Narrator (0:01)

Relic Radio. This is Relic Radio. Sci Fi, Old time radio. Science fiction stories from relicradio.com. what exactly is it that you want, Mr. Johnson? Something real. Something that hasn't been made by man. Something that isn't synthetic. That's all. Not to keep. But why do you feel that you must have this something real? Why, Mr. Divisional Controller? I don't know. I just know that I must, that's all. Something I can hold in my two hands, touch and know that it hasn't been made by. By man. By whom then, Mr. Johnson? By whom? I don't know. I don't know. I. I just know that I must see, feel something real that hasn't been made by man. Don't you understand? SF68. SF68 biotechs. The new soak and pre wash powder brings you SF68 stories which plunge vividly into other worlds, other dimensions, other times. S.F. 68. Mrs. T. Midgley of Disa Avenue com in the Cape wrote to say I'd like to congratulate you on the efficiency of your product biotechs. And also to thank you as a housewife for solving the burden of my washing problems. And I can assure you that I shall see to it that I am never without. SF 68 presents Quest adapted for radio and produced by Michael McCabe Quest surely you realize it. You must forgive me. I fear that a sudden adverse overload has overworked you. Understand? You stand. You will be attended to. You will be attended to. You will be attended. You. You. Oh no. Where. Where can I find something that isn't man made? Even him. Even my divisional control is a robot. Was a robot. Let them sort that miss out if they can, Mr. Johnson. Age indeterminate. No one knew their ages anymore. No one knew anything very much anymore. Only their citizen code number, the duties assigned to them at their place of work and their living quarters. Index number. Mr. Johnson. Small. Insignificant. It was a shock to Mr. Johnson knowing that his trusted divisional controller, the man, the thing that he'd been in the habit of taking all his troubles to, was a robot. What's happening to the world? Machines that look like people. People who look like machines. Each day becomes more difficult to tell one from the other. The town commanded everything. Everything was commanded by the town. The city. Johnson started walking in no particular direction. Dizzying cliffs of steel rising drunkenly towards the sky. Incredible blocks of artificiality marching doggedly towards infinity. There must be an end to this city. There must be something real somewhere. Must there? Try the elevators, Johnson. They must go somewhere. Somewhere. Real elevators? Yes. Where to? Done. How far? As far as I can go. As far as I can go. Where's this? As far as you can go, sir. Your name? Johnson. Harry Johnson. I. I was just having a look around. I will be your guide. I trust you will find the lower depths interesting. Is there. Is there anything. Well, real. Real down here? I mean, anything that's just happened that wasn't created by. Pardon, sir. Officers. Corridors, more offices, more corridors. Follow me. Sir. Just a minute. How far down are we? 27 miles. 27 miles? Is this the lowest level? If you mean does the city extend below us? No, it does not, sir. Then what's done there? Several miles of insulatory material, sir. After that? Yeah. Well, sir, if you'll allow me to whisper. What's that? An archaic term that describes the inner core of the planet. That is all there is Nothing more. I walk. I walk until I come to the end of the city. I walk for days, weeks, months. It doesn't matter how long for and when the city's finished. There's got to be something real, something that just happened without man's help. And Johnson did just that. Harry Johnson walked the city street. Was Johnson hoping to see a tree or a flower, perhaps? Ridiculous thought. Such things belonged in the midst of the shadowy past, the ugly past. But Johnson tried. He had set out upon a quest. Excuse me. Excuse me. Have you seen anything real? Something that hasn't been well made? What are you talking about? Something that hasn't been made. But again, see your psychiatrist. I can't see my psychiatrist. He was made. He's a robot. Excuse me, please. I. I'm looking. Looking. Your name? Johnson. Harry Johnson. Are you a resident of this district? I'm a traveler. I'm looking for something real. You've been walking. How far are you going? As far as I can go. It's so slow. So slow. Fire an air car. There's an agency in blocks. 