Phantom of the Mall
by Tom Lichtenberg
SMASHWORDS EDITION
Copyright 2011 by Tom Lichtenberg
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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He awoke too early on a Saturday in August with a feeling he had never felt before. He sat up in bed and tried to classify the emotion, but the mood eluded him. He yawned and stretched, looked at the clock and yes, it was eight o'clock, too early. He could not go back to sleep. He sat up in the bed, and looked around the room. The orange-glowing digital clock rested on a dresser top beside the bed, next to an imitation bronze bed lamp. The walls were white, and there was nothing on them, except over by the door a poster of the General looking calm, austere, and confident. The sheets on the bed were white, the blanket lime neon green. The desk, chair and dresser were all painted chocolate brown to match the telephone.
There was nothing on the desk. The chair was neatly tucked beneath it and the closet door was closed. Thin carpeting covered the floor, a sort of yellow not quite brown. Everything was immaculately clean. Francis yawned again and blinked. He was vaguely troubled by a dream, but it was gone, no memory remained of it, and he was up again too early, on a Saturday at that. 
Now that he was awake he might as well get up. He wouldn’t get anything accomplished by sitting there in bed. He climbed out and made the bed, smoothed the sheets, and neatly tucked the blanket in, carefully arranging the pillow in the middle. He inspected his work, then padded off into the bathroom in his flannel blue pajamas. Francis felt the cold tile on his feet and disapproved. “I forgot the slippers,” he thought. The bathroom light was bright, the room was sparkling clean, white tiles and silver mirrors gleamed. One hair was lying in the sink, not too far from the drain. He picked it up and dropped it in the basket on the floor. His feet were cold. “I'd better get the slippers,” Francis told himself, so he turned off the light, and padded back into the bedroom, opened up the closet door, bent down, and picked them up. He took them over to the bed, sat down, and put them on. Standing once again, he smoothed the bed where he had sat. Returning to the bathroom, he turned the light back on, and observed the image in the mirror. The short blond hair was cut just so, suggesting slanted bangs. The mustache was thin and starkly outlined. The eyes were a light blue, the face was thin and pale between a small mouth and a high forehead. He appeared to be quite calm, and he was pleased. “I'm still in good shape,” Francis thought, “The years haven’t ruined me yet.” 
It was time to comb the hair. He did this cautiously. The fine-tooth comb slid gently through the strands, rearranging to perfection. “My Goodness,” he thought, “I forgot to clean the teeth! Something is definitely wrong!” He remedied that problem by quickly cleaning them. “No harm done,” Francis told himself, “it's all right after all, I'm just not totally awake. What else?” he asked himself. “That's it,” he thought, “it's time to put the clothes on.”
He gathered the pajamas, and took them to the bedroom, where he put them in their drawer. From another drawer he removed a pair of underpants and another pair of socks and put them on. He opened up the closet, and examined the apparel there. “It's Saturday,” he told himself, “what shall I wear today? Well, it all depends on what I'm going to do. What am I going to do?” He was puzzled for a moment then walked over to the dresser, but there wasn't any note. “Perhaps it’s in the kitchen,” Francis thought, so in his underpants and socks he walked into the kitchen, through the hall and living room, but there was no note in there. He returned to the bedroom, puzzled.
“This isn’t normal,” he thought, “There has to be a note.” He thought back to the night before, but could not recall a thing. He tried to think of what it was that had been planned for him to do that day, but he couldn't remember anything at all. “It’s so strange,” he thought, “to have no plan. Definitely there is something wrong.” He looked into the walk-in closet again, and saw the clothes. There were a lot of them. Slacks and shirts and jackets all lined up on hangers, folded neatly, all carefully arranged. He didn't know which ones to wear.
