This is a modern-English version of 2 B R 0 2 B, originally written by Vonnegut, Kurt. It has been thoroughly updated, including changes to sentence structure, words, spelling, and grammar—to ensure clarity for contemporary readers, while preserving the original spirit and nuance. If you click on a paragraph, you will see the original text that we modified, and you can toggle between the two versions.

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Transcriber's note.
This etext was produced from Worlds of If, January 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the copyright on this publication was renewed.

Transcriber's note.
This etext was produced from Worlds of If, January 1962. Extensive research did not find any evidence that the copyright on this publication was renewed.

Got a problem? Just pick up the phone. It solved them all—and all the same way!

2
B
R
0
2
B

by KURT VONNEGUT, JR.

Everything was perfectly swell.

Everything was perfectly fine.

There were no prisons, no slums, no insane asylums, no cripples, no poverty, no wars.

There were no jails, no poor neighborhoods, no mental hospitals, no disabled people, no poverty, no wars.

All diseases were conquered. So was old age.

All diseases were defeated. So was aging.

Death, barring accidents, was an adventure for volunteers.

Death, except for accidents, was an adventure for those who chose to face it.

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

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

One bright morning in the Chicago Lying-in Hospital, a man named Edward K. Wehling, Jr., waited for his wife to give birth. He was the only man waiting. Not many people were born a day any more.

One bright morning at the Chicago Lying-in Hospital, a man named Edward K. Wehling, Jr., waited for his wife to give birth. He was the only man waiting. Not many people were born in a day anymore.

Wehling was fifty-six, a mere stripling in a population whose average age was one hundred and twenty-nine.

Wehling was fifty-six, just a kid in a population where the average age was one hundred and twenty-nine.

X-rays had revealed that his wife was going to have triplets. The children would be his first.

X-rays showed that his wife was going to have triplets. The kids would be his first.

Young Wehling was hunched in his chair, his head in his hand. He was so rumpled, so still and colorless as to be virtually invisible. His camouflage was perfect, since the waiting room had a disorderly and demoralized air, too. Chairs and ashtrays had been moved away from the walls. The floor was paved with spattered dropcloths.

Young Wehling slouched in his chair, his head resting in his hand. He looked so disheveled, so motionless and dull that he was almost invisible. His blend-in was spot on, as the waiting room also felt chaotic and drained. Chairs and ashtrays were scattered away from the walls. The floor was covered with splattered drop cloths.

The room was being redecorated. It was being redecorated as a memorial to a man who had volunteered to die.

The room was being redecorated. It was being transformed into a memorial for a man who had volunteered to sacrifice his life.

A sardonic old man, about two hundred years old, sat on a stepladder, painting a mural he did not like. Back in the days when people aged visibly, his age would have been guessed at thirty-five or so. Aging had touched him that much before the cure for aging was found.

A cynical old man, around two hundred years old, sat on a stepladder, painting a mural he didn’t like. In the days when people showed their age, he would have been estimated to be about thirty-five. Aging had affected him that much before the anti-aging cure was discovered.

The mural he was working on depicted a very neat garden. Men and women in white, doctors and nurses, turned the soil, planted seedlings, sprayed bugs, spread fertilizer.

The mural he was working on showed a very tidy garden. Men and women in white, doctors and nurses, tilled the soil, planted seedlings, sprayed for bugs, and spread fertilizer.

Men and women in purple uniforms pulled up weeds, cut down plants that were old and sickly, raked leaves, carried refuse to trash-burners.

Men and women in purple uniforms pulled weeds, cut down old and sickly plants, raked leaves, and took trash to the burners.

Never, never, never—not even in medieval Holland nor old Japan—had a garden been more formal, been better tended. Every plant had all the loam, light, water, air and nourishment it could use.

Never, never, never—not even in medieval Holland or ancient Japan—had a garden been more formal or better cared for. Every plant had all the soil, light, water, air, and nutrients it could possibly need.

A hospital orderly came down the corridor, singing under his breath a popular song:

A hospital orderly walked down the hallway, humming a popular song to himself:

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.

