two and a half days in debit.

He'd been walking the streets in a sort of daze, signing slips right and
left while his own pad of slips stayed in his pocket. He hadn't cared,
either, until now, because in this brave new world of the one
freedom--freedom from work--he was abominably unhappy.

Everybody struggled all day to get enough points to stay even with
Central, and what good did it do them? You got even one day, but the
next day you had to start all over. There wasn't any point to it. So
he'd said to hell with it, and for five days now he'd ignored the
Machine entirely except to line up automatically once a day at the
concourse to have his card audited. And for five straight days the
balance had been in red.

Then, today, he had seen Conley on the street, coming toward him. All of
a sudden Mark had been scared. He didn't know what Central would do to
him--nobody knew--but he didn't want to find out, either. He ran from
Conley.

Now he crouched in the dust behind an empty counter while Conley's
footsteps approached. He held his breath when they got close, and when
they passed the broken window he was very thankful.

It was late afternoon and he thought Conley would go back to Central.
Nobody knew much about Conley except that he represented the Machine and
that he seemed to disappear within it every afternoon.

So, presently, Mark crawled out of the broken window and walked down to
Main Street. He looked carefully right and left and then, not seeing
Conley's tall form above the traffic, he wandered slowly down the
street, trying to figure things out. Why wasn't there anything worth
while to do? What was the reason for all the broken windows and empty
stores? Had there once been places where people could buy things like
food and clothes? Maybe--before Central Audit Bureau had come into
existence. Or had Central always been there?

Mark saw the old lady sitting in the wheel-chair. He turned out absently
to walk by her. He saw her put her foot in his way but his brain wasn't
working. He stumbled over her foot.

Instantly the old lady half arose from her chair as if in pain,
shrieking and brandishing her cane, the leg held stiffly out in front of
her. "You've injured me," she shrieked in a raucous voice. "You've hurt
my lame foot!"

Mark stood there dumbly. He was a young man and so he didn't at once
foresee what was about to happen.

A crowd gathered in no time. The old lady was putting on a show. Mark
did