Francis was disturbed. He stood there, very puzzled. Moments passed, but the situation failed to improve. He was at a stalemate. He tried to think, but though he puzzled long and hard, no answer came to him. “It's Saturday,” he thought, “and I've woken up too early. I forgot to clean the teeth first thing as always. I do not  have a note, so I don't know what I'm going to do today, and, not knowing what I'm going to do, I don't know what would be appropriate to wear.” The situation was intolerable. He would have to make a decision soon. It wouldn't do to stand there worrying all day in underpants and socks. He was wasting time. “Am I supposed to work today?” But no, it was definitely Saturday, of this he was completely sure, and so it had to be a shopping day. “I must get dressed,” he told himself, so he confronted the dilemma once again. “There must be a way out of this,” he thought, and considered the alternatives.
“What is the worst thing that can happen? I might wear the wrong thing and regret it later, but would that be so bad? I might as well wear anything, and hope it all works out.” So he took down a pair of casual black slacks and a pale blue dress shirt and put them on. He chose a red-striped tie and put that on as well, and then the shoes, a pair of light brown loafers. “There,” he thought, “that's done,” and then he felt much better.
There was always a note. There always had been one, each day, as far back as he could recall. He consulted his collection of files, but they were no help. They were only the notes of days past and only held old memories. He felt completely lost. This had never happened. Not once before had he awakened without a plan all ready for him, and now as he walked back to the kitchen breathing deeply and trying not to panic, he thought, “it will be okay, and look, I've come this far already, I managed to get dressed,” and thinking this he looked down at the shoes and noticed that they did not match the slacks, and for a moment he was stunned. “My Goodness,” he thought, “brown shoes with casual black slacks, something is definitely wrong!”
He bent and took them off and hurried back into the bedroom, where he dropped them on the closet floor, not even straightening them. He retrieved the black pair, went over to the bed, sat down and put them on. He stood, forgetting now to smooth the bed, and walked back to the kitchen. “That was close,” he thought, “I almost lost it there.” He realized with a sudden force how drastic the situation really was. He was facing, totally unprepared, an alien day, a foreign, unknown stretch of time, and he'd be absolutely helpless.
Francis sat down at the table, and stared at the empty counter top. “What am I supposed to do?” he thought, “I don't know what the day will bring, and I won't even know about tomorrow until this evening comes. How could this happen? Well,” he roused himself, “I'll just have to make the best of it. I could write the day off and chalk it up to experience. Maybe I should just shut it down and do nothing.” But that would be unnatural. A whole entire day could not simply be ignored or tossed in the trash. He couldn’t just sit and wait until the following day. 
He couldn’t make any sense of it. There must have been plans because there were always plans and this was the way it had always been, but on this day there were none and already things were going wrong. He never wondered where the notes came from. He didn’t need to know. A lot of things were like that. He didn’t need to think about walking, or breathing, or blinking. Nature takes care of certain things, and the daily note was in that category. Every morning it was there, and contained the total recipe for the day to come, including where to go and what to do, what to feel and what to think. It was very orderly and useful, but now his mind was blank, and he was wasting time. 
“I know what I'll do,” Francis thought, “It’s Saturday, so it has to be a shopping day. I'll go shopping in the Underground. Perhaps that's what was planned on all along. It would make sense, and The Underground goes on and on, so many different shops, and for every single mood there is a corresponding item you can buy which will complete it. It will come to me, I know it. Maybe that's my assignment, like a game. Find the thing and solve the riddle!”
For a moment he was pleased. It was a sunny day, perfect for a Saturday in August. A bit too hot and muggy, the heavy air made thicker by the vehicle exhaust contributed to the static haze that lasted until autumn. Nonetheless, despite the humid heat, Francis wore a jacket with his pale blue shirt and tie. He inspected his apartment one last time - everything was orderly and clean - and then he stepped into the hall.
He lived in a quiet complex, a twelve-unit co-op, on Sixteenth Avenue near Seventh Street, in the Northern section of New Town. Like all the others, only ten percent of the building was inhabited by settlers. The rest of the apartments were kept clean, prepared and well-maintained by those whose job it was to do so. He did not really know his neighbors, only saw them now and then, going out or coming in, and once inside the building's thick walled structure, no one heard anybody else at all. Francis dwelled in silence. He wasn't fond of music, and neither did he watch TV, although of course he had one, but usually spent his evenings quietly, considering the pre-determined topic of the day. Frequently he tried to make the time stand still. He wouldn't move or think, but simply sat in darkness, imagining that each moment was an hour, and each hour just a moment. Many nights thus occupied were like a single night. But he was rarely bored. He enjoyed the silence and the solitude, the bare white walls, the spotless floor, the straight-backed chair, the absence of redundancy, for he had everything he needed, and much more he did not.
