The Midas Plaque
AND SO THEY WERE MARRIED.
The bride and groom made a beautiful couple, she in
her twenty-yard frill of immaculate white, he in his formal
gray ruffled blouse and pleated pantaloons.
It was a small weddingthe best he could afford. For
guests, they had only the immediate family and a few
close friends. And when the minister had performed the
ceremony, Morey Fry kissed his bride and they drove off
to the reception. There were twenty-eight limousines in
all (though it is true that twenty of them contained only
the caterer's robots) and three flower cars.
"Bless you both," said old man Elon sentimentally.
"You've got a fine girl in our Cherry, Morey." He blew
his nose on a ragged square of cambric.
The old folks behaved very well, Morey thought. At
the reception, surrounded by the enormous stacks of
wedding gifts, they drank the champagne and ate a great
many of the tiny, delicious canapes. They listened politely
to the fifteen-piece orchestra, and Cherry's mother even
danced one dance with Morey for sentiment's sake, though
it was clear that dancing was far from the usual pattern
of her life. They tried as hard as they could to blend into
the gathering, but all the same, the two elderly figures
in severely simple and probably rented garments were
dismayingly conspicuous in the quarter-acre of tapestries
and tinkling fountains that was the main ballroom of
Morey's country home.
When it was time for the guests to go home and let
the newlyweds begin their life together Cherry's father
shook Morey by the hand and Cherry's mother kissed him.
But as they drove away in their tiny runabout their faces
were full of foreboding.
It was nothing against Morey as a person, of course.
But poor people should not marry wealth.
Morey and Cherry loved each other, certainly. That
helped. They told each other so, a dozen times an hour,
all of the long hours they were together, for all of the first
months of their marriage. Morey even took time off to go
shopping with his bride, which endeared him to her
enormously. They drove their shopping carts through the
immense vaulted corridors of the supermarket, Morey
checking off the items on the shopping list as Cherry
picked out the goods. It was fun.
For a while.
Their first fight started in the supermarket, between
Breakfast Foods and Floor Furnishings, just where the
new Precious Stones department was being opened.
Morey called off from the list, "Diamond lavaliere, cos-
tame rings, earbobs."
Cherry said rebelliously, "Morey, I have a lavaliere.
Please, dear!"
Morey folded back the pages of the list uncertainly.
The lavaliere was on there, all right, and no alternative
selection was shown.
"How about a bracelet?" he coaxed. "Look, they have
some nice ruby ones there. See how beautifully they go
with your hair, darling!" He beckoned a robot clerk, who
busded up and handed Cherry the bracelet tray. "Lovely,"
Morey exclaimed as Cherry slipped the largest of the lot
on her wrist.
"And I don't have to have a lavaliere?" Cherry asked.
"Of course not." He peeked at the tag. "Same number
of ration points exactly!" Since Cherry looked only
dubious, not convinced, he said briskly, "And now we'd
better be getting along to the shoe department. I've got
to pick up some dancing pumps."
Cherry made no objection, neither then nor throughout
the rest of their shopping tour. At the end, while they
were sitting in the supermarket's ground-floor lounge wait-
ing for the robot accountants to tote up their bill and the
robot cashiers to stamp their ration books, Morey re-
membered to have the shipping department save out the
bracelet.
"I don't want that sent with the other stuff, darling," he
explained. "I want you to wear it right now. Honestly, I
don't think I ever saw anything looking so right for you."
Cherry looked flustered and pleased. Morey was de-
lighted with himself; it wasn't everybody who knew how
to handle these little domestic problems just right!
He stayed self-satisfied all the way home, while Henry,
their companion-robot, regaled them with funny stories of
the factory in which it had been built and trained. Cherry
wasn't used to Henry by a long shot, but it was hard not
to like the robot. Jokes and funny stories when you
needed amusement, sympathy when you were depressed,
a never-failing supply of news and information on any
subject you cared to nameHenry was easy enough to
take. Cherry even made a special point of asking Henry
to keep them company through dinner, and she laughed
as thoroughly as Morey himself at its droll anecdotes.
But later, in the conservatory, when Henry had con-
siderately left them alone, the laughter dried up.
Morey didn't notice. He was very conscientiously mak-
ing the rounds: turning on the tri-D, selecting their after-
dinner liqueurs, scanning the evening newspapers.
Cherry cleared her throat self-consciously, and Morey
stopped what he was doing. "Dear," she said tentatively,
"I'm feeling kind of restless tonight. Could we1 mean
do you think we could just sort of stay home andwell,
relax?"
Morey looked at her with a touch of concern. She lay
back wearily, eyes half closed. "Are you feeling all right?"
he asked.
"Perfectly. I just don't want to go out tonight, dear. I
don't feel up to it."
He sat down and automatically lit a cigarette. "I see,"
he said. The tri-D was beginning a comedy show; he got
up to turn it off, snapping on the tape-player. Muted
strings filled the room.
"We had reservations at the club tonight," he reminded
her.
Cherry shifted uncomfortably. "I know."
"And we have the opera tickets that I turned last week's
in for. I hate to nag, darling, but we haven't used any of
our opera tickets."
"We can see them right here on the tri-D," she said
in a small voice.
"That has nothing to do with it, sweetheart. I1 didn't
want to tell you about it, but Wainwright, down at the
office, said something to me yesterday. He told me he
would be at the circus last night and as much as said he'd
be looking to see if we were there, too. Well, we weren't
there. Heaven knows what I'll tell him next week."
He waited for Cherry to answer, but she was silent.
He went on reasonably, "So if you could see your way
clear to going out tonight"
He stopped, slack-jawed. Cherry was crying, silently
and in quantity.
"Darling!" he said inarticulately.
He hurried to her, but she fended him off. He stood
helpless over her, watching her cry.
"Dear, what's the matter?" he asked.
She turned her head away.
Morey rocked back on his heels. It wasn't exactly the
first  time  he'd  seen  Cherry  crythere had  been  that
poignant scene when they Gave Each Other Up, realizing
that their backgrounds were too far apart for happiness,
before the realization that they had to have each other, no
matter what. . . . But it was the first time her tears had
made him feel guilty.
And he did feel guilty. He stood there staring at her.
Then he turned his back on her and walked over to
the bar. He ignored the ready liqueurs and poured two
stiff highballs, brought them back to her. He set one down
beside her, took a long drink from the other.
In quite a different tone, he said, "Dear, what's the
matter?"
No answer.
"Come on. What is it?"
She looked up at him and rubbed at her eyes. Almost
sullenly, she said, "Sorry."
"I know you're sorry. Look, we love each other. Let's
talk this thing out."
She picked up her drink and held it for a moment,
before setting it down untasted. "What's the use, Morey?"
"Please. Let's try."
She shrugged.
He went on remorselessly, "You aren't happy, are you?
And it's because ofwell, all this." His gesture took in
the richly furnished conservatory, the thick-piled carpet,
the host of machines and contrivances for their comfort
and entertainment that waited for their touch. By implica-
tion it took in twenty-six rooms, five cars, nine robots.
Morey said, with an effort, "It isn't what you're used to,
is it?"
