"Rua dos Sonhos, Pés de Barro, uma novela de Robert Sheckley, publicado originalmente em Galaxy Magazine, Fevereiro 1968, disponível no Internet Archive. Algum dos estas capas tocar um sino? (Uma versão desta história foi incorporada ao romance de Sheckley Dimensão dos Milagres, capítulos 22 – 23.)
Protagonista é um vagabundo quase no futuro, ele ouve sobre uma cidade automática onde tudo é de graça, então ele segue as dicas até encontrá-la.
Thus, no single factor can be adduced for Carmody's sudden decision to leave what was generally considered the world's most exciting megapolitan agglomeration. Blame it on a vagrant impulse, a pastoral fantasy, or on sheer perversity. The simple, irreducible fact is, one day Carmody opened his copy of the Daily Times-News and saw an advertisement for a model city in New Jersey.
"Come live in Bellwether, the city that cares," the advertisement proclaimed. There followed a list of utopian claims which need not be reproduced here.
Totalmente deserto, mas tudo muito limpo e o City Voice o recebe quando ele chega.
"I do hope you like it," a voice said from behind Carmody's left shoulder. [. . .]
"Permit me to introduce myself. I am Edward Carmody." He turned, smiling.
But there was no one behind his left shoulder, or behind his right shoulder, either. There was no one in the piazza, nobody at all in sight.
"Forgive me," the voice said. "I didn't mean to startle you. I thought you knew."
"Knew what?" Carmody asked.
"Knew about me."
"Well, I don't," Carmody said. "Who are you and where are you speaking from?"
"I am the voice of the city," the voice said. "Or to put it another way, I am the city itself, Bellwether, the actual and veritable city, speaking to you."
Ele entra em um café e pede uma refeição grande (bife? Não me lembro) com batatas fritas. City tenta convencê-lo a fazer uma salada saudável, mas ele prevalece.
He was guided to the fashionable Rochambeau Cafe, where he began with potage au petit pois and ended with petits fours.
What about a nice Brie to finish off?" the city asked.
"No, thanks," Carmody said. "I'm full. Too full, as a matter of fact."
"But cheese isn't filling. A bit of first-rate Camembert?"
"I couldn't possibly."
"Perhaps a few assorted fruits. Very refreshing to the palate."
"It's not my palate that needs refreshing," Carmody said.
"At least an apple, a pear and a couple of grapes?"
"No, no, no!"
Depois de um pouco mais irritante, Carmody finalmente aceita um cacho de uvas.
Após a refeição, ele quer um charuto e City lamenta os danos nos pulmões antes de fumar.
Na verdade, Carmody é um fumante de cigarro:
"You're doing a lot of smoking," the city pointed out.
"I know. I feel like smoking."
"As your medical advisor, I must point out that the link between smoking and lung cancer is conclusive."
"I know."
"If you switched to a pipe your chances would be improved."
"I don't like pipes."
"What about a cigar, then?"
"I don't like cigars." He lit another cigarette.
Ele então se recostou em uma poltrona e diz que vai tirar uma soneca, City continua repetindo uma instalação de soneca do outro lado da rua até que, para calar a boca, ele vai até lá.
"Excuse me," the city said. "What are you doing?" Carmody sat upright and opened his eyes. "I was taking a little nap," he said. "Is there anything wrong with that?"
"What should be wrong with a perfectly natural thing like that?" the city said.
"Thank you," Carmody said, and closed his eyes again.
"But why nap in a chair?" the city asked.
"Because I'm in a chair, and I'm already half asleep."
"You'll get a crick in your back," the city warned him.
[. . . .]
He was guided out of the restaurant, down the street, around the corner, and into a building marked The Snoozerie.
Ele se deita no sofá da soneca, mas depois se levanta porque agora está bem acordado.
There was a long silence. Then Carmody sat up.
"What's the matter?" the city asked.
"Now I can't sleep," Carmody said.
Ele pega um choc bar de uma máquina de venda automática (algo chamado Baby Ruth)
"What's this?" Carmody asked.
"It's a candy machine," the city told him.
"It doesn't look like one."
"Still, it is one. This design is a modification of a design by Saarionmen for a silo. I have miniaturized it, of course, and—"
"It still doesn't look like a candy machine. How do you work it?"
"It's very simple. Push the red button. Now wait. Press down one of those levers on Row A; now press the green button. There!"
A Baby Ruth candy bar slid into Carmody's hand.
e novamente tem que suportar uma palestra sobre alimentação saudável e cárie enquanto ele come.
A palestra é sobre lixo:
"Huh," Carmody said, letting the candy wrapper slip from his fingers.
"That," the city said, "is an example of the kind of thoughtlessness I always encounter."
"It's just a piece of paper," Carmody said, turning and looking at the candy wrapper lying on the spotless street.
"Of course it's just a piece of paper," the city said. "But multiply it by a hundred thousand inhabitants and what do you have?"
Depois de dois ou três dias desse incômodo, com City criticando seus grandes cafés da manhã e suas maneiras esnobes, ele já teve o suficiente e sai do local.
"Where are you going?" the city asked. "What's the matter?"
Silent, tight-lipped, Carmody continued past the children's park and the American Express building.
"What did I do wrong?" the city cried. "What, just tell me what?"
Carmody made no reply but strode past the Rochambeau Cafe and the Portuguese synagogue, coming at last to the pleasant grass glade that surrounded Bellwether.
Eu acho que termina com a cidade deserta gritando "Ingrate" para sua figura distante enquanto ele se afasta.
"Ingrate!" the city screamed after him. "You're just like all the others. All of you humans are disagreeable animals, and you're never really satisfied with anything."