Age of Anxiety By ROBERT SILVERBERG Illustrated by SCHOENHERR "Choose!" said the robonurse. "Choose!" echoed his entire world. But either choice was impossible! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Infinity June 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] That morning, when Larry awoke, the robonurse was standing at the foot of his bed, smiling benignly. It made no attempt to help him into his housecoat and give him his morning unworry capsule. Instead it waited, poised delicately on its humming treads, making no motion toward him. "I'm awake," Larry said sourly. "Why aren't you functioning?" He paused, frowning slightly, and added, "And where's my capsule?" "This morning is different," said the robonurse. "This is your birthday, young man!" It clicked twice, hissed, and rolled forward at last, holding Larry's capsule-box in its grips. The box flew open as the robot approached Larry's bed, and the boy saw, within its gleaming interior, three capsules—one the usual light blue, the other two a harsh green and a bright yellow respectively. "What's this?" "Choose," the robonurse said inexorably. The trigger-word echoed in the room for an instant. "Choose," the robot said again, and the repetition unlocked a chain of synapses, unleashed data hypnotically buried in Larry's mind years before, opened doors and brightened dark corridors. Choose. The terrifying word held promise of conflict, pain, anxiety. Larry's fingers quivered with terror for a moment; his hand hovered over the capsule-box, wavered for a long second of indecision, while a glistening bead of sweat rolled down his smooth face. His hand grazed the light-blue capsule, the capsule that could end the sudden nightmare forever. He fingered its glossy surface for a moment, then shook his head and touched the bright yellow one. A shudder of fear ran through him as he did so, and he swept up the green capsule hurriedly and swallowed it. "Okay. I've chosen," he said weakly.
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