"I can't help it," Cherry said. "Morey, you know I've
tried. But back home"
"Dammit," he flared, "this is your home. You don't
live with your father any more in that five-room cottage;
you don't spend your evenings hoeing the garden or play-
ing cards for matchsticks. You live here, vrith me, your
husband! You knew what you were getting into. We
talked all this out long before we were married"
The words stopped, because words were useless. Cherry
was crying again, but not silently.
Through her tears, she wailed: "Darling, I've tried. You
don't know how I've tried! I've worn all those silly
clothes and I've played all those silly games and I've gone
out with you as much as I possibly could andI've eaten
all that terrible food until I'm actually getting fa-fa-/af/ I
thought I could stand it. But I just can't go on like this;
I'm not used to it. I1 love you, Morey, but I'm going
crazy, living like this. I can't help it, MoreyI'm tired of
being poor!"
Eventually the tears dried up, and the quarrel healed,
and the lovers kissed and made up. But Morey lay awake
that night, listening to his wife's gentle breathing from
the suite next to his own, staring into the darkness as
tragically as any pauper before him had ever done.
Blessed are the poor, for they shall inherit the Earth.
Blessed Morey, heir to more worldly goods than he
could possibly consume.
Morey Fry, steeped in grinding poverty, had never gone
hungry a day in his life, never lacked for anything his
heart could desire in the way of food, or clothing, or a
place to sleep. In Morey's world, no one lacked for these
things; no one could.
Malthus was rightfor a civilization vidthout ma-
chines, automatic factories, hydroponics and food syn-
thesis, nuclear breeder plants, ocean-mining for metals
and minerals . . .
And a vastly increasing supply of labor . . .
And architecture that rose high in the air and dug deep
in the ground and floated far out on the water on piers
and pontoons . . . architecture that could be poured one
day and lived in the next . . .
And robots.
Above all, robots . . . robots to burrow and haul and
smelt and fabricate, to build and farm and weave and sew.
What the land lacked in wealth, the sea was made to
yield and the laboratory invented the rest . . . and the
factories became a pipeline of plenty, churning out enough
to feed and clothe and house a dozen worlds.
Limitless discovery, infinite power in the atom, tireless
labor of humanity and robots, mechanization that drove
jungle and swamp and ice off the Earth, and put up office
buildings and manufacturing centers and rocket ports in
their place . . .
The pipeline of production spewed out riches that no
king in the time of Malthus could have known.
But a pipeline has two ends. The invention and power
and labor pouring in at one end must somehow be drained
out at the other . . .
Lucky Morey, blessed economic-consuming unit, drown-
ing in the pipeline's flood, striving manfully to eat and
drink and wear and wear out his share of the ceaseless
tide of wealth.
Morey felt far from blessed, for the blessings of the
poor are always best appreciated from afar.
Quotas worried his sleep until he awoke at eight o'clock
the next morning, red-eyed and haggard, but inwardly
resolved. He had reached a decision. He was starting a
new life.
There was trouble in the morning mail. Under the let-
terhead of the National Ration Board, it said:
"We regret to advise you that the following items re-
turned by you in connection with your August quotas as
used and no longer serviceable have been inspected and
found insufficiently worn." The list followeda long one,
Morey saw to his sick disappointment. "Credit is hereby
disallowed for these and you are therefore given an addi-
tional consuming quota for the current month in the
amount of 435 points, at least 350 points of which must
be in the textile and home-furnishing categories."
Morey dashed the letter to the floor. The valet picked
it up emotionlessly, creased it and set it on his desk.
It wasn't fair! All right, maybe the bathing trunks and
beach umbrellas hadn't been really used very much
though how the devil, he asked himself bitterly, did you
go about using up swimming gear when you didn't have
time for such leisurely pursuits as swimming? But cer-
tainly the hiking slacks were used! He'd worn them for
three whole days and part of a fourth; what did they
expect him to do, go around in rags?
Morey looked belligerently at the coffee and toast that
the valet-robot had brought in with the mail, and then
steeled his resolve. Unfair or not, he had to play the
game according to the rules. It was for Cherry, more than
for himself, and the way to begin a new way of life was to
begin it.
Morey was going to consume for two.
He told the valet-robot, "Take that stuff back. I want
cream and sugar with the coffeelots of cream and sugar.
And besides the toast, scrambled eggs, fried potatoes,
orange juiceno, make it half a grapefruit. And orange
juice, come to think of it."
"Right away, sir," said the valet. "You won't be hav-
ing breakfast at nine then, will you, sir?"
"I certainly will," said Morey virtuously. "Double por-
tions!" As the robot was closing the door, he called after
it, "Butter and marmalade with the toast!"
He went to the bath; he had a full schedule and no time
to waste. In the shower, he carefully sprayed himself with
lather three times. When he had rinsed the soap off, he
went through the whole assortment of taps in order: three
lotions, plain talcum, scented talcum and thirty seconds
of ultra-violet. Then he lathered and rinsed again, and
dried himself with a towel instead of using the hot-air
drying jet. Most of the miscellaneous scents went down
the drain with the rinse water, but if the Ration Board
accused lii'w of waste, he could claim he was experiment-
ing. The effect, as a matter of fact, wasn't bad at all.
He stepped out, full of exuberance. Cherry was awake,
staring in dismay at the tray the valet had brought. "Good
morning, dear," she said faintly. "Ugh."
Morey kissed her and patted her hand. "Well!" he said,
looking at the tray with a big, hollow smile. "Food!"
"Isn't that a lot for just the two of us?"
"Two of us?" repeated Morey masterfully. "Nonsense,
my dear, I'm going to eat it all by myself!"
"Oh, Morey!" gasped Cherry, and the adoring look she
gave him was enough to pay for a dozen such meals.
Which, he thought as he finished his morning exercises
with the sparring-robot and sat down to his real breakfast,
it just about had to be, day in and day out, for a long,
long time.
Still, Morey had made up his mind. As he worked his
way through the kippered herring, tea and crumpets, he
ran over his plans with Henry. He swallowed a mouthful
and said, "I want you to line up some appointments for
me right away. Three hours a week in an exercise gym
pick one with lots of reducing equipment, Henry. I think
I'm going to need it. And fittings for some new clothes
I've had these for weeks. And, let's see, doctor, dentist
say, Henry, don't I have a psychiatrist's date coming up?"
"Indeed you do, sir!" it said warmly. "This morning,
in fact. I've already instructed the chauffeur and notified
your office."
"Fine! Well, get started on the other things, Henry."
"Yes, sir," said Henry, and assumed the curious absent
look of a robot talking on its TBR circuitsthe "Talk
Between Robots" radioas it arranged the appointments
for its master.
Morey finished his breakfast in silence, pleased with his
own virtue, at peace with the world. It wasn't so hard to be
a proper, industrious consumer if you -worked at it, he
reflected. It was only the malcontents, the ne'er-do-wells
and the incompetents who simply could not adjust to the
world around them. Well, he thought with distant pity,
someone had to suffer; you couldn't break eggs without
making an omelet. And his proper duty was not to be
some sort of wild-eyed crank, challengmg the social order
and beating his breast about injustice, but to take care of
his wife and his home.