If you’re not into my kisses, babe,
Here's my plan:
I'll go look for a girl in purple,
Say goodbye to this miserable world.
If you don't want my love,
Why should I occupy space here?
I'm leaving this old planet,
And let some lovely girl take my place.

The orderly looked in at the mural and the muralist. "Looks so real," he said, "I can practically imagine I'm standing in the middle of it."

The orderly glanced at the mural and the muralist. "It looks so real," he said, "I can almost picture myself standing right in the middle of it."

"What makes you think you're not in it?" said the painter. He gave a satiric smile. "It's called 'The Happy Garden of Life,' you know."

"What makes you think you're not a part of it?" the painter said with a sarcastic smile. "It's called 'The Happy Garden of Life,' you know."

"That's good of Dr. Hitz," said the orderly.

"That's nice of Dr. Hitz," said the orderly.

He was referring to one of the male figures in white, whose head was a portrait of Dr. Benjamin Hitz, the hospital's Chief Obstetrician. Hitz was a blindingly handsome man.

He was talking about one of the male figures in white, whose head was a portrait of Dr. Benjamin Hitz, the hospital's Chief Obstetrician. Hitz was an incredibly handsome man.

"Lot of faces still to fill in," said the orderly. He meant that the faces of many of the figures in the mural were still blank. All blanks were to be filled with portraits of important people on either the hospital staff or from the Chicago Office of the Federal Bureau of Termination.

"Lots of faces still need to be filled in," said the orderly. He meant that many of the figures in the mural still had blank faces. All the blanks were to be filled with portraits of important people from either the hospital staff or the Chicago Office of the Federal Bureau of Termination.

"Must be nice to be able to make pictures that look like something," said the orderly.

"Must be nice to be able to create pictures that actually look like something," said the orderly.

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 really looks like?"

The painter's face twisted with disdain. "You think I'm proud of this mess?" he said. "You think this is my vision of what life actually looks like?"

"What's your idea of what life looks like?" said the orderly.

"What's your vision of life?" asked 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."

The painter pointed at a dirty drop cloth. "There's a good picture of it," he said. "Frame that, and you'll have a picture that's way more honest than this one."

"You're a gloomy old duck, aren't you?" said the orderly.

"You're a real downer, aren't you?" said the orderly.

"Is that a crime?" said the painter.

"Is that a crime?" asked the painter.

The orderly shrugged. "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 orderly shrugged. "If you don't like it here, Grandpa—" he said, and he finished the thought with the suicide hotline number that people who didn't want to live anymore were supposed to call. He pronounced the zero in the number as "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?"

It was the phone number of a place with quirky nicknames like: "Automat," "Birdland," "Cannery," "Catbox," "De-louser," "Easy-go," "Goodbye, Mom," "Happy Hooligan," "Kiss-me-quick," "Lucky Pierre," "Sheepdip," "Waring Blender," "Weep-no-more," and "Why Worry?"

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

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

The painter thumbed his nose at the orderly. "When I decide it's time to go," he said, "it won't be at the Sheepdip."

The painter scoffed at the orderly. "When I choose to leave," he said, "it won't be at the Sheepdip."

"A do-it-yourselfer, eh?" said the orderly. "Messy business, Grandpa. Why don't you have a little consideration for the people who have to clean up after you?"

"A do-it-yourself kind of guy, huh?" said the orderly. "It's a messy situation, Grandpa. Why not think about the people who have to clean up after you?"

The painter expressed with an obscenity his lack of concern for the tribulations of his survivors. "The world could do with a good deal more mess, if you ask me," he said.

The painter bluntly showed he didn’t care about the struggles of those left behind. "The world could use a lot more chaos, if you ask me," he said.

The orderly laughed and moved on.

The orderly laughed and continued on.

Wehling, the waiting father, mumbled something without raising his head. And then he fell silent again.

Wehling, the anxious father, muttered something without looking up. And then he went quiet again.

A coarse, formidable woman strode into the waiting room on spike heels. Her shoes, stockings, trench coat, bag and overseas cap were all purple, the purple the painter called "the color of grapes on Judgment Day."

