So, we aren't flying ships to Jupiter (again), but I can think of one science fiction writer whose vision of the future feels true.

Take this lovely passage from the third chapter of Philip K Dick's Ubik:

Picking up the vidphone, he dialed 213, the extension for the maintenance circuit of the building. "Listen," he said, when the homeostatic entity answered. "I'm now in a position to divert some of my funds in the direction of settling my bill vis-avis your clean-up robots. I'd like them up here right now to go over my apt. I'll pay the full and entire bill when they're finished."

"Sir, you'll pay your full and entire bill before they start."

By now he had his billfold in hand; from it he dumped his supply of Magic Credit Keys—most of which, by now, had been voided. Probably in perpetuity, his relationship with money and the payment of pressing debts being such as it was. "I'll charge my overdue bill against my Triangular Magic Key," he informed the nebulous antagonist. "That will transfer the obligation out of your jurisdiction; on your books it'll show as total restitution."

"Plus fines, plus penalties."

"I'll charge those against my Heart-Shaped—"

"Mr. Chip, the Ferris & Brockman Retail Credit Auditing and Analysis Agency has published a special flier on you. Our receipt-slot received it yesterday and it remains fresh in our minds. Since July you've dropped from a triple G status creditwise to a quadruple G. Our department—in fact this entire conapt building—is now programed against an extension of services and/or credit to such pathetic anomalies as yourself, sir. Regarding you, everything must be hereafter be handled on a basic-cash subfloor. In fact, you'll probably be on a basic-cash subfloor for the rest of your life. In fact—"

He hung up....

The door refused to open. It said, "Five cents, please."

He searched his pockets. No more coins; nothing. "I'll pay you tomorrow," he told the door. Again he tried the knob. Again it remained locked tight. "What I pay, you," he informed it, "is in the nature of a gratuity; I don't have to pay you."

"I think otherwise," the door said. "Look in the purchase contract you signed when you bought this conapt."

This little section from Dick's book—hell, a surprising number of passages from PKD's short stories and novels of useful people pecked apart by mechanized and institutionalized petty greed—feel so utterly contemporary.

Dick's gratuity demanding door comes to mind every time I end up being accused of theft by one of the blasted automated checkout machines at QFC—typically triggered by my desire to use a cloth bag, or some other innocent act. The petty shenanigans of credit card issuers, insurance providers, health care providers, cell phone, telephone and cable companies all are gurgling into a lovely deregulated, anti-consumer fetid broth.

Welcome to the future.