It was too bad he couldn't really get right down to work
on consuming today. But this was his one day a week to
hold a jobfour of the other six days were devoted to
solid consumingand, besides, he had a group therapy
session scheduled as well. His analysis, Morey told him-
self, would certainly take a sharp turn for the better, now
that he had faced up to his problems.
Morey was immersed in a glow of self-righteousness as
he kissed Cherry good-by (she had finally got up, all in
a confusion of delight at the new regime) and walked out
the door to his car. He hardly noticed the little man in
enormous floppy hat and garishly ruffled trousers who
was standing almost hidden in the shrubs.
"Hey, Mac." The man's voice was almost a whisper.
"Hub? Ohwhat is it?"
The man looked around furtively. "Listen, friend," he
said rapidly, "you look like an intelligent man who could
use a little help. Times are tough; you help me. III help
you. Want to make a deal on ration stamps? Six for one.
One of yours for six of mine, the best deal youTI get
anywhere in town. Naturally, my stamps aren't exactly
the real McCoy, but they'll pass, friend, they'll pass"
Morey biinked at him. "No!" he said violently, and
pushed the man aside. Now it's racketeers, he thought
bitterly.  Slums  and  endless  sordid  preoccupation  with
rations weren't enough to inflict on Cherry; now the
neighborhood was becoming a hangout for people on the
shady side of the law. It was not, of course, the first time
he had ever been approached by a counterfeit ration-
stamp hoodlum, but never at his own front door!
Morey thought briefly, as he climbed into his car, of
calling the police. But certainly the man would be gone
before they could get there; and, after all, he had handled
it pretty well as it was.
Of course, it would be nice to get six stamps for one.
But very far from nice if he got caught.
"Good morning, Mr. Fry," tinkled the robot reception-
ist. "Won't you go right in?" With a steel-tipped finger, it
pointed to the door marked GROUP THERAPY.
Someday, Morey vowed to himself as he nodded and
complied, he would be in a position to afford a private
analyst of his own. Group therapy helped relieve the in-
finite stresses of modern living, and without it he might
find himself as badly off as the hysterical mobs in the
ration riots, or as dangerously anti-social as the counter-
feiters.  But  it  lacked  the  personal  touch.  It was,  he
thought, too public a performance of what should be a
private affair, like trying to live a happy married life with
an interfering, ever-present crowd of robots in the house
Morey brought himself up in panic. How had that
thought crept in? He was shaken visibly as he entered the
room and greeted the group to which he was assigned.
There were eleven of them: four Freudians, two Reich-
ians, two Jungians, a Gestalter, a shock therapist and the
elderly and rather quiet SuMivanite. Even the members of
the majority groups had their own individual differences in
technique and creed, but, despite four years with this par-
ticular group of analysts, Morey hadn't quite been able
to keep them separate in his mind. Their names, though,
he knew well enough.
"Morning, Doctors," he said. "What is it today?"
"Morning," said Semmelweiss morosely. "Today you
come into the room for the first time looking as if some-
thing is really bothering you, and yet the schedule calls for
psychodrama. Dr. Fairless," he appealed, "can't we change
the schedule a little bit? Fry here is obviously under a
strain; that's the time to start digging and see what he
can find. We can do your psychodrama next time, can't
we?"
Fairless shook his gracefully bald old head. "Sorry,
Doctor. If it were up to me, of coursebut you know the
rules."
"Rules, rules," jeered Semmelweiss. "Ah, what's the
use? Here's a patient in an acute anxiety state if I ever
saw oneand believe me, I saw plentyand we ignore it
because the rules say ignore it. Is that professional? Is
that how to cure a patient?"
Little Blaine said frostily, "If I may say so. Dr. Semmel-
weiss, there have been a great many cures made without
the necessity of departing from the rules. I myself, in
fact"
"You yourself!" mimicked Semmelweiss. "You your-
self never handled a patient alone in your life. When you
going to get out of a group, Blaine?"
Blaine said furiously, "Dr. Fairless, I don't think I have
to stand for this sort of personal attack. Just because
Semmelweiss has seniority and a couple of private patients
one day a week, he thinks"
"Gentlemen," said Fairless mildly. "Please, let's get on
with the work. Mr. Fry has come to us for help, not to
listen to us losing our tempers."
"Sorry," said Semmelweiss curtly. "All the same, I ap-
peal from the arbitrary and mechanistic ruling of the
chair."
Fairless inclined his head. "All in favor of the ruling of
the chair? Nine, I count. That leaves only you opposed,
Dr. Semmelweiss. We'll proceed with the psychodrama,
if the recorder will read us the notes and comments of the
last session.'*
The recorder, a pudgy, low-ranking youngster named
Sprogue, flipped back the pages of his notebook and read
in a chanting voice, "Session of twenty-fourth May, sub-
ject, Morey Fry; in attendance. Doctors Fairless, Bileck,
Semmelweiss, Carrado, Weber"
Fairless interrupted kindly, "Just the last page, if you
please. Dr. Sprogue."
"Umoh, yes. After a ten-minute recess for additional
Rorschachs and an electro-encephalogram, the group con-
vened and conducted rapid-fire word association. Results
were tabulated and compared with standard deviation
patterns,  and it was  determined that subject's major
traumas derived from, respectively"
Morey found his attention waning. Therapy was good;
everybody knew that, but every once in a while he found
it a little dull. If it weren't for therapy, though, there was
no telling what might happen. Certainly, Morey told him-
self, he had been helped considerablyat least he hadn't
set fire to his house and shrieked at the fire-robots, like
Newell down the block when his eldest daughter divorced
her husband and came back to live with him, bringing her
ration quota along, of course. Morey hadn't even been
tempted to do anything as outrageously, frighteningly im-
moral as destroy things or -waste themwell, he admitted
to himself honestly, perhaps a little tempted, once in a
great while. But never anything important enough to worry
about; he was sound, perfectly sound.
He looked up, starfled. All the doctors were staring at
him. "Mr. Fry," Fairless repeated, "will you take your
place?"
"Certainly," Morey said hastily. "Uhwhere?"
Semmelweiss guffawed. "Told you. Never mind, Morey;
you didn't miss much. We're going to run through one of
the big scenes in your life, the one you told us about last
time. Remember? You were fourteen years old, you said.
Christmas time. Your mother had made you a promise."
Morey swallowed. "I remember," he said unhappily.
"Well, all right. Where do I stand?"
"Right here," said Fairless. "You're you, Carrado is
your mother. I'm your father. Will the doctors not par-
ticipating mind moving back? Fine. Now, Morey, here we
are on Christmas morning. Merry Christmas, Morey!"
"Merry Christmas," Morey said half-heartedly. "Uh
Father dear, where's myuhmy puppy that Mother
promised me?"
"Puppy!" said Fairless heartily. "Your mother and I
have something much better than a puppy for you. Just
take a look under the tree thereit's a robot! Yes, Morey,
your very own robota full-size thirty-eight-tube fully
automatic companion robot for you! Go ahead, Morey,
go right up and speak to it. Its name is Henry. Go on,
boy."
