world would take forever.

Whatever answer the artist could come up with was hopeless. Certainly more hopeless than the cat box. Happy as a hooligan, the road is easy, he misses the war. I miss the epidemic. I miss the famine.

He knew he would probably never paint again. He let the brush fall onto the apron below. And he decided that he was enough with his life in the Garden of Happiness. And he himself slowly stepped down the stairs.

He picked up Wehling's pistol. intending to shoot himself

But he didn't dare.

Then he saw a telephone booth in the corner of the room. He walked towards it. Press the number he remembers by heart: “2.

B R 0 2 B”

“Central Office Ends Life,” said the warm voice of the waitress.

“When is the earliest I can book an appointment?” he said carefully.

“We can book you an appointment for this afternoon,” she said. “Maybe sooner. If an appointment is cancelled.”

“Yes,” said the painter. “Give me my name, if you please.” And he gave his name, spelling it out.

“Thank you very much,” the waitress said. “Your city thanks you. Your country thanks you. Your world thanks you. But the deepest thanks come from the next generation.”

finish