2BR02B

The painter pondered the mournful puzzle of life demanding to be born and, once born, demanding to be fruitful ... to multiply and to live as long as possible—to do all that on a very small planet that would have to last forever.

The world could do with a good deal more mess, if you ask me," he said.

Thank you, sir," said the hostess. "Your city thanks you; your country thanks you; your planet thanks you. But the deepest thanks of all is from future generations.

To be or not to be" was the telephone number of the municipal gas chambers of the Federal Bureau of Termination.

The painter's face curdled with scorn "You think I'm proud of this daub?" he said. "You think this is my idea of what life looks like?" "What's your idea of what life looks like?" said the orderly. The painter gestured at a foul dropcloth. "There's a good picture of it," he said. "Frame that, and you'll have a picture a damn sight more honest than this one.

Everything was perfectly swell. There were no prisons, no slums, no insane asylums, no cripples, no poverty, no wars. All diseases were conquered. So was old age. Death, barring accidents, was an adventure for volunteers. The population of the United States was stabilized at forty-million souls.

And then he shot himself, making room for all three of his children.

The number was: "2 B R 0 2 B.

The population of the United States was stabilized at forty-million souls.

If you don't like my kisses, honey, Here's what I will do: I'll go see a girl in purple, Kiss this sad world toodle-oo. If you don't want my lovin', Why should I take up all this space? I'll get off this old planet, Let some sweet baby have my place.

Your city thanks you; your country thanks you; your planet thanks you. But the deepest thanks of all is from future generations.

The law said that no newborn child could survive unless the parents of the child could find someone who would volunteer to die. Triplets, if they were all to live, called for three volunteers.

The world could do with a good deal more mess if you ask me," he said.

That is kind of like what I do," she said. She was demure about what she did. What she did was make people comfortable while she killed them.

The zero in the telephone number he pronounced "naught." The number was: "2 B R 0 2 B.

If you don't like it here, Grandpa—" he said, and he finished the thought with the trick telephone number that people who didn't want to live any more were supposed to call. The zero in the telephone number he pronounced "naught." The number was: "2 B R 0 2 B." It was the telephone number of an institution whose fanciful sobriquets included: "Automat," "Birdland," "Cannery," "Catbox," "De-louser," "Easy-go," "Good-by, Mother," "Happy Hooligan," "Kiss-me-quick," "Lucky Pierre," "Sheepdip," "Waring Blendor," "Weep-no-more" and "Why Worry?" "To