A tough, intimidating woman walked into the waiting room on high heels. Her shoes, stockings, trench coat, bag, and overseas cap were all purple, the shade the painter referred to as "the color of grapes on Judgment Day."

The medallion on her purple musette bag was the seal of the Service Division of the Federal Bureau of Termination, an eagle perched on a turnstile.

The medallion on her purple messenger bag was the emblem of the Service Division of the Federal Bureau of Termination, featuring an eagle resting on a turnstile.

The woman had a lot of facial hair—an unmistakable mustache, in fact. A curious thing about gas-chamber hostesses was that, no matter how lovely and feminine they were when recruited, they all sprouted mustaches within five years or so.

The woman had quite a bit of facial hair—an obvious mustache, actually. A strange thing about gas-chamber hostesses was that, no matter how pretty and feminine they looked when they were hired, they all grew mustaches in about five years or so.

"Is this where I'm supposed to come?" she said to the painter.

"Is this the place I'm supposed to come to?" she asked the painter.

"A lot would depend on what your business was," he said. "You aren't about to have a baby, are you?"

"A lot would depend on what your business is," he said. "You’re not about to have a baby, are you?"

"They told me I was supposed to pose for some picture," she said. "My name's Leora Duncan." She waited.

"They said I had to pose for a picture," she said. "I'm Leora Duncan." She waited.

"And you dunk people," he said.

"What?" she said.

"What?" she asked.

"Skip it," he said.

"Forget it," he said.

"That sure is a beautiful picture," she said. "Looks just like heaven or something."

"That’s a really beautiful picture," she said. "It looks just like heaven or something."

"Or something," said the painter. He took a list of names from his smock pocket. "Duncan, Duncan, Duncan," he said, scanning the list. "Yes—here you are. You're entitled to be immortalized. See any faceless body here you'd like me to stick your head on? We've got a few choice ones left."

"Or something," said the painter. He pulled out a list of names from his smock pocket. "Duncan, Duncan, Duncan," he said, looking over the list. "Yes—here you are. You deserve to be immortalized. Do you see any faceless body here that you'd like me to put your head on? We have a few good options left."

She studied the mural bleakly. "Gee," she said, "they're all the same to me. I don't know anything about art."

She looked at the mural with a frown. "Wow," she said, "they all look the same to me. I don’t know anything about art."

"A body's a body, eh?" he said. "All righty. As a master of fine art, I recommend this body here." He indicated a faceless figure of a woman who was carrying dried stalks to a trash-burner.

"A body’s a body, right?" he said. "Okay. As a master of fine art, I recommend this body here." He pointed to a faceless woman who was carrying dried stalks to a trash burner.

"Well," said Leora Duncan, "that's more the disposal people, isn't it? I mean, I'm in service. I don't do any disposing."

"Well," said Leora Duncan, "that's more for the disposal people, right? I mean, I'm in service. I don't handle any disposing."

The painter clapped his hands in mock delight. "You say you don't know anything about art, and then you prove in the next breath that you know more about it than I do! Of course the sheave-carrier is wrong for a hostess! A snipper, a pruner—that's more your line." He pointed to a figure in purple who was sawing a dead branch from an apple tree. "How about her?" he said. "You like her at all?"

The painter clapped his hands in fake excitement. "You say you don't know anything about art, and then you immediately show that you know more about it than I do! Of course the sheave-carrier isn't right for a hostess! A snipper, a pruner—that's more your style." He pointed to a figure in purple who was cutting a dead branch from an apple tree. "What about her?" he asked. "Do you like her at all?"

"Gosh—" she said, and she blushed and became humble—"that—that puts me right next to Dr. Hitz."

"Gosh—" she said, blushing and feeling shy—"that—that puts me right next to Dr. Hitz."

"That upsets you?" he said.

"That bothers you?" he said.

"Good gravy, no!" she said. "It's—it's just such an honor."

"Wow, no way!" she said. "It's just such an honor."

"Ah, You... you admire him, eh?" he said.