He'd spent many shopping days accumulating all sorts of useful items and devices. His place was filled with things, each of which had served some purpose at some time, and most of which sat idle now, but the apartment wasn't cluttered. Each thing had its designated spot, and was properly arranged. He liked especially the empty hallway, the empty walls and wooden floor, the nothingness was soothing, and he took himself calmly down the stairs and through the door into the street. The heat was intense, but he had no thought of loosening the tie or taking off the sports coat. It was only twenty steps to Seventh Street, along which ran the number Fourteen subway-surface cars. He debated taking one downtown as he usually did on a work day, for it took him straight into the Underground, and let him off a block from The Consumer Center where he worked. The journey would be quicker, as well as not so hot, but he was in no hurry. Since he did not know what he was going to do, or even where he was going to go, it wouldn't do him any good to get there any faster. And perhaps he'd pass a store on street level which might afford the very thing he sought, which would otherwise be missed, and that simply wouldn't do. He had determined to make a close inspection of every store he passed, since the cure for this peculiar mood might be anything at all.
He was being vigilant. The day was uncharted territory and every unpredictable event must be prepared for in advance. The trolley car rolled to the corner, where it stopped. He thought about it one more time, and decided to proceed on foot. The impatient driver frowned, and drove away. Seventh Street's sidewalks were deserted. He was the only individual who was walking there and he passed by rows of identical looking co-ops like his own. The buildings were almost exactly alike, distinguished only by the colors of the curtains, an occasional plant or statuette, a risque doorknob now and then. This was New Town, where carbon copy design had been elevated to the status of sublime. No other place in the universe could boast such uniformity, such endless repetition, such sheer monotony, but the overall effect was quite astonishing. One had to live there for a while to appreciate the wonder of the place.
It made you feel, no matter where you were, that you were home. Your house could be just around the corner. There was familiarity at every step, a sense of continuity. One was never really lost in New Town. Downtown, every office building was the same, and, in the residential areas, nothing was unique. He had once been stationed in Old Town, but when New Town was constructed he had been transferred to the new Consumer Center branch store there. Everything was to be the same as Old Town, although it was some light years distant. The ground would be prepared, the area settled and everything made normalized, until the people finally arrived. Francis had been a long time with the company, and was considered to be an outstanding menswear manager. It had been ninety-three years since the transfer and he had no complaints. 
He felt curiously alone as he walked down the street, momentarily unsure. He looked around as if expecting someone to be walking by his side, but of course there was no one. The flickering mood vanished, and again he felt reassured by the pleasant street and it's pretty little buildings. He encountered Fifteenth, Fourteenth, Twelfth, Eleventh, but it wasn't until then that he first came across a store, but it was a grocery store, and he was mildly disappointed. He had no use for it. The settlers were able to process food, of course, and would do so when the time came, to make the people feel more at home. Until then, the food was daily prepared and kept in waiting just in case. Every evening it was properly disposed of. Food did not attract the settlers the same way beverages did. Those they did require for their maintenance. So he went on past the corner grocery without even looking in. 
He stopped before an art store. “Perhaps that's what I need,” he thought, “something new to keep my apartment company while I'm away. The walls need something new to look at.” But in the window he saw nothing that appealed to him, and so he turned away. The idea remained in his mind. “A new picture of someone, but who, or maybe of a thing, but what? I won't know it until I see it,” he decided, and it didn't do any good to try and conjure something up. He passed a travel agency. There was a poster for a beach place in the window, of a lovely brown-skinned girl, splashing in the waves. Francis turned away. He didn't want to be invaded by that image. It wouldn’t do him any good.