10789. An air card? Yes, of course. Thank you. He hadn't thought of that. A man flying in the air must see the end of the city. And at the end of the city, there just had to be something real. Maximum altitude. The city fell away. The buildings, blocks upon blocks, were left behind. After many miles of traveling, Johnson, in his aircar, saw a change in the gray jungle of cement. Below him, the buildings were becoming fewer. The city's coming to an end. In all my life, I've never been out of the city. City's ending. Ending. Harry Johnson craned forward the thought of what lay ahead sent his heart thumping excitedly. And then, even as the city thinned, another city, even bigger than the last leapt up to take its place. At the end of the city, there's just another city in agony. Harry Johnson punched the keys of the aircar control at random, and the vessel fell to the west. Its occupant no longer cared. I might as well be dead. I can't go back. I can't live like I've been living in a gray, meaningless world. Please. I want something real. That's all I want. I want some. What's that? What had he seen? Harry Johnson had seen a great patch of color he had never set eyes on in his life before. Green. The aircar was approaching a great park. Down. Down. I've got to see. I knew there was something else. I knew. The great spark exploded across his eyes. He recoiled from the assault of greenery that filled his world and his finger stabbed at the descent button. Down. The tiny vehicle spiraled away and came eventually to rest upon a richly carpeted lawn in the middle of the great park. Harry Johnson sat unmoving for a long time, and then he climbed out onto the first grass he had ever seen in his whole, unsatisfactory life. It's beautiful. A park. A gigantic park. I thought man had forgotten. How could any man forget such beauty as this? I can see trees and hills. I'm running through grass. Running in the most beautiful place in the world. Bird. A bird. But that was all. The bird didn't call again. Harry Johnson fell asleep. The lines of worry and boredom etched on his face over many years disappeared as if by magic. The air was pleasantly warm and he had no thought of dangers. His last conscious thought was that his journey of discovery had only just begun. A bird. I've heard bird. Recently I received a letter from Mrs. Mara Strawn of Main Road Rosebank in the Cape in relation to our product, biotechs. It was quite a lengthy letter and emphasized many of the points we've been making over the project. He walked for perhaps half a mile and came upon an expanse of water which was not enclosed by concrete. What is it? It was a lake. Those things sailing on. On all that water, what are they? On the placid waters sat several creatures with long, graceful necks. They were swans. The man's eyes watered with tears of pleasure and he ran and ran. Now I found something real. I found a hundred things that are real. And then the man, Harry Johnson, found the rose garden. A furious onslaught of color, the like of which he could Never have imagined. In his gray city day, roses and roses and roses. Mile after mile of exotic blooms. But who looks after all this? Who tends the gardens and the trees and the roses? Someone must. He was still puzzling over this annoying detail when he came upon the caretaker's cottage. After just a moment of hesitation, Harry knocked. Come in. You come to see my. My park? That's right. I had no idea that such a place existed. I thought it was all. All gone. That the cities had swallowed everything. No, not everything's gone. Some. Some places remain. Parklands like this estate. But not many people come to them anymore. But why not? Seems inconceivable that anyone will want to stay in the cities when. When beauty such as this exists on their doorsteps. What. What is your name? Harry. Harry Johnson. What you do not understand, Mr. Johnson, is. Is that most people have forgotten what beauty is, and the rest can't be bothered. You're the first visitor I've had in years. Surely you don't look after all this yourself. Heavens, no, young man. There are. There are robots, machines to tend the gardens and the lawns. I'm too old to do anything but sit and wait. But I. I didn't see. Of course you didn't. They do the necessary work by night. Senses such as theirs have no need of the light of day. Prevents them from despoiling the landscape when visitors arrive. Not that it would make much difference these days. How wise. I couldn't bear to see a machine. All this beauty. Do you live here all alone? Where else? I've no need for the cities. The cities have no need of me. Here I can be one with nature. I'm fed and looked after by the machines. A necessary evil, I'm afraid. I don't want for anything. I. I wish for no more. I'd like to stay here with you. Oh, I doubt that that would be possible. The city blazed with the city. I don't care what happens to me. What difference does one life, here or there, matter? On the contrary, it matters a great deal, Mr. Johnson. Well, I could apply for permission. I suppose you could try. It's all so wonderful. How did it all begin? How did what begin? The city, the world, everything. When did we start eating our planet? Ah, no one knows, my boy. No one knows. Perhaps it was when the gods left Earth and ascended to the stars and closed the gates so that we couldn't follow. We had only one world. What else could we do? Where will it end? End? But it has ended, hasn't it? It's not Very often that I have the chance to converse. Listen. What's happening? It seems. Seems to be getting dark. Well, the day can't be end. The days were once much longer. It's only out here that they're short. You see, Man's changed. Even the length of the days. It's changed everything. The old caretaker followed Harry to the open door, smiling. In the doorway was a tremendous rose bush. Scarlet blooms burst hungrily towards the sunlight. A