"Ah, you... you like him, huh?" he said.

"Who doesn't admire him?" she said, worshiping the portrait of Hitz. It was the portrait of a tanned, white-haired, omnipotent Zeus, two hundred and forty years old. "Who doesn't admire him?" she said again. "He was responsible for setting up the very first gas chamber in Chicago."

"Who doesn't admire him?" she said, gazing at the portrait of Hitz. It was the picture of a tanned, white-haired, all-powerful Zeus, two hundred and forty years old. "Who doesn't admire him?" she repeated. "He was the one who established the very first gas chamber in Chicago."

"Nothing would please me more," said the painter, "than to put you next to him for all time. Sawing off a limb—that strikes you as appropriate?"

"Nothing would make me happier," said the painter, "than to place you next to him forever. Does sawing off a limb seem fitting to you?"

"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.

"That's kind of what I do," she said. She was modest about her work. What she did was make people feel at ease while she killed them.

And, while Leora Duncan was posing for her portrait, into the waitingroom bounded Dr. Hitz himself. He was seven feet tall, and he boomed with importance, accomplishments, and the joy of living.

And, while Leora Duncan was posing for her portrait, Dr. Hitz himself burst into the waiting room. He was seven feet tall and radiated importance, achievements, and the joy of life.

"Well, Miss Duncan! Miss Duncan!" he said, and he made a joke. "What are you doing here?" he said. "This isn't where the people leave. This is where they come in!"

"Well, Miss Duncan! Miss Duncan!" he called out, making a joke. "What are you doing here?" he asked. "This isn't where people leave. This is where they come in!"

"We're going to be in the same picture together," she said shyly.

"We're going to be in the same picture together," she said bashfully.

"Good!" said Dr. Hitz heartily. "And, say, isn't that some picture?"

"Awesome!" Dr. Hitz said enthusiastically. "And, wow, isn't that a great picture?"

"I sure am honored to be in it with you," she said.

"I'm really honored to be in this with you," she said.

"Let me tell you," he said, "I'm honored to be in it with you. Without women like you, this wonderful world we've got wouldn't be possible."

"Let me tell you," he said, "I'm really honored to be in this with you. Without women like you, this amazing world we have wouldn't be possible."

He saluted her and moved toward the door that led to the delivery rooms. "Guess what was just born," he said.

He gave her a nod and walked toward the door that led to the delivery rooms. "You won’t believe what just came into the world," he said.

"I can't," she said.

"Triplets!" he said.

"Triplets!" he exclaimed.

"Triplets!" she said. She was exclaiming over the legal implications of triplets.

"Triplets!" she exclaimed. She was reacting to the legal implications of having triplets.

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 law stated that no newborn baby could survive unless the child's parents found someone willing to die. For triplets to all live, three volunteers were needed.

"Do the parents have three volunteers?" said Leora Duncan.

"Do the parents have three volunteers?" Leora Duncan asked.

"Last I heard," said Dr. Hitz, "they had one, and were trying to scrape another two up."

"Last I heard," Dr. Hitz said, "they had one and were trying to gather another two."

"I don't think they made it," she said. "Nobody made three appointments with us. Nothing but singles going through today, unless somebody called in after I left. What's the name?"

"I don't think they showed up," she said. "Nobody made three appointments with us. It's just single appointments today, unless someone called in after I left. What's the name?"

"Wehling," said the waiting father, sitting up, red-eyed and frowzy. "Edward K. Wehling, Jr., is the name of the happy father-to-be."

"Wehling," said the father waiting, sitting up, his eyes red and disheveled. "Edward K. Wehling, Jr. is the name of the excited father-to-be."

He raised his right hand, looked at a spot on the wall, gave a hoarsely wretched chuckle. "Present," he said.

He raised his right hand, looked at a spot on the wall, and let out a raspy, miserable chuckle. "I'm here," he said.

"Oh, Mr. Wehling," said Dr. Hitz, "I didn't see you."

"Oh, Mr. Wehling," Dr. Hitz said, "I didn't see you."