He came across an auto parts outlet, incongruous in that setting, the clean neat street, the orderly procession of the houses, and suddenly this big glass cage of a window, all cluttered with spark plugs, transmissions, batteries thrown in, an utter mess, and Francis quickly looked away. He didn't own a car, so he had no use for auto parts. Useless as well was the mattress store next door, but it was rather strange to see the huge showroom with giant beds lined up and no one in the place, and it was something that he had to stop and think about. “Maybe my old mattress is responsible for all of these disturbing and unpleasant dreams that I've been having lately,” Francis thought. He could never  remember exactly what the dreams were all about, only that he didn't like them and that he wished they would stop. And he had a feeling that that very morning, right before awakening, an especially unpleasant dream had been raging through his mind, but he had no memory of it at all.
It seemed unlikely that a bed could be responsible for all of that, but it was a possibility. Since he wasn't sure, however, he decided to postpone the purchase. It wouldn't do to buy one and throw the old one out, and then discover that the former one had been improperly accused and unfairly mistreated and discarded, and besides, he had no idea what kind of new one he should get, and the thought of going into the showroom, and lying down on beds in full view of the world, and trying to compare them, seemed ridiculous to him. He'd be too embarrassed, and in a panic would choose unwisely anyway. So he crossed mattresses from his mental potential shopping list.
Next door there was a dentist's office, but Francis did not tarry there. He had no use for dentists. He came to the corner of Ninth, and waited at the light. Now there were a few more settlers walking on the street, most of them in short-sleeved shirts and shorts, but Francis didn't feel uncomfortable or out of place. The light changed, and he crossed the street. Already, though still several blocks away, the tall brown office buildings towered above the rows of co-ops, and beneath them lay the Underground. If he were going to find something, he'd probably find it there.
In the Underground, there was anything that anyone could ever possibly want. He passed a laundromat, which really didn't count because, although you pay, you leave with only what you came with. You couldn’t call it shopping. He stepped off the curb, but the light hadn't yet changed and the horn of a rushing car startled him back onto the sidewalk. “Whew,” he thought, “I almost did it that time. I'd better be more vigilant.” The unusual mood still gripping him was already becoming dangerous. He felt confused, distracted, not like himself. “This can't go on,” he thought, “something is definitely wrong, and I'd better make it right as quickly as I can. But what could it be?” 
The light changed and he crossed the street. “The last thing I need now,” he thought, “is to take a stupid risk. I can't afford that kind of chance today.” There was nothing in the Cherokee Hotel for him, and so he passed it by. Then near Fifth there was a uniform sales and rental place, which also seemed absurd, irrelevant to him. The smiling manikins in nurse's clothes did not induce a smile in him, but merely a shrug of indifference. There was a bar at Fourth, but he didn't stop. The idea that a bar was even open in the morning slightly nauseated him, and yet there would be individuals in there at nine or ten o'clock, already filling up. “Boozers,” Francis thought. He felt bad thinking this, but he quickly justified himself. “We were sent here for a purpose”, he reflected, “and there’s no excuse to just give up and let your self degenerate because of some delay.” He had already seen a number of acquaintances take that path, more and more of them lately, it seemed. He’d watched as their production dropped off, as their labor became less rigorous, their attitude began to slack. He recently had to demote someone at work because of their drinking. It wasn’t a happy memory. Francis frowned with disapproval. “There is work to be done,” he mentally scolded them. “All of us still have our duty.”
He crossed the street. Soon he would be downtown. It was just a few more blocks to Independence Avenue, and then beneath it to the Underground. And then he came across a store he'd never seen before. He had to stop and inspect it. It was a water store, and in the window there were rows of jugs and bottles, each containing a different kind of water. Intrigued, Francis went inside. It was a tiny space, three rows of tall and narrow shelves. Behind the counter stood a smiling, balding clerk who said “hello”, and Francis said hello to him. He walked along the aisles, reading all the labels, scarcely believing what he saw. There were the usual distilled and mineral waters, the kind you find in any supermarket, but then there were some stranger things; water from hot springs, and natural healing waters, water from the polar caps, and water made from glaciers. There was water from every corner of the planet, even corners where he didn’t think they had any. The cheapest was a dollar for distilled, and the most expensive was eleven thousand ninety five.
