*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 60545 ***

                          The Used People Lot

                            BY IRVING FANG

                  _Faint car never won fair lady!...
                   Make_ your _car proud of you!...
                 Grinning Gregory helps used people!_

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
              Worlds of If Science Fiction, August 1958.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


It's had it. Finished. Done. My wonderful red Thunderflash, I thought
to myself, isn't worth the electricity to atomize it to Kingdom Come.

Ever since that drunk in his two-seat Charioteer plowed into the rear
end with such force that even my radar repellant couldn't stop it,
my Thunderflash had been out of kilter. The specialists my garage
recommended worked over it for two days, but couldn't get it to
running the way it did new.

And what was I supposed to do for an automobile now? I had signed the
customary 40-year pact for half my salary to pay for it. That meant I
would still be shelling out by 2117.

Weeping over it wasn't going to do any good. It was stuck on the fifth
level expressway and that was that. I levered myself out (at least
the ejector still worked) then got behind the car and gave it a good
old-fashioned push to get it on an off-ramp, out of the stream of
traffic.

After I parked I remembered I was heading for a date with Jenny. I
checked my wallet. No, not enough for a taxi there. I would just have
to phone her to cancel the date.

Reluctantly I pushed the tip of my tongue against my tooth telephone.

"Operator," said the operator.

"Poplar 3104, please."

"Thank you. One moment. I'll ache it for you."

She dialed the number of the tooth telephone in Jenny's mouth, so the
two fine wires sent gentle electric currents into the nerve. On the
third ache Jenny clicked the receiver open with the tip of her tongue.

"Hello?"

"Jenny, this is Arnold. I won't be able to come over this evening."

"But we had a date," Jenny said in a petulant voice.

"I know, but my car broke down."

"Again?"

"Yes, honey."

"Why don't you do something about it?" Jenny complained.

"But baby, what can I do? I've been to the garage. I've been to the
specialists. I'm so broke on account of these repair bills I've been
living on macaroni concentrate for the last couple of weeks."

Jenny, my beautiful sweetheart, was distinctly unhappy. "Don't come to
me with your troubles," she replied. "In fact, you don't have to come
to me at all until you can come like a gentleman."

"Aw, listen just a minute, Jenny," I started to plead. But it was too
late. Jenny had clicked off.

A fine thermokettle of fish! A month ago I had a shiny lifetime car and
was romancing the best looking girl in town. Then one drunk comes along
and my car is next to useless and my girl is mad at me.

Feeling in a distinctly blue mood I moved my tongue to the other side
of my mouth and shoved on my tooth radio. I rolled the tongue over the
bottom of the tooth until I got a program with some blues music. Just
the way I felt. The blues. I sat in the front seat of my Thunderflash
and listened to the music echoing against my tonsils.

After the song came the inevitable commercial. Only this was a new one.
The announcer said:

"Here's some big, big, big news from Grinning Gregory, your largest
volume dealer in lifetime cars. Gregory announced today that his used
people lots are nearly empty. Yes, Grinning Gregory's used people lots
are nearly empty. And that means good, good, good news for you car
owners with lifetime contracts who would like new cars.

"Grinning Gregory has added to his stocks of new Orions,
Thunderflashes, Galaxies, Solars, Charioteers, Protons and Fords. For
the first time in two years, yes, the first time in two years, he has
more new cars than new people to sell them to.

"So he is offering a limited number of them to used people, you folks
who have had cars, on his conveniently located used people lots. Come
on down and let some of Grinning Gregory's new cars look you over.
Be sure and bring photostats of your credit ratings and official car
histories. Hurry, hurry, hurry and avoid the rush to Grinning Gregory's
used people lots."

The commercial ended and was replaced by music.

Gosh, that was exciting news. Ever since the accident I had given up
hope of ever owning a decent running car again, automobile prices and
government restrictions being what they were.

I clicked on my tooth telephone and ached my garage mechanic to come
by and pick up my car. Then I took my credit rating and official car
history from the glove compartment and caught a helibus to the nearest
of Grinning Gregory's used people lots.

       *       *       *       *       *

A lot of guys were already there before me, most of them in the same
fix I was. They had been in accidents or they were divorced and their
wives got custody of the car, although they still had to pay for it.

Some of them had been on the lot for some time and looked a little
shopworn under the lights and fluttering pennants, but they hadn't
found a car yet that would take them. We were all classified as used
people, a lot less desirable than people who hadn't signed for cars yet.

One of Grinning Gregory's contract brokers lined us up in a row facing
the path the cars would come by robot direction. The fellow to my right
slicked his hair down neatly and began shining his shoe-tops on the
backs of his trouser legs.

"Sure hope I get selected," he whispered nervously to me. "Boy, don't
you sometimes wish you were living a couple of hundred years ago when
cars were cheap enough so that people were doing the picking?"

"Not me," I told him. "Drive that junk? I'll admit you didn't have to
swear but a couple of years of your life away. But look at all you get
now in a car."

"Mmm, I suppose you're right," he said. "My Orion was stolen a year ago
when I accidentally cut off the burglar photocell. The police never did
find it and I've been trying ever since to get another one."

"This is the first time I've tried," I said. "My car...."

"Ssh," he interrupted. "Here they come."

A procession of new cars, led by a beautiful green Solar convertible,
inched its way along the row of hopeful buyers, all of us with our
credit ratings and car histories pinned to our lapels.

Each car's robot mechanism recorded our statistics, took our pictures,
noted our heights, weights and appearances, then began to correlate the
data.

By government order the robot mechanism was directed to select its
most promising future owner. A sobersides bank president, for example,
might dearly love to change his big black Galaxy sedan for a low-slung
Charioteer sports car, but sports cars were planned with crew-cutted
college boys in mind, so the bank president would be likely to end up
with another big Galaxy. Of course, the payment rate was fixed and the
contracts were almost always for 40 years. A tie salesman might want a
Galaxy to make an impression on his neighbors, but he'd probably wind
up with a Proton or a Thunderflash like I had. I was a tie salesman.

The Solar came abreast of me. I stood straight and smiling as it began
to note my statistics. It flashed a 23 when it was done.

Not so good. That put me in the 23 percentile rank of its desirability.
The next car, a rhinestone Ford, gave me a 28. I was rated 22, 31, 14
(by a Galaxy), 27, 35 and 30 by the next six cars. That was the way it
went for the whole procession. I received the highest rating, 58, from
an experimental model Proton that was no longer in production, but I
knew it was rating everybody higher and I was pretty gloomy.

Imagine my surprise when my name was called out as one of the possible
choices. I went into the broker's office and was told the Proton would
select me if I would get rid of all but ten years of my Thunderflash
contract. That meant I had to find someone to take my car and 27 years
of my contract, since I had been paying for three years of the 40. The
price of the Proton, the broker told me, was scaled down to a 30-year
contract because it was an off-model.

But who would take my heap with a 27-year contract attached to it? The
broker said Grinning Gregory might go for five years, just out of the
goodness of his big, big, big heart. I wouldn't get that kind of a deal
anywhere else, the broker said.

Maybe I wouldn't, but that didn't do me much good. I needed someone to
take 27 years.

Harry! Why didn't I think of Harry before? He didn't have a car yet.
Skinflint Harry didn't want to sign the standard 40-year contract for a
car and he had been shopping around for second-hand cars. Besides, good
old Harry knew how crazy I was about Jenny. He had even taken her out a
couple of times.

I gave Harry an ache on the telephone and told him I'd be right over.
Then I ached the garage and the mechanic told me he could get my
Thunderflash in pretty good running condition again, even though he
couldn't promise anything permanent. I caught a helibus to my friend's
apartment.

"Harry, old pal, I've got the chance of a lifetime for both of us."

Harry eyed me suspiciously. "How's that?" he asked.

"Well, here's the deal. You know my real fine Thunderflash? You said
it was a sharp car. It is. It's a first class car. But ever since that
slight accident, I've had just a wee bit of trouble with it. Not much,
you understand, but it's niggling enough to annoy my girl, Jenny. You
remember Jenny, the girl you used to go with before I cut you out? Ha!
Ha! Anyhow, Jenny wants me to get another car. A newer one."

"But how can you?" Harry asked. "You already have one."

"That's just it, old buddy," I replied. "Grinning Gregory has one of
those experimental model Protons. It's a beauty, shimmering orange with
purple wheels and bearskin upholstery. You'd love it. They'll let me
have it on a 30-year contract if I can sell 27 years of my Thunderflash
contract. So here's what I'm going to do for you, pal. I'll keep ten
years of the contract and let you have the Thunderflash for the rest.
You'll be getting a three-year-old car with 13 years of the contract
taken care of. Now is that a deal or is that a deal!"

Harry wasn't convinced. "What's wrong with your car?"

"Oh, hardly anything."

"What's hardly anything?"

"Not even worth mentioning."

"What's not worth mentioning?"

"To tell the truth, the frame is just the least trifle out of line and
every once in a great while it makes the rear wheel twist sideways."

"I don't know," said Harry.

"Good old cautious, hard-headed Harry," I told him. "You are getting
the deal of a lifetime and doing a good, loyal friend a big favor
besides."

"I still don't know, Arnold," said Harry.

"All right. When will you know?"

"Let me sleep on it tonight."

"OK, Harry."

I went home in high spirits. I knew Harry would come through for me and
take that wreck off my hands. He always was a man with an eye out for a
deal.

       *       *       *       *       *

I slept late the next morning, but by afternoon I was over to the used
people lot to tell them to hold the Proton for me for another day.
Instead, they tapped me over the head with the news that someone came
in that morning and bought it. And they didn't have another one like it
that would accept me.

Another hope gone astray! I caught a helibus to the garage and picked
up my Thunderflash after paying a whopping repair bill. I drove to
Jenny's house to convince her it was just as good as new.

Jenny's mother met me at the door.

"Hello, Arnold," she said with the big smile of greeting she always
gave me. "I'm glad to see you and I hope you'll keep dropping over to
see me, but Jenny isn't here any more."

"Not here?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Where is she?"

"She eloped less than an hour ago. You remember the boy she used to
go with, Harry? He came by in a beautiful new car. It was shimmering
orange with purple wheels and bearskin upholstery and...."





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Used People Lot, by Irving Fang

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 60545 ***