Morey felt a sudden, incomprehensible tingle inside the
bridge of his nose. He said shakily, "But I1 didn't want
a robot."
"Of course you want a robot," Carrado interrupted.
"Go on, child, play with your nice robot."
Morey said violently, "I hate robots!" He looked around
him at the doctors, at the gray-paneled consulting room.
He added defiantly, "You hear me, all of you? I still hate
robots!"
There was a second's pause; then the questions began.
It was half an hour before the receptionist came in and
announced that time was up.
In that half hour, Morey had got over his trembling and
lost his wild, momentary passion, but he had remembered
what for thirteen years he had forgotten.
He hated robots.
The surprising thing was not that young Morey had
hated robots. It was that the Robot Riots, the ultimate
violent outbreak of flesh against metal, the battle to the
death between mankind and its machine heirs . . . never
happened. A little boy hated robots, but the man he be-
came worked with them hand in hand.
And yet, always and always before, the new worker,
the competitor for the job, was at once and inevitably
outside the law. The waves swelled inflie Irish, the
Negroes, the Jews, the Italians. They were squeezed into
their ghettoes, where they encysted, seethed and struck
out, until the burgeoning generations became indistinguish-
able.
For the robots, that genetic relief was not in sight. And
still the conflict never came. The feed-back circuits aimed
the anti-aircraft guns and, reshaped and newly planned,
found a place in a new sort of machinetogether with a
miraculous trail of cams and levers, an indestructible and
potent power source and a hundred thousand parts and
sub-assemblies.
And the first robot clanked off the bench.
Its  mission  was  its  own  destruction;  but  from  the
scavenged wreck of its pilot body, a hundred better robots
drew their inspiration. And the hundred went to work,
and hundreds more, until there were millions upon untold
millions.
And still the riots never happened.
For the robots came bearing a gift and the name of it
was "Plenty."
And by the time the gift had shown its own unguessed
ills, the time for a Robot Riot was past. Plenty is a habit-
forming drug. You do not cut the dosage down. You kick
it if you can; you stop the dose entirely. But the. convul-
sions that follow may wreck the body once and for all.
The addict craves the grainy white powder; he doesn't
hate it, or the runner who sells it to him. And if Morey
as a little boy could hate the robot that had deprived him
of his pup, Morey the man was perfectly aware that the
robots were his servants and his friends.
But the little Morey inside the manhe had never been
convinced.
Morey ordinarily looked forward to his work. The one
day a week at which he did anything was a wonderful
change from the dreary consume, consume, consume
grind. He entered the bright-lit drafting room of the Brad-
moor Amusements Company with a feeling of uplift.
But as he was changing from street garb to his drafting
smock, Howland from Procurement came over with a
knowing look. "Wainwright's been looking for you," How-
land whispered. "Better get right in there."
Morey nervously thanked him and got. Wainwright's
office was the size of a phone booth and as bare as
Antarctic ice. Every time Morey saw it, he felt his in-
sides churn with envy. Think of a desk with nothing on it
but work surfaceno calendar-clock, no twelve-color pen
rack, no dictating machinesi
He squeezed himself in and sat down while Wainwright
finished a phone call. He mentally reviewed the possible
reasons why Wainwright would want to talk to him in
person instead of over the phone, or by dropping a word
to him as he passed through the drafting room.
Very few of them were good.
Wainwright put down the phone and Morey straight-
ened up. "You sent for me?" he asked.
Wainwright in a chubby world was aristocratically lean.
As General Superintendent of the Design & Development
Section of the Bradmoor Amusements Company, he
ranked high in the upper section of the well-to-do. He
rasped, "I certainly did. Fry, just what the hell do you
think you're up to now?"
"I don't know what you m-mean, Mr. Wainwright,"
Morey stammered, crossing off the list of possible reasons
for the interview all of the good ones.
  Wainwright snorted. "I guess you don't. Not because
you weren't told, but because you don't want to know.
Think back a whole week. What did I have you on the
carpet for then?"
Morey said sickly, "My ration book. Look, Mr. Wain-
wright, I know I'm running a little bit behind, but"
"But nothing! How do you think it looks to the Com-
mittee, Fry? They got a complaint from the Ration Board
about you. Naturally they passed it on to me. And na-
turally I'm going to pass it right along to you. The ques-
tion is, what are you going to do about it? Good God,
man, look at these figurestextiles, fifty-one per cent;
food, sixty-seven per cent; amusements and entertain-
ment, thirty per cent! You haven't come up to your ration
in anything for months!"
Morey stared at the card miserably. "Wethat is, my
wife and Ijust had a long talk about that last night, Mr.
Wainwright. And, believe me, we're going to do better.
We're going to buckle right down and get to work and
uhdo better," he finished weakly.
Wainwright nodded, and for the first time there was a
note of sympathy in his voice. "Your wife. Judge Eton's
daughter, isn't she? Good family. I've met the Judge
many times." Then, gruffly, "Well, nevertheless, Fry, I'm
warning you. I don't care how you straighten this out, but
don't let the Committee mention this to me again."
"No, sir."
"All right. Finished with the schematics on the new
K-50?"
Morey brightened. "Just about, sir! I'm putting the
first section on tape today. I'm very pleased with it, Mr.
Wainwright, honestly I am. I've got more than eighteen
thousand moving parts in it now, and that's without"
"Good. Good." Wainwright glanced down at his desk.
"Get back to it. And straighten out this other thing. You
can do it. Fry. Consuming is everybody's duty. Just keep
that in mind."
Howland followed Morey out of the drafting room,
down to the spotless shops. "Bad time?" he inquired
solicitously. Moray grunted. It was none of Howland's
business.
Howland looked over his shoulder as he was setting up
the programing panel. Morey studied the matrices silently,
then got busy reading the summary tapes, checking them
back against the schematics, setting up the instructions on
the programing board. Howland kept quiet as Morey com-
pleted the setup and ran off a test tape. It checked per-
fectly; Morey stepped back to light a cigarette in celebra-
tion before pushing the start button.
Howland said, "Go on, run it. I can't go until you put
it in the works."
Morey grinned and pushed the button. The board
lighted up; within it, a tiny metronomic beep began to
pulse. That was all. At the other end of the quarter-mile
shed, Morey knew, the automatic sorters and conveyers
were fingering through the copper reels and steel ingots,
measuring hoppers of plastic powder and colors, setting
up an intricate weaving path for the thousands of in-
dividual components that would make up Bradmoor's new
K-50 Spin-a-Game. But from where they stood, in the
elaborately muraled programing room, nothing showed.
Bradmoor was an ultra-modernized plant; in the manu-
facturing end, even robots had been dispensed with in
favor of machines that guided themselves.
Morey glanced at his watch and logged in the starting
time while Howland quickly counter-checked Morey's
raw-material flow program.
"Checks out," Howland said solemnly, slapping him
on the back. "Calls for a celebration. Anyway, it's your
first design, isn't it?"
"Yes. First all by myself, at any rate."
Howland was already fishing in his private locker for
the bottle he kept against emergency needs. He poured
with a flourish. "To Morey Fry," he said, "our most fa-
vorite designer, in whom we are much pleased."