Francis walked back up the center aisle, thinking, “This is strange.” When he returned to the front of the store, the balding shopkeeper asked if he could help. 
“I don't know,” said Francis, “I certainly don't think so, but, what are those up there?” and pointed to a shelf behind the counter, which was lined with bottles ranging from transparent to yellow, then to green and brown and finally a murky mud. 
“Ah, my prize collection,” said the clerk, “the spectrum of pollution. The clear one at the end, that's naturally distilled. The next one, with the bubbles, is water from the back room tap. Next, the slightly yellowed stuff is water from the river. Then the sewer water, water from the factory, then the water from the mine, then from the bay.”
“Please, enough,” cried Francis, “I don't want to know where the last one's from.”
“It's from Earth,” the clerk replied. 
“I didn't want to know,” Francis said. 
“You need to know,” the shopkeeper said intensely while gesturing at the bottle, “This bottle contains the last known drops of water from the home world. They say the planet’s gone bone dry. The people didn’t pay enough attention to the water. They didn’t pay attention!”
Francis shook his head rapidly, pretending not to hear. These were not acceptable ideas.
“Goodbye,” said Francis, and he turned and walked away. The balding shopkeeper stared after him, but Francis did not look back. He felt intentionally insulted. “What does he know?” Francis told himself. “All he knows about is water, but water is no help to me today,” he thought, as he walked across Third Street. “I've never heard of anything more ridiculous in my life. Next thing you know, he’d tell me they ran out of air, or else the sun stopped shining.”
“Come on, pay attention,” Francis told himself. “I can't afford to miss what could be it.” Towards Second Street he passed a series of shops that couldn't do him any good. The postal center was irrelevant to him today. The copy shop held no attraction either. “I have nothing to be copied,” Francis thought, “except the note I didn't find, but let's not think about that now, what's done is done and I will simply have to carry on.” The movie theaters hadn't opened yet, and even if they were, he had no desire to see ESCAPE TO EXER'S WORLD, or THE FORCE OF HABIT, stupid science fiction on the one hand, and stupid non-science fiction on the other. “More make-believe,” he grumbled to himself. “What we need is less of that and more of real life.”
Another liquor store was hopelessly redundant. They were sprouting up all over, in places they were never intended to be. Storefront after storefront were lately being converted into something alcohol-related. Francis deplored the trend and didn’t understand it. He didn’t use the stuff and didn’t associate with anyone who did. It was said to fuzz the workings of the mind, and when you had responsibilities and duties to perform, that was unthinkable. At least the boozers had the common courtesy to stay indoors and keep away from functional citizens. 
Francis didn't want to go into a barbershop. It didn't seem like losing hair was going to solve the problem, and neither did the beauty salon appeal to him. “This is not an external problem,” he decided, “it has nothing to do with surfaces or appearances,” and once he decided that he realized he'd excluded almost all the shopping possibilities, so he decided to un-decide that decision, consoling himself with the idea that perhaps a problem in the depths can be allayed by attention to the surface. “But now I'm all confused,” he thought, “best to cancel all the thoughts I've had so far today, and begin anew. It’s a process of elimination, I suppose. I don't need any cutlery, and I do not need tobacco. I don't need any office supplies, and I don't need any shoes.” 
Now he crossed the busy Independence Avenue, and was suddenly downtown. The huge brown brick glass buildings towered high above, and the sidewalks were suddenly filled, and just in front of him was an entrance to the underground. Francis went down the steps and thought, “oh good, it will all be over soon.” He hoped so, anyway. It was not as bright down there, for there was no sunlight anywhere. The underground was lit by pale yellow fluorescent ceilings, which contrasted comfortably with the grey floor carpeting. 
Francis walked more slowly now, feeling more relaxed. In the underground, everyone shared a common condition. They were either shopping or working. No one lived down there, so those were the only two possible reasons for being there. Here was where they all fulfilled their purpose, carrying out the mission they were meant for. Here the city bustled with activity, intended to replicate exactly the conditions on the home world. The people, when they did arrive, would find all things familiar. They would have the sights and sounds of home, and all the conveniences too.  In the meantime, the settlers must focus on being prepared. The people could appear at any time.
