Childhood's End - Arthur C. Clarke [63]
***
They moved in six weeks later. The single-storied house was small, but quite adequate for a family which had no intention of being greater than four. All the basic labour-saving devices were in evidence; at least, Jean admitted, there was no danger of reverting to the dark ages of domestic drudgery. It was slightly disturbing, however, to discover that there was a kitchen. In a community of this size, one would normally expect to dial Food Central, wait five minutes, and then get whatever meal they had selected. Individuality was all very well, but this, Jean feared, might be taking things a little too far. She wondered darkly if she would be expected to make the family's clothes as well as to prepare its meals. But there was no spinning-wheel between the automatic dish-washer and the radar range, soit wasn't quite as bad as that…
Of course, the rest of the house still looked very bare and raw. They were its first occupants, and it would be some time before all this aseptic newness had been converted into a warm, human home, The children, doubtless, would catalyze the process rather effectively. There was already (though Jean did not know it yet) an unfortunate victim of Jeffrey's expiring in the bath, as a result of that young man's ignorance of the fundamental difference between fresh and salt water.
Jean moved to the still uncurtained window and looked across the colony. It was a beautiful place, there was no doubt of that. The house stood on the western slopes of the low bill that dominated, because of the absence of any other competition, the island of Athens. Two kilometres to the north she could see the causeway-a thin knifeedge dividing the water-that led to Sparta. That rocky island, with its brooding volcanic cone, was such a contrast to this peaceful spot that it sometimes frightened her. She wondered how, the scientists could be so certain that it would never reawaken and overwhelm them all.
A wavering figure coming up the slope, keeping carefully to the palm-trees' shade in defiance of the rule of the road, attracted her eye. George was returning from his first conference. It was time to stop day-dreaming and get busy about the house.
A metallic crash announced the arrival of George's bicycle.
Jean wondered how long it was going to take them both to learn to ride. This was yet another unexpected aspect of life on the island. Private cars were not permitted, and indeed were unnecessary, since the greatest distance one could travel in a straight line was less than fifteen kilometres. There were various community-owned service vehicles-trucks, ambulances, and fire-engines, all restricted, except in cases of real emergency, to fifty kilometres an hour. As a result the inhabitants of Athens had plenty of exercise, uncongested streets-and no traffic accidents.
George gave his wife a perfunctory peck and collapsed with a sigh of relief into the nearest chair.
"Phew I" he said, mopping his brow. "Everyone raced past me on the way up the hill, so I suppose people do get used it. I think I've lost ten kilograms already."
"What sort of a day did you have?" asked Jean dutifully. She hoped George would not be too exhausted to help with the unpacking.
"Very stimulating. Of course I can't remember half the people I met, but they all seemed very pleasant. And the theatre is just as good as I'd hoped. We're starting work next week on Shaw's Back to Methuselah. I'll be in complete charge of sets and stage design. It'll make a change, not having a dozen people to tell me what I can't do. Yes, I think we're going to like it here."
"Despite the bicycles?"
George summoned up enough energy to grin.
"Yes," he said. "In a couple of weeks I won't even notice this little hill of ours."
He didn't really believe it-but it was perfectly true. It was another month, however, before Jean ceased to pine for the car, and discovered all the things one could do with one's own kitchen.
New Athens was not a natural and spontaneous