"The invisible man," said Wehling.

"The Invisible Man," said Wehling.

"They just phoned me that your triplets have been born," said Dr. Hitz. "They're all fine, and so is the mother. I'm on my way in to see them now."

"They just called to let me know your triplets have been born," Dr. Hitz said. "They're all doing great, and so is the mom. I'm on my way in to see them now."

"Hooray," said Wehling emptily.

"Hooray," said Wehling void of emotion.

"You don't sound very happy," said Dr. Hitz.

"You don't sound very happy," Dr. Hitz said.

"What man in my shoes wouldn't be happy?" said Wehling. He gestured with his hands to symbolize care-free simplicity. "All I have to do is pick out which one of the triplets is going to live, then deliver my maternal grandfather to the Happy Hooligan, and come back here with a receipt."

"What guy in my position wouldn't be happy?" said Wehling. He waved his hands to show a carefree simplicity. "All I have to do is choose which one of the triplets will survive, then take my maternal grandfather to the Happy Hooligan, and come back here with a receipt."

Dr. Hitz became rather severe with Wehling, towered over him. "You don't believe in population control, Mr. Wehling?" he said.

Dr. Hitz was quite stern with Wehling, looming over him. "You don't believe in population control, Mr. Wehling?" he asked.

"I think it's perfectly keen," said Wehling tautly.

"I think it's totally great," said Wehling stiffly.

"Would you like to go back to the good old days, when the population of the Earth was twenty billion—about to become forty billion, then eighty billion, then one hundred and sixty billion? Do you know what a drupelet is, Mr. Wehling?" said Hitz.

"Would you want to go back to the good old days when the Earth's population was twenty billion—about to reach forty billion, then eighty billion, then one hundred and sixty billion? Do you know what a drupelet is, Mr. Wehling?" said Hitz.

"Nope," said Wehling sulkily.

"Nope," Wehling said sulkily.

"A drupelet, Mr. Wehling, is one of the little knobs, one of the little pulpy grains of a blackberry," said Dr. Hitz. "Without population control, human beings would now be packed on this surface of this old planet like drupelets on a blackberry! Think of it!"

"A drupelet, Mr. Wehling, is one of those small bumps, one of the little juicy bits of a blackberry," Dr. Hitz said. "Without population control, humans would be crammed on this surface of this old planet like drupelets on a blackberry! Just think about that!"

Wehling continued to stare at the same spot on the wall.

Wehling kept staring at the same spot on the wall.

"In the year 2000," said Dr. Hitz, "before scientists stepped in and laid down the law, there wasn't even enough drinking water to go around, and nothing to eat but sea-weed—and still people insisted on their right to reproduce like jackrabbits. And their right, if possible, to live forever."

"In the year 2000," Dr. Hitz said, "before scientists intervened and set rules, there wasn't even enough drinking water for everyone, and the only food available was seaweed—and still, people insisted on their right to reproduce like jackrabbits. And their right, if they could, to live forever."

"I want those kids," said Wehling quietly. "I want all three of them."

"I want those kids," Wehling said quietly. "I want all three of them."

"Of course you do," said Dr. Hitz. "That's only human."

"Of course you do," Dr. Hitz said. "That’s completely normal."

"I don't want my grandfather to die, either," said Wehling.

"I don't want my grandfather to die, either," Wehling said.

"Nobody's really happy about taking a close relative to the Catbox," said Dr. Hitz gently, sympathetically.

"Nobody's really happy about taking a close relative to the Catbox," said Dr. Hitz softly, with understanding.

"I wish people wouldn't call it that," said Leora Duncan.

"I wish people wouldn't call it that," Leora Duncan said.

"What?" said Dr. Hitz.

"What?" Dr. Hitz said.

"I wish people wouldn't call it 'the Catbox,' and things like that," she said. "It gives people the wrong impression."

"I wish people wouldn't call it 'the Catbox' and stuff like that," she said. "It gives people the wrong idea."