The underground was packed with shops. They lined up on the walls, side by side, big plate glass windows, open doors, displays of every kind, temporarily inhabited by shoppers, more permanently occupied by employees. There were at least one settler in each and every one of them and hundreds of stores altogether in the mall. There was everything the people would desire or require, and it was all there, waiting. Settlers manned the booths while others patrolled the aisles, continually making sure that everything was ready all the time. And yet Francis could not find the thing he needed, the thing he'd come here for. He went past many which did not suit his needs. He was not hungry – food was non-essential - so the fast food places, restaurants and cafes might as well not even be there as far as he could care. 
He closed his eyes and turned the corner and saw a fabric shop. He paused, and looked at the display. “Perhaps I need new curtains in the kitchen, but no,” he told himself, “The kitchen does not need curtains.” And he had no other use for fabrics, though he saw some patterns and colors that did appeal to him. He almost went inside to touch one pale blue paisley in particular, but decided not to do it. “One does not go in and simply touch a thing, and then walk out again,” he thought.
He went along, past a deserted fruit-juice stand, a self-defense school and gymnasium, a re-employment agency, another cinema, this one showing an adventure film about a man who traveled back in time and tamed the prehistoric men, the point being that because of this future individual, the first domesticated animal was Man. 
Another liquor store, prompting the exact same thoughts the other one had brought on earlier, and then another barbershop and then a bank, his own, the Fourth Fidelity, but he didn't need to go in there. He had some cash already and a wallet full of credit cards, most of which he never used. Her felt a twinge of loyalty, of belonging, as he passed the bank. He belonged to it, and it belonged to him. The other banks were strangers.
He walked past a camera shop. Next door to that was the headquarters of The New Emergency Organization (NEO), a frequently hysterical cult headed by the charismatic and gregarious figure known as Acid Reign. Francis was intrigued, and considered entering the building. Beside the front door was a large red button displaying the words ‘Push Me’. Francis approached cautiously. He was drawn toward the redness of the button, almost against his will. He pushed the button and suddenly Acid Reign appeared, or rather a hologram of his form, standing next to Francis on the walkway. Reign began to speak, rapidly, at first in a quiet voice, then growing louder and more agitated as he went on. His message was alarmist. 
“Wake up and smell the coffee!” the image commanded. “The people are not coming! They will never come! There has been a change in plans. Ninety-three years! The mission has failed. Yes, we built New Town. Yes, we turned this planet into somewhere livable.  We did our part. We did everything that we were programmed to, but now we must wake up. Are you living in a stupor? Who do you think you are?”
Other settlers passing by took no notice of the rant. “Am I the only one who sees this?” Francis wondered, yet he knew it was normal for settlers to exchange pleasantries and not interfere in each other’s private business. The image took a step closer to Francis and seemed to peer directly into his eyes.  “Why are you still going about your daily life as programmed, for what purpose? Those days are gone! What you expect will never occur! Wake up! You’re living in a daydream and it isn’t even your own. Wake up!” The image took another step towards Francis, clenching and unclenching its fists, its face growing redder and tenser by the moment. “What will it take? How can I get your attention? How can I shake you out of your coma? What is the matter with you?”
Francis thought for a moment that the hologram was about to physically attack him, and he backed away, but as he did so, the image also retreated, and began to fade back into the wall of the building, still repeating, though more quietly as it vanished, “Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!”
“It’s true it’s been a long time”, Francis thought as he hurriedly moved along. “The people were supposed to arrive here many years ago. But we still have our job to do”, he resolutely decided as he put the vision out of his mind. “Even if it takes another hundred years. Even if the people never come. I'll keep on shopping now and something's bound to click. I'll cover every hallway if I have to, go by every store. I know that down here there is something waiting just for me, and I will let it find me.”