Morey drank. It went down easily enough. Morey had
conscientiously used his liquor rations for years, but he
had never gone beyond the minimum, so that although
liquor was no new experience to him, the single drink
immediately warmed him. It warmed his mouth, his
throat, the hollows of his chest; and it settled down with
a warm glow inside him. Howland, exerting himself to be
nice, complimented Morey fatuously on the design and
poured another drink. Morey didn't utter any protest at
all.
Howland drained his glass. "You may wonder," he
said formally, "why I am so pleased with you, Morey Fry.
I will tell you why this is."
Morey grinned. "Please do."
Howland nodded. "I will. It's because I am pleased
with the world, Morey. My wife left me last night."
Morey was as shocked as only a recent bridegroom can
be by the news of a crumbling marriage. "That's too ba
I mean is that a fact?"
"Yes, she left my beds and board and five robots, and
I'm happy to see her go." He poured another drink for
both of them. "Women. Can't live with them and can't
live without them. First you sigh and pant and chase
after 'emyou like poetry?" he demanded suddenly.
Morey said cautiously, "Some poetry."
Howland quoted: " 'How long, my love, shall I behold
this wall between our gardensyours the rose, and mine
the swooning lily.' Like it? I wrote it for Jocelynthat's
my wifewhen we were first going together."
"It's beautiful," said Morey.
"She wouldn't talk to me for two days." Howland
drained his drink. "Lots of spirit, that girl. Anyway, I
hunted her like a tiger. And then I caught her. Wowl"
Morey took a deep drink from his own glass. "What
do you mean, wow?" he asked.
"Wow." Howland pointed his finger at Morey. "Wow,
that's what I mean. We got married and I took her home
to the dive I was living in, and wow we had a kid, and
wow I got in a little trouble with the Ration Board
nothing serious, of course, but there was a mixupand
wow fights.
"Everything was a fight," he explained. "She'd start
with a little nagging, and naturally I'd say something or
other back, and bang we were off. Budget, budget, budget;
I hope to die if I ever hear the word 'budget' again. Morey,
you're a married man; you know what it's like. Tell me
the truth, weren't you Just about ready to blow your top
the first time you caught your wife cheating on the
budget?"
"Cheating on the budget?" Morey was startled. "Cheat-
ing how?"
"Oh, lots of ways. Making your portions bigger than
hers. Sneaking extra shirts for you on her clothing ration.
You know."
"Damn it, I do not know!" cried Morey. "Cherry
wouldn't do anything like that!"
Rowland looked at him opaquely for a long second.
"Of course not," he said at last. "Let's have another
drink."
Ruffled, Morey held out his glass. Cherry wasn't the
type of girl to cheat. Of. course she wasn't. A fine, loving
girl like hera pretty girl, of a good family; she wouldn't
know how to begin.
Howland was saying, in a sort of chant, "No more
budget. No more fights. No more 'Daddy never treated
me like this.' No more nagging. No more extra radons
for household allowance. No moreMorey, what do you
say we go out and have a few drinks? I know a place
where"
"Sorry, Howland," Morey said. "I've got to get back
to the office, you know."
Howland guffawed. He held out his wristwatch. As
Morey, a little unsteadily, bent over it, it tinkled out the
hour. It was a matter of minutes before the office dosed
for the day.
"Oh," said Morey. "I didn't realizeWell, anyway,
Howland, thanks, but I can't. My wife will be expecting
me."
"She certainly will," Howland sniggered. "Won't catch
her eating up your rations and hers tonight."
Morey said tightly, "Howland!"
"Oh, sorry, sorry." Howland waved an arm. "Don't
mean to say anything against your wife, of course. Guess
maybe Jocelyn soured me on women. But honest, Morey,
you'd like this place. Name of Uncle Piggotty's, down in
the Old Town. Crazy bunch hangs out there. You'd like
them. Couple nights last week they had1 mean, you
understand, Morey, I don't go there as often as all that,
but I just happened to drop in and"
Morey interrupted firmly. "Thank you, Rowland. Must
go home. Wife expects it. Decent of you to offer. Good
night. Be seeing you."
He walked out, turned at the door to bow politely, and
in turning back cracked the side of his face against the
door jamb. A sort of pleasant numbness had taken pos-
session of his entire skin surface, though, and it wasn't
until he perceived Henry chattering at him sympathetic-
ally that he noticed a trickle of blood running down the
side of his face.
"Mere flesh wound," he said with dignity. "Nothing to
cause you least conshterconsternation, Henry. Now
kindly shut your ugly face. Want to think."
And he slept in the car all the way home.
It was worse than a hangover. The name is "hold-
over." You've had some drinks; you've started to sober
up by catching a little sleep. Then you are required to be
awake and to function. The consequent state has the
worst features of hangover and intoxication; your head
thumps and your mouth tastes like the floor of a bear-pit,
but you are nowhere near sober.
There is one cure. Morey said thickly, "Let's have a
cocktail, dear."
Cherry was delighted to share a cocktail with him be-
fore dinner. Cherry, Morey thought lovingly, was a won-
derful, wonderful, wonderful
He found his head nodding in time to his thoughts and
the motion made him wince.
Cherry flew to his side and touched his temple. "Is it
bothering you, darling?" she asked solicitously. "Where
you ran into the door, I mean?"
Morey looked at her sharply, but her expression was
open and adoring. He said bravely, "Just a little. Nothing
to it, really."
The butler brought the cocktails and retired. Cherry
lifted her glass. Morey raised his, caught a whiff of the
liquor and nearly dropped it. He bit down hard on his
churning insides and forced himself to swallow.
.He was surprised but grateful: It stayed down. In a
moment, the curious phenomenon of warmth began to
repeat itself. He swallowed the rest of the drink and held
out his glass for a refill. He even tried a smile. Oddly
enough, his face didn't fall off.
One more drink did it. Morey felt happy and relaxed,
but by no means drunk. They went in to dinner in fine
spirits. They chatted cheerfully with each other and Henry,
and Morey found time to feel sentimentally sorry for poor
Howland, who couldn't make a go of his marriage, when
marriage was obviously such an easy relationship, so bene-
ficial to both sides, so warm and relaxing . . .
Startled, he said, "What?"
Cherry repeated, "It's the cleverest scheme I ever heard
of. Such a funny little man, dear. All kind of nervous, if
you know what I mean. He kept looking at the door as if
he was expecting someone, but of course that was silly.
None of his friends would have come to our house to see
him."
Morey said tensely, "Cherry, please! What was that
you said about ration stamps?"
"But I told you, darling! It was just after you left this
morning. This funny little man came to the door; the
butler said he wouldn't give any name. Anyway, I talked
to him. I thought he might be a neighbor and I certainly
would never be rude to any neighbor who might come to
call, even if the neighborhood was"
"The ration stamps!" Morey begged. '"Did I hear you
say he was peddling phony ration stamps?"
Cherry said uncertainly, "Well, I suppose that in a way
they're phony. The way he explained it, they weren't the
regular official kind. But it was four for one, dearfour
of his stamps for one of ours. So I just took out our house-
hold book and steamed off a couple of weeks' stamps
and"
"How many?" Morey bellowed.