"You're absolutely right," said Dr. Hitz. "Forgive me." He corrected himself, gave the municipal gas chambers their official title, a title no one ever used in conversation. "I should have said, 'Ethical Suicide Studios,'" he said.

"You're totally right," Dr. Hitz said. "My bad." He fixed his mistake, using the official name for the municipal gas chambers, a name no one ever actually used in conversation. "I should have said, 'Ethical Suicide Studios,'" he added.

"That sounds so much better," said Leora Duncan.

"That sounds so much better," Leora Duncan said.

"This child of yours—whichever one you decide to keep, Mr. Wehling," said Dr. Hitz. "He or she is going to live on a happy, roomy, clean, rich planet, thanks to population control. In a garden like that mural there." He shook his head. "Two centuries ago, when I was a young man, it was a hell that nobody thought could last another twenty years. Now centuries of peace and plenty stretch before us as far as the imagination cares to travel."

"This child of yours—whichever one you choose to keep, Mr. Wehling," said Dr. Hitz. "He or she will grow up on a happy, spacious, clean, prosperous planet, thanks to population control. In a place like that mural there." He shook his head. "Two hundred years ago, when I was younger, it was a nightmare that no one believed could last another twenty years. Now, centuries of peace and abundance lie ahead of us as far as the imagination can reach."

He smiled luminously.

He smiled brightly.

The smile faded as he saw that Wehling had just drawn a revolver.

The smile vanished when he noticed that Wehling had just pulled out a revolver.

Wehling shot Dr. Hitz dead. "There's room for one—a great big one," he said.

Wehling shot Dr. Hitz dead. "There's room for one—a really big one," he said.

And then he shot Leora Duncan. "It's only death," he said to her as she fell. "There! Room for two."

And then he shot Leora Duncan. "It's just death," he said to her as she fell. "There! Space for two."

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

And then he killed himself, making space for all three of his kids.

Nobody came running. Nobody, seemingly, heard the shots.

Nobody came running. It seemed like nobody heard the shots.

The painter sat on the top of his stepladder, looking down reflectively on the sorry scene.

The painter sat on the top of his stepladder, looking down thoughtfully at the dismal scene.

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 painter contemplated the sorrowful puzzle of life that needs to be created and, once created, demands to be productive... to multiply and to live as long as possible—doing all this on a tiny planet that must last forever.

All the answers that the painter could think of were grim. Even grimmer, surely, than a Catbox, a Happy Hooligan, an Easy Go. He thought of war. He thought of plague. He thought of starvation.

All the answers the painter could come up with were bleak. Even bleaker, for sure, than a Catbox, a Happy Hooligan, an Easy Go. He thought about war. He thought about disease. He thought about hunger.

He knew that he would never paint again. He let his paintbrush fall to the drop-cloths below. And then he decided he had had about enough of life in the Happy Garden of Life, too, and he came slowly down from the ladder.

He knew he would never paint again. He let his paintbrush drop onto the drop cloths below. Then he decided he was done with life in the Happy Garden of Life as well, and he slowly came down from the ladder.

He took Wehling's pistol, really intending to shoot himself.

He took Wehling's gun, actually planning to shoot himself.

But he didn't have the nerve.

But he didn't have the guts.

And then he saw the telephone booth in the corner of the room. He went to it, dialed the well-remembered number: "2 B R 0 2 B."

And then he saw the phone booth in the corner of the room. He walked over to it and dialed the familiar number: "2 B R 0 2 B."

"Federal Bureau of Termination," said the very warm voice of a hostess.

"Federal Bureau of Termination," said the very friendly voice of a hostess.

"How soon could I get an appointment?" he asked, speaking very carefully.

"How soon can I get an appointment?" he asked, speaking very carefully.

"We could probably fit you in late this afternoon, sir," she said. "It might even be earlier, if we get a cancellation."

"We can probably fit you in later this afternoon, sir," she said. "It might even be sooner if we have a cancellation."

"All right," said the painter, "fit me in, if you please." And he gave her his name, spelling it out.

"Sure," said the painter, "go ahead and include me, if you don't mind." And he told her his name, spelling it out.

"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."

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

THE END

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