Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from IF Worlds of Science Fiction March 1954. Extensiveresearch did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication wasrenewed.
Strumming a harp while floating on a white cloudmight be Paradise for some people, but it would boreothers stiff. Given an unlimited chance to choose yourideal world, what would you specify—palaces or logcabins?
The Worlds of Joe Shannon
By Frank M. Robinson
Illustrated by Paul Orban
'll take beer, son, andthanks again for the offer. As youcan see, I'm kinda down on myluck. I know what you're thinking,but I'm not really on the bum. Iusually make out all right—nothingfancy, mind you, but it's a living.Odd jobs in the winter and spring,follow the harvests in the summerand fall. Things are slack right now.
You? Electronics, huh? Used toknow a fellow in electronics....
His name was Joe Shannon, usedto work for Stellar Electric up inFremont. Young fellow, not more'ntwenty-five or so. Rail thin, wispyhair, serious look—you know, theone suit, absent-minded type. Joewas a brain. A triple-A, gold-plated,genuine genius. Had a wife namedMarge. Not beautiful but prettyand a nice figure and a cook younever saw the likes of. Like I say,she was married to Joe but Joe wasmarried to his work and after you'dbeen around a while, you could tellthere was friction.
But that ain't the beginning.
I suppose I'm partly responsiblebecause it started when I was overfor dinner one night. I had beenworking in the garden and doingodd jobs around the house thatafternoon and I finagled it so I wasinvited for supper. Marge Shannonmade chili that I just couldn't stayaway from. Thick with beans andmeat and easy on the spices so itwouldn't burn an old man's stomach.
Joe and I had just gone into theliving room—Marge stayed in thekitchen to do the dishes—and I wasfeeling stuffed and kinda sleepy. Allof a sudden Joe says out of a clearblue sky: "Harry, this is a hell of aworld we live in, isn't it?"
Now Joe had never struck me asbeing the unhappy type. He lovedhis work, he loved his wife (andjust about in that order), and so faras I knew he didn't owe any money.So I tried to feel him out, to findout where the rub was.
"There's nothing wrong with theworld, Joe," I says. "It's just thepeople in it."
He started methodically fillinghis pipe and tamping down the tobaccoand not saying a word and Iget the feeling that he's deadlyserious about something.
"You're right," he says quietly."It isn't the world, it's the people."
I sit there feeling puzzled but alot less sleepy and finally I ask:"Anything wrong, Joe?"
He lights his pipe and settles backin the big, overstuffed easy chairwith the flowered slip-cover thatMarge made, still frowning. "It'san unhappy world," he repeats.
"It all depends on what side ofthe picture you want to look at," Isays, trying to cheer him up. "Maybeyou been reading too many newspaperheadlines."
Joe wasn't listening. "Whatmakes people unhappy