sudden desire swept over the little visitor from the gray city. He stretched out a hand towards the flowers, meaning to taqua to carry it with him. No, you mustn't touch the flowers. No. I've had enough of orders. This is no place for orders. No. Harry Johnson lifted the broken fire to his nose and sniffed arrogantly. And even as he did so, the rose withered and died. Dead leaves crumpled into a wraith like gossamer, remnant of a spider's web. It's not. Not a real flower. He looked at the old man, and the despair in the caretaker's eyes was the most terrible sight he had ever seen. No. And he crouched and with one savage paw wrenched up the whole bush. The whole splendid thing came away easily. Immediately it withered and died. They're fakes. The roses are fakes. Plastic. But if the roses are fakes, the whole garden must be a fake. It isn't real. I've been tricked. You filthy liar. You're the happy believing. All I wanted was the truth. You could have given it to me. Only you. And you chose to lie. And why? I should have known. I should have guessed. You're a machine. You're a robot like all the rest, aren't you? I told you not to pick the rose. I tried to stop you from. From finding out the truth. Truth. Truth. And the old man fell to the ground. And Johnson began to kick him. Kicked with all his strength until the face broke and the synthetic fibers appeared through the destroyed protoplasm. And then he left the robot, which had seemed to him like a real man. He ran fast away across the green false grass and began to search desperately for the one real bloom, one blossom that hadn't been made by man. He swore and he cried and he wrenched at the wires which held each and every bush fast in the synthetic soil. And the wild scratched his hand and he laughed as he saw the blood flow from his cups. Who's agents from the city. That's what they are. Agents from the city. They followed me. They come to take me back. Back to the city. The city that covers the world 27 miles deep. Nothing that really exists. Don't you understand? Robots are so close to humans and humans are so close to robots. It's impossible to tell a difference anymore. Don't you understand? I might be the last man in the world. Blood on my hands. See? Blood. I can't go back. I can't go back to the city. And the aircar landed a little distance away. Two figures alighted and slowly made their way towards the man groveling in the mock fake grass by the torn, ruined synthetic flowers. And even as they walked towards him, Harry grabbed at some of the twisted broken wire and scratched savagely at his wrists until the blood flowed redly and fast from the swollen arteries. He held his wrists a lot and shook them at the approaching figure. See this? You see it? The blocking machine. I can do something you can never do. I can die. And the two figures reached Harry and stood and watched him dispassionately. And Harry, crouching on the ground, wondered at their patience and seeming lack of interest. The blood flowed and flowed, and only when the blood had stopped flowing and the false earth had swallowed the last drop of precious fluid did he comprehend their patience. He stared at his upheld arm and willed the blood to flow afresh. But none gushed forth from the tattered wrist. His veins were empty, already collapsing. I couldn't tell from the air. I wondered if he was one of them. Or I knew. Look what he's done. All this mess. Get it over with. Got to get back. And Harry Johnson still lived. All his blood gone. And yet he still lived. His brain and heart had no need of the blood, designed only to fool his conscience and his fellow men. His was the ultimate evolution, a mind that existed independently of his synthetic body. There was nothing real, not even the man who sought it. There were no tears to express Johnson's grief. His weary body seemed suddenly to split asunder. He sprawled upon the treacherous earth and with his face buried in the lying grass, whipped for the passing of all things real. Come on, don't waste time. Get it over with. And he never even felt the narrow shaft that entered his chest and cancelled his soulless life. That's all you have to do. Soak. Soak. Just for an hour. Or do you find it so fast for that new when you use amazing new biotech acts with a biological action to soak out the stubbornness, stains and loosen dirt. New Biotex is great for all textiles and synthetics, whites and colors. It contains no bleach. Get amazing new biotechs today and let soaking do the washing. I feel like a new man. It's a lovely day today. I thought you had flu. I took a Grandpa headache powder and I world better. When colds and flu are about Grandpa headache powders are what you need. Grandpa headache powders work fast because they dissolve almost immediately. Grandpa makes all those dreadful flu symptoms disappear quickly. So whenever you're in pain, get fast relief. Get Grandpa headache powder. Ah, Grandpa. You have just been listening to Quest by Lee Harding. Brought to you by Biotex. The new soak and pre wash powder Quest was adapted for broadcasting and Produced by Michael McCabe. Listen again next Friday night at half past nine to SF 68.