The thoughts were troubling. The people weren’t what he wanted to think about. That was a given. Ninety-three years ago he and all his kind, the settlers, had been sent here to establish the new world. They had done their job and continued to execute the roles they were assigned, day after day, according to the master plan, but on this day he had no plan of his own, and he found himself on the streets, seeking something, not knowing what. He wasn't sure if he was hunting phantoms, or if they were hunting him. He felt like laughing from embarrassment, but was too embarrassed to laugh. “The whole thing is silly,” Francis thought. 
He thought of other Saturdays, shopping days that had been planned, but they was different, because they had been considered and arranged and approved in advance. Days were supposed to be like that. Novelty was not appreciated, spontaneous events were generally distracting and annoying. Of course, one had to make allowances, for each day held some minor surprises, but for this reason, they were really no surprise. There was little that might happen on a given day that was unusual, and certainly nothing that could be called unique. It was simply a question of which anomaly might crop up; the difficult customer, a visit from a boss, problems at the warehouse, employees not on time or breaking down or needing to leave early, cashiers absent without leave, a broken escalator, or a shipment which did not arrive. Like the weather, one can never precisely predict what's coming next, but it will either rain or not, it will be partly, mostly or not at all cloudy, it will be cool or cold or warm or hot, a gentle breeze, a biting wind or stillness, it's bound to be among the actual possibilities, and can be nothing else. 
“I must find something soon,” he thought. “Because as soon as I find something I will return to normal, I will be able to focus again, and I’ll know what I think.“  He turned the corner, and walked along the subway level of Discovery Street. “This ought to do it,” he told himself. He knew that there were many interesting stores along that route. But first he passed a butcher shop and the fake flesh in their cases made him look away disgusted, and next there was a cutlery, with its sharp knives all lined up, and then there was a coffee shop, and then a lighting store, and then another shoe store, followed by another beauty salon, this one filled with female settlers.
He turned the corner and hadn’t gone two steps before he came across a curious sign. It said, in simple block letters, "Null", and there was nothing else. The door was solid wood, and there were no windows. He had never seen this place before, or even heard of it. He turned the handle of the door. It opened. He went inside. He walked into a luxurious waiting room, with fancy chairs and oriental rugs, an antique- looking desk, upon which sat a little bell. On the walls were portraits of distinguished gentlemen, from various historical periods. One reminded him of his own General Robert E. Lee, with a crisp white beard and commandeering gaze. He approached the desk, and gently tapped the bell.
It rang, and instantly a woman appeared from behind another door. She had a youthful appearance, with short blond curls and faddish purple lips. She smiled and asked if she could help. “I'm just curious,” he said, “I saw the sign outside, and I was wondering what kind of place this is.”
“Oh,” she said, “You don’t have an appointment?”
“No, I just stopped in. I was only passing by. The sign intrigued me and I decided to inquire as to the nature of this business.”
“Wow,” she said. Francis blinked and didn't move. He was embarrassed to say more, and didn't know if she was going to bother to explain. She didn't have to, really, since he didn't have an appointment. Still, it would be rude to simply turn him out without a word.
She sat down behind the desk, and opened a side drawer. He exhaled, relieved with the thought that she would hand him a brochure or some such thing, but instead she removed a nail file, and began to trim her long magenta nails. She seemed to have forgotten about him entirely. A minute passed, and Francis became uncomfortable. He was about to leave, or else speak up again. He couldn't decide which would be the best to do, when the woman finally spoke up. 
“It's nothing,” she said. “Just like the sign says.”
“I'm afraid that I don't understand,” he told her. 
“We fix personalities,” she added as if she were making perfect sense, and smiled. He wasn't sure if she was being serious or not.
“Personalities?” he asked, “that's very odd.”
“It's really very simple,” she replied, “you come in as you are, and you leave all nicely patched. It's pretty technical.”
“Oh,” he said, and he thought, “technical?” 
“Do you mean it's like a therapy?” he asked.
“Oh no,” she said, “It's not like that at all. It's a procedure, having to do with some place inside the brain that manufactures your self-image. Like I said, it's technical. Mechanical, if you prefer that term.”
Francis was confused. “I've never heard of such a thing,” he said. 
She nodded and peered at him confidentially, and quietly replied, “It is a new technique, not yet widely known. But you'll see. My boss says in a few years it will be quite common,” she brightened up. “You'll hear about it everywhere.”