Cherry biinked. "Aboutabout two weeks' quota," she
said faintly. "Was that wrong, dear?"
Morey closed bis eyes dizzily. "A couple of weeks'
stamps," he repeated. "Four for oneyou didn't even get
the regular rate."
Cherry wailed, "How was I supposed to know? I never
had anything like this when I was home! We didn't have
food riots and slums and all these horrible robots and
filthy little revolting men coming to the door!"
Morey stared at her woodenly. She was crying again,
but it made no impression on the case-hardened armor
that was suddenly thrown around his heart.
Henry made a tentative sound that, in a human, would
have been a preparatory cough, but Morey froze him with
a white-eyed look.
Morey said in a dreary monotone that barely penetrated
the sound of Cherry's tears, "Let me tell you just what it
was you did. Assuming, at best, that these stamps you got
are at least average good counterfeits, and not so bad
that the best thing to do with them is throw them away
before we get caught with them in our possession, you
have approximately a two-month supply of funny stamps.
In case you didn't know it, those ration books are not
merely ornamental. They have to be turned in every
month to prove that we have completed our consuming
quota for the month.
"When they are turned in, they are spot-checked. Every
book is at least glanced at. A big chunk of them are gone
over very carefully by the inspectors, and a certain per-
centage are tested by ultra-violet, infra-red. X-ray, radio-
isotopes,  bleaches,  fumes,  paper  chromatography  and
every other damned test known to Man." His voice was
rising to an uneven crescendo. "If we are lucky enough
to get away with using any of these stamps at all, we
daren'twe simply dare notuse more than one or two
counterfeits to every dozen or more real stamps.
"That means, Cherry, that what you bought is not a
.two-month supply, but maybe a two-year supplyand
since, as you no doubt have never noticed, the things have
expiration dates on them, there is probably no chance in
the world that we can ever hope to use more than half of
them." He was bellowing by the time he pushed back his
chair and lowered over her. "Moreover," he went on,
"right now, "right as of this minute, we have to make up
the stamps you gave away, which means that at the very
best we are going to be on double rations for two weeks
or so.
"And that says nothing about the one feature of this
whole grisly mess that you seem to have thought of least,
namely that counterfeit stamps are against the lawl I'm
poor. Cherry; I live in a slum, and I know it; I've got a
long way to go betore I'm as rich or respected or powerful
as your father, about whom I am beginning to get con-
siderably tired of hearing. But poor as I may be, I can
tell you this for sure: Up until now, at any rate, I have
been honest."
Cherry's tears had stopped entirely and she was bowed
white-faced and dry-eyed by the time Morey had finished.
He had spent himself; there was no violence left in him.
He stared dismally at Cherry for a moment, then turned
wordlessly and stamped out of the house.
Marriage! he thought as he left.
He walked for hours, blind to where he was going.
What brought him back to awareness was a sensation
he had not felt in a dozen years. It was not, Morey
abruptly realized, the dying traces of his hangover that
made his stomach feel so queer. He was hungryactually
hungry.
He looked about him. He was in the Old Town, miles
from home, jostled by crowds of lower-class people. The
block he was on was as atrocious a slum as Morey had
ever seenChinese pagodas stood next to rococo imita-
tions of the chapels around Versailles; gingerbread marred
every facade; no building was without its brilliant signs
and flarelights.
He saw a blindingly overdecorated eating establishment
called Billie's Budget Busy Bee and crossed the street
toward it, dodging through the unending streams of traf-
fic. It was a miserable excuse for a restaurant, but Morey
was in no mood to care. He found a seat under a potted
palm, as far from the tinkling fountains and robot string
ensemble as he could manage, and ordered recklessly, pay-
ing no attention to the ration prices. As the waiter was
gliding noiselessly away, Morey had a sickening realiza-
tion: He'd come out without his ration book. He groaned
out loud; it was too late to leave without causing a dis-
turbance. But then, he thought rebelliously, what differ-
ence did one more unrationed meal make, anyhow?
Food made him feel a little better. He finished the last
of his profiterole au chocolate, not even leaving on the
plate the uneaten one-third that tradition permitted, and
paid his check. The robot cashier reached automatically
for his ration book. Morey had a moment of grandeur as
he said simply, "No ration stamps."
Robot cashiers are not equipped to display surprise, but
this one tried. The man behind Morey in line audibly
caught his breath, and less audibly mumbled something
about slummers. Morey took it as a compliment and strode
outside feeling almost in good humor.
Good enough to go home to Cherry? Morey thought
seriously of it for a second; but he wasn't going to pre-
tend he was wrong and certainly Cherry wasn't going to
be willing to admit that she was at fault.
Besides, Morey told himself grimly, she was undoubt-
edly asleep. That was an annoying thing about Cherry at
best: she never had any trouble getting to sleep. Didn't
even use her quota of sleeping tablets, though Morey had
spoken to her about it more than once. Of course, he re-
minded himself, he had been so polite and tactful about it,
as befits a newlywed, that very likely she hadn't even
understood that it was a complaint. Well, that would stop!
Man's man Morey Fry, wearing no collar ruff but his
own, strode determinedly down the streets of the Old
Town.
"Hey, Joe, want a good time?"
Morey took one unbelieving look. "You again!" he
roared.
The little man stared at him in genuine surprise. Then
a faint glimmer of recognition crossed his face.  "Oh,
yeah," he said. "This morning, hub?" He clucked com-
miseratingly. "Too bad you wouldn't deal with me. Your
wife was a lot smarter. Of course, you got me a little sore,
Jack, so naturally I had to raise the price a little bit."
"You skunk, you cheated my poor wife blind! You and
I are going to the local station house and talk this over."
The little man pursed his lips. "We are, hub?"
Morey nodded vigorously. "Damn right! And' let me
tell you" He stopped in the middle of a threat as a
large hand cupped around his shoulder.
The equally large man who owned the hand said, in a
mild and cultured voice, "Is this gentleman disturbing
you, Sam?"
"Not so far," the little man conceded. "He might want
to, though, so don't go away."
Morey wrenched his shoulder away. "Don't think you
can strongarm me. I'm taking you to the police."
Sam shook his head unbelievingly. "You mean you're
going to call the law in on this?"
"I certainly am!"
Sam sighed regretfully. "What do you think of that,
Walter? Treating his wife like that. Such a nice lady, too."
"What are you talking about?" Morey demanded, stung
on a peculiarly sensitive spot..
"I'm talking about your wife," Sam explained. "Of
course. I'm not married myself. But it seems to me that if
I was, I wouldn't call the police when my wife was en-
gaged in some kind of criminal activity or other. No, sir,
I'd try to settle it myself. Tell you what," he advised, "why
don't you talk this over with her? Make her see the error
of"
"Wait a minute," Morey interrupted. "You mean you'd
involve my wife in this thing?"
The man spread his hands helplessly. "It's not me that
would involve her. Buster," he said. "She already involved
her own self. It takes two to make a crime, you know. I
sell, maybe; I won't deny it. But after all, I can't sell unless
somebody buys, can I?"
