A silent elevator whisked J.L. to the roof of the Administration Building where the heliport attendant rolled out his new helicopter, a June, 1998 Buick Skymaster. It was a sculpture in chrome and plexiglass; a suitable vehicle for the assistant vice-president as prescribed by Consumer's Guide. A loyal consumer, he bought the new model every six months.
Once in the air and on course, J.L. set the Ultramatic autopilot—a new feature on the '98 model—and pushed the chrome seat control lever to semi-reclining. Scarcely a cloud marred the pristine blue, and below nestled the neat, colorful homes of happy American consumers, but his problem was not to be soothed by sinking back to enjoy the crisp spring air.
Life, J.L. felt, would be all sweetness and light were it not for the unaccountable affection his pretty young daughter, Glory, bore for an ascetic looking young man of doubtful integrity as a consumer.
There had been a parade of acceptable young men through his front door, none of whom had excited more in him than apathy.
But this one. He wore spectacles with heavy black frames when almost everyone used disposable contact lenses. His suits were at least a month behind the current style. And with all those young men to choose from, Glory picked him to ask to dinner that evening.
Glory had been taught to respect the might of the dollar and the disaster that comes of not spending it. She was a credit to her family; a sound, patriotic consumer. She could spend money faster, more sensibly than any of her frivolous friends. One fortunate young man would find her an excellent wife. No dollar-hoarder would fill her mind with subversive notions if he could prevent it.
Much as J.L. disliked having that particular young man to dinner, it did afford the opportunity to spend some of the extra money that always collected if you didn't watch very carefully. Being forced to pay a savings tax wouldn't do his career or social position any good, and he certainly wouldn't think of putting it into a secret bank account.
The Hudson river was beneath him. He would soon be home. The thought reminded him that though the family had already passed the five year mark in this house, he had still not made an appointment with his architect.
Just before landing J.L. took the controls. The autopilot was supposed to land itself, but somehow he felt better doing it himself. A control on the dash opened the garage, another retracted the overhead rotors. He drove in, closed the garage door, and got out.
He paused in the hall only long enough to throw his hat and top-coat into the waste receptacle. From the kitchen he heard the familiar crackling of packages being unwrapped.