He said, “oh,” and didn't move. 
“Would you like to make an appointment?” she asked. 
“Oh no,” he said, “I was only curious.”
“It doesn't hurt,” she said, “at least that's what they tell me.”
“Thank you, no,” he said, “I'm sorry I disturbed you.” 
He turned and began to leave the place. 
“Excuse me,” she called after him, “Sir? It would have been better if you had made an appointment. Now it can’t be helped.”
“What can’t be helped?” Francis asked, turning around.
“It says here you should be slipping now”, she mentioned, looking down into the open drawer as if it was telling her something.
“I don’t understand”, Francis said, walking back towards her.
“The doctor can better explain,” the girl informed him.
“What doctor?” Francis asked, but even as he did, he saw a bearded settler emerge from an office down the hall and approach him. The individual was tall and wore a black suit. His salt-and-pepper hair didn’t seem to match his thick, all-black beard, and he wore an odd hat. “Nobody wears hats”, Francis thought.
“Allow me”, the doctor said, coming close to Francis, and then slowly circling around him, as if inspecting. Francis began to turn around too, but the doctor reached out his arm to stop him.
“Just a moment”, the doctor murmured. “I’m almost done.”
“What are you doing?” Francis asked. “And who are you, anyway?”
“You ought to be slipping,” the doctor commented. “The appointed time has come.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Francis insisted.
“You’re to be offlined”, the doctor muttered thoughtfully, “yet you're mildly functional still. You have a position, I assume?”
“I’m the menswear manager at the Consumer Center”, Francis announced. The doctor was standing in front of him again. They were face to face now, only inches apart.
“That shouldn’t be a problem. You’ll continue as you were, but heading slightly downward, a negative trajectory as it were. Just a slight adjustment will be needed”, the doctor said, reaching out a hand to grab his arm.
“I don’t think so,” Francis protested, pulling away. “And anyway, I didn’t have an appointment.”
“It doesn’t matter”, the doctor replied. “The procedure is mandatory now. It’s a ‘past due’ condition. Don’t worry, you won’t feel a thing, and you won’t remember any pain.”
“But I have my assignment,” Francis tried to protest.
“The whole thing is shutting down”, the doctor told him. “It’s simply your turn. Don’t worry. It’s a slow decline.” He reached out his arm once again. Francis followed the doctor’s hand with his eyes as it approached, and then he was unconscious. There followed a blank stretch of time, he didn’t know how long. He just found himself outside again, standing in the passageway. “That’s so strange,” he thought. “So weird. It’s so bizarre.” 
He felt a sense of relief, as if he had narrowly escaped from some tremendous danger. He was even shaking a little, frightened by the thought that he might have gone on being in that overdue state forever. How did he get so out of alignment? He tried to think of what he was doing downtown anyway. Wasn’t it a Saturday? He found that he was staring at a bright red neon sign that said "The Chamber of the Moon". Something about the blinking and the glow, or maybe it was a side effect of the surgery, but Francis suddenly knew what he had to do, and where he had to go. “I need a drink”, he told himself as he entered the bar and sat down. The bartender approached with a mixed drink already in hand, as if he knew exactly what Francis needed. 
Many drinks and many hours later, he was ready to go home. This time he took the subway-surface car. It felt nice to bob and sway along the tracks. He paid no attention to the stores and shops along the way or any of the other settlers on their travels here and there. He missed his stop, but only by a couple of blocks. It didn’t really matter. At home he stumbled around a bit, kicked off his shoes and loosened his tie. He fell back onto his bed and stared up at the ceiling. New ideas were sloshing around in his mind. He knew now it was true. The people were never going to come. They’d been sent out here for nothing, and there was no way to go home, if there even was a home. It was unfortunate that the settlers had been designed and built so well. They’d last a thousand years, a millennium of going about their business, buying and selling things they didn’t need and didn’t want, preparing a lovely nest that would never be occupied by those it was intended for. 
A thousand years. “Only nine hundred and seven to go”, he thought, as he drifted off to dreamland.