Morey stared at him glumly. He glanced in quick specu-
lation at the large-sized Walter; but Walter was just as big
as he'd remembered, so that took care of that. Violence
was out; the police were out; that left no really attractive
way of capitalizing on the good luck of running into the
man again.
Sam said, "Well, I'm glad to see that's off your mind.
Now, returning to my original question, Mac, how would
you like a good time? You look like a smart fellow to me;
you look like you'd be kind of interested in a place I
happen to know of down the block."
Morey said bitterly, "So you're a dive-steerer, too. A
real talented man."
"I admit it," Sam agreed. "Stamp business is slow at
night, in my experience. People have their minds more on
a good time. And, believe me, a good time is what I can
show 'em. Take this place I'm talking about, Uncle Pig-
gotty's is the name of it, it's what I would call an unusual
kind of place. Wouldn't you say so, Walter?"
"Oh, I agree with you entirely," Walter rumbled.
But Morey was hardly listening. He said, "Uncle Pig-
gotty's, you say?"
"That's right," said Sam.
Morey frowned for a moment, digesting an idea. Uncle
Piggotty's sounded like the place Howland had been talk-
ing about back at the plant; it might be interesting, at that.
While he was making up his mind, Sam slipped an arm
through his on one side and Walter amiably wrapped a
big hand around the other. Morey found himself walking.
"YouTI like it," Sam promised comfortably. "No hard
feelings about this morning, sport? Of course not. Once
you get a look at Piggotty's, youTI get over your mad, any-
how. It's something special. I swear, on what they pay me
for bringing in customers, I wouldn't do it unless I believed
in it."
"Dance, Jack?" the hostess yelled over the noise at the
bar. She stepped back, lifted her flounced skirts to ankle
height and executed a tricky nine-step.
"My name is Morey," Morey yelled back. "And I don't
want to dance, thanks."
The hostess shrugged, frowned meaningfully at Sam
and danced away.
Sam flagged the bartender. "First round's on us," he
explained to Morey. "Then we won't bother you any
more. Unless you want us to, of course. Like the place?"
Morey hesitated, but Sam didn't wait. "Fine place," he
yelled, and picked up the drink the bartender left him.
"See you around."
He and the big man were gone. Morey stared after
them uncertainly, then gave it up. He was here, anyhow;
might as well at least have a drink. He ordered and looked
around.
Uncle Piggotty's was a third-rate dive disguised to look,
in parts of it at least, like one of the exclusive upper-class
country clubs. The bar, for instance, was treated to re-
semble the clean lines of nailed wood; but underneath the
surface treatment, Morey could detect the intricate lamina-
tions of plyplastic. What at first glance appeared to be
burlap hangings were in actuality elaborately textured
synthetics. And all through the bar the motif was carried
out.
A floor show of sorts was going on, but nobody seemed
to be paying much attention to it. Morey, straining briefly
to hear the master of ceremonies, gathered that the wit was
on a more than mildly vulgar level. There was a dispirited
string of chorus beauties in long ruffled pantaloons and
diaphanous tops; one of them, Morey was almost sure, was
the hostess who had talked to him just a few moments
before.
Next to him a man was declaiming to a middle-aged
woman:
Smote I the monstrous rock, yahoo!
Smote I the turgid tube. Bully Boy!
Smote I the cankered hill
"Why, Morey!" he interrupted himself. "What are you
doing here?"
He turned farther around and Morey recognized him.
"Hello, Howland," he said. "Iuh1 happened to be
free tonight, so I thought"
Howland sniggered. "Well, guess your wife is more
liberal than mine was. Order a drink, boy."
"Thanks, I've got one," said Morey.
The woman, with a tigerish look at Morey, said, "Don't
stop, Everett. That was one of your most beautiful things."
"Oh, Morey's heard my poetry," Howland said. "Morey,
I'd like you to meet a very lovely and talented young lady,
Tanaquil Bigelow. Morey works in the office with me,
Tan."
"Obviously," said Tanaquil Bigelow in a frozen voice,
and Morey hastily withdrew the hand he had begun to
put out.
The conversation stuck there, impaled, the woman
cold, Rowland relaxed and abstracted, Morey wondering
if, after all, this had been such a good idea. He caught the
eye-cell of the robot bartender and ordered a round of
drinks for the three of them, politely putting them on
Howland's ration book. By the time the drinks had come
and Morey had just got around to deciding that it wasn't
a very good idea, the woman had all of a sudden become
thawed.
She said abruptly, "You look like the kind of man who
thinks, Morey, and I like to talk to that kind of man.
Frankly, Morey, I just don't have any patience at all with
the stupid, stodgy men who just work in their offices all
day and eat all their dinners every night, and gad about
and consume like mad and where does it all get them,
anyhow? That's right, I can see you understand. Just one
crazy rush of consume, consume from the day you're born
plop to the day you're buried pop! And who's to blame if
not the robots?"
Faintly, a tinge of worry began to appear on the surface
of Howland's relaxed calm. "Tan," he chided, "Morey
may not be very interested in politics."
Politics, Morey thought; well, at least that was a clue.
He'd had the dizzying feeling, while the woman was talk-
ing, that he himself was the ball in the games machine he
had designed for the shop earlier that day. Following the
woman's conversation might, at that, give his next design
some valuable pointers in swoops, curves and obstacles.
He said, with more than half truth, "No, please go on,
Miss Bigelow. I'm very much interested."
She smiled; then abruptly her face changed to a fright-
ening scowl. Morey flinched, but evidently the scowl
wasn't meant for him. "Robots!" she hissed. "Supposed
to work for us, aren't they? Hah! We're their slaves, slaves
for every moment of every miserable day of our lives.
Slaves! Wouldn't you like to join us and be free, Morey?"
Morey took cover in his drink. He made an expressive
gesture with his free handexpressive of exactly what, he
didn't truly know, for he was lost. But it seemed to satisfy
the woman.
She said accusingly, "Did you know that more than
three-quarters of the people in this country have had a
nervous breakdown in the past five years and four months?
That more than half of them are under the constant care
of psychiatrists for psychosisnot just plain ordinary
neurosis like my husband's got and Rowland here has got
and you've got, but psychosis. Like I've got. Did you know
that? Did you know that forty per cent of the population
are essentially manic depressive, thirty-one per cent are
schizoid, thirty-eight per cent have an assortment of other
unfixed psychogenic disturbances and twenty-four"
"Hold it a minute. Tan," Howland interrupted critically.
"You've got too many per cents there. Start over again."
"Oh, the hell with it," the woman said moodily. "I wish
my husband were here. He expresses it so much better
than I do." She swallowed her drink. "Since you've wrig-
gled off the hook," she said nastily to Morey, "how about
setting up another roundon my ration book this time?"
Morey did; it was the simplest thing to do in his con-
fusion. When that was gone, they had another on How-
land's book.
As near as he could figure out, the woman, her husband
and quite possibly Howland as well belonged to some kind
of anti-robot group. Morey had heard of such things; they
had a quasi-legal status, neither approved nor prohibited,
but he had never come into contact with them before. Re-
membering the hatred he had so painfully relived at the
psychodrama session, he thought anxiously that perhaps
he belonged with them. But, question them though he
might, he couldn't seem to get the principles of the organ-
ization firmly in mind.
The woman finally gave up trying to explain it, and
went off to find her husband while Morey and Howland
had another drink and listened to two drunks squabble
over who bought the next round. They were at the Al-
phonse-Gaston stage of inebriation; they would regret it m
the morning; for each was bending over backward to per-
mit the other to pay the ration points. Morey wondered
uneasily about his own points; Howland was certainly get-
ting credit for a lot of Morey's driaking tonight. Served
him right for forgetting his book, of course.
When the woman came back, it was with the large man
Morey had encountered in the company of Sam, the coun-
terfeiter, steerer and general man about Old Town.
"A remarkably small world, isn't it?" boomed Walter
Bigelow, only slightly crushing Morey's hand in his. "Well,
sir, my wife has told me how interested you are in the
basic philosophical drives behind our movement, and I
should like to discuss them further with you. To begin
with, sir, have you considered the principle of Twoness?"
Morey said, "Why"
"Very good," said Bigelow courteously. He cleared his
throat and declaimed:
Han-headed Cathay saw it first,
Bright as brightest solar burst;
Whipped it into boy and girl,
The blinding spiral-sliced swirl:
Yang
And Yin.
He shrugged deprecatingly. "Just the first stanza," he
said. "I don't know if you got much out of it."
"Well, no," Morey admitted.
"Second stanza," Bigelow said firmly:
Hegal saw if, saw it clear;
Jackal Marx drew near, drew near:
O'er his shoulder saw it plain,
Turned it upside down again:
Yang
And Yin.
There was an expectant pause. Morey said, "Iuh"
"Wraps it all up, doesn't it?" Bigelow's wife demanded.
"Oh, if only others could see it as clearly as you do! The
robot peril and the robot savior. Starvation and surfeit.
Always twoness, always!"
Bigelow patted Morey's shoulder. "The next stanza
makes it even clearer," he said. "It's really very clever
I shouldn't say it, of course, but it's Howland's as much
as it's mine. He helped me with the verses." Morey darted
a glance at Howland, but Howland was carefully looking
away. "Third stanza," said Bigelow. "This is a hard one,
because it's long, so pay attention."
Justice, tip your sightless scales;
One pan. rises, one pan falls.
"Howland," he interrupted himself, "are you sure about
that rhyme? I always trip over it. Well, anyway:
Add to A and B grows less;
A's B's partner, nonetheless.
Next, the Twoness that there be
In even electricity.
Chart the current as ifs found:
Sine the hot lead, line the ground.
The wild sine dances, soars and falls,
But only to figures the zero calls.
Sine wave, scales, all things that be
Share a reciprocity.
Male and female, light and dark:
Name the numbers of Noah's Ark!
Yang
And Yini
"Dearest!" shrieked Bigelow's wife. "You've never done
it better!" There was a spatter of applause,  and Morey
realized for the first time that half the bar had stopped its
noisy revel to listen to them. Bigelow was evidently quite
a well-known figure here.
Morey said weakly, "I've never heard anything like it"
He turned hesitantly to Howland, who promptly said,
"Drink! What we all need right now is a drink."
They had a drink on Bigelow's book.
Morey got Howland aside and asked him, "Look, level
with me. Are these people nuts?"
Howland showed pique. "No. Certainly not."
"Does that poem mean anything? Does this whole busi-
ness of twoness mean anything?"
Howland shrugged. "If it means something to them, it
means something. They're philosophers, Morey. They see
deep into things. You don't know what a privilege it is for
me to be allowed to associate with them."
They had another drink. On Rowland's book, of course.
Morey eased Walter Bigelow over to a quiet spot. He
said, "Leaving twoness out of it for the moment, what's
this about the robots?"
Bigelow looked at him round-eyed. "Didn't you under-
stand the poem?"
"Of course I did. But diagram it for me in simple terms
so I can tell my wife."
Bigelow beamed. "It's about the dichotomy of robots,"
he explained. "Like the little salt mill that the boy wished
for: it ground out salt and ground outsalt and ground
out salt. He had to have salt, but not that much salt.
Whitehead explains it clearly"
They had another drink on Bigelow's book.
Morey wavered over Tanaquil Bigelow. He said fuzzily,
"Listen. Mrs. Walter Tanaquil Strongarm Bigelow. Listen."
She grinned smugly at him. "Brown hair," she said
dreamily.
Morey shook his head vigorously. "Never mind hair," he
ordered. "Never mind poem. Listen. In pre-cise and el-e-
men~ta.-ry terms, explain to me what is wrong with the
world today."
"Not enough brown hair," she said promptly.
"Never mind hair!"
"All right," she said agreeably. "Too many robots. Too
many robots make too much of everything."
"Ha! Got it!" Morey exclaimed triumphantly. "Get rid
of robots!"
"Oh, no. No! No! No. We wouldn't eat. Everything is
mechanized. Can't get rid of them, can't slow down pro-
ductionslowing down is dying, stopping is quicker dying.
Principle of twoness is the concept that clarifies all
these"
"No!" Morey said violently. "What should we do?"
"Do? I'll tell you what we should do, if that's what you
want. I can tell you."
"Then tell me."
"What we should do is" Tanaquil hiccupped with a
look of refilled consternation"have another drink."
They had another drink. He gallantly let her pay, of
course. She ungallantly argued with the bartender about
the ration points due her.
Though not a two-fisted drinker, Morey tried. He really
worked at it.
He paid the price, too. For some little time before his
limbs stopped moving, his mind stopped functioning.
Blackout. Almost a blackout, at any rate, for all he re-
tamed of the late evening was a kaleidoscope of people
and places and things. Howland was there, drunk as a
skunk, disgracefully drunk, Morey remembered thinking
as he stared up at Howland from the floor. The Bigelows
were there. His wife, Cherry, solicitous and amused, was
there. And oddly enough, Henry was there.
It was very, very hard to reconstruct. Morey devoted a
whole morning's hangover to the effort. It was important
to reconstruct it, for some reason. But Morey couldn't
even remember what the reason was; and finally he dis-
missed it, guessing that he had either solved the secret of
twoness or whether Tanaquil Bigelow's remarkable figure
was natural.
He did, however, know that the next morning he had
waked in his own bed, with no recollection of getting
there. No recollection of anything much, at least not of
anything that fit into the proper chronological order or
seemed to mesh with anything else, after the dozenth drink
when he and Howland, arms around each other's shoul-
ders, composed a new verse on twoness and, plagiarizing
an old marching tune, howled it across the boisterous bar-
room:
A twoness on the scene much later
Rests in your refrigerator.
Heat your house and insulate if.
Next your food: Refrigerate it.
Frost will damp your Freon coils,
So flux in nichrome till it boils.
See the picture? Heat in cold
In heat in cold, the story's told!
Giant-writ the sacred scrawl:
Oh, the twoness of it all!
Yang
And Yin!
It had, at any rate, seemed to mean something at the
time.
If alcohol opened Morey's eyes to the fact that there
was a twoness, perhaps alcohol was what he needed. For
there was.
Call it a dichotomy, if the word seems more couth. A
kind of two-pronged struggle, the struggle of two unweