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Unto the Last Generation Juanita Coulson Laser Books #11 1st edition (November 1, 1975) ISBN: 0-3737-2011-4 Table of Contents Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI Chapter VII Chapter VIII Chapter IX Chapter X Chapter I "This is as far as I go, mister." Richard Parnell forced his mind up out of that discouraging sheaf of statistics. He'd spread the charts out, covering his case and the taxi's seat. Now, even as he argued, he began collecting strewn papers. "What's that supposed to mean?" "Don't he ever get any new jokes." The cabbie irritably slapped at his blaring radio, overriding a faked laugh-track. "Heard that one when I was a kid." "We all did. Those… comedians… have been on the air for thirty years, at least. But then there's not an oversupply of young entertainers, these days." Parnell slammed shut his case on the bulging files and badly-jogged charts. "Why are we stopping here? I said the Life Sciences Building on Fleet." "Yuck, yuck, yuck!'" The driver sarcastically aped the tinny laughter vibrating the radio's speakers. "It ain't funny, chuckie." Then he threw a bored glare over his shoulder at Parnell. "Told you. This is as far as I go. I ain't required to go past Eighteenth. It's in my license." "I see. And you don't make a practice of informing your fares of that little fact in advance." Parnell scanned the cabbie's certificate, reading the legalistic details under the photo ident. "Peculiar. There's no such restriction listed here." "Well, it's in the… the fine print. Anyway, I ain't goin' up to Fleet." Sighing, Parnell wrestled with the rusted door handle. "As a matter of fact, it isn't in the fine print. Or anywhere else. Which you'd know if you ever learned how to read. Don't you oil these things? Get outside and pull." Eager to assist an unhappy customer on his way, the cabbie helped Parnell pry open the door. The hinges creaked with agony. "Don't make things the way they useta," he complained, kicking a corroded rocker panel for emphasis. "Everything's fallin' apart." "Including the people—and the service," Parnell said archly. He wondered what the cabbie expected from this pile of junk. Taxis were the only non-military vehicles on the streets now—and the only ones allowed to use those old, dwindling supplies of gasoline. "Hey, don't blame me," the cabbie flared. "Listen, I'm only a… a municipal employee. Yessir. It's you that's crazy, wantin' to go down to Fleet. Don't you know it's a disty day?" Parnell grimaced. He had forgotten. "And you think it'll be safer for me to walk past a dole point than for you to drive me there?" "Hah! Sure! Food's gettin' scarcer and scarcer. Why, only last week they tipped over Fred's cab in one o' them riots. Some o' those creets go crazy when they miss out on a dole. Course, Fred didn't have much of a cab anyway," the skinny little driver conceded. "None o' them are worth much any more. Can't get any parts. And they're takin' all the metal and makin' replacement parts for tanks and flitters. Army gets everything…" Slapping a couple of units in the man's grimy palm, Parnell said, "Here. That's all this ride was worth. I've deducted your tip and the balance of the fare. If you'll read the fine print on your license you'll find I have that option." An excusable lie. How could the poor fool catch him in it? He set off hurriedly, ignoring the shouted obscenities wishing him mal voyage. Parnell dismissed the encounter with contemptuous pity. A stupid, inept cab driver. But most of the young people were inept, untrained. And too many of them were stupid. Perhaps that wasn't fair. Not much could be done with them, or was. Statistically they were one of the smallest segments of the population. And illiterate. That had been true since the school systems started disintegrating years ago. Not enough children to justify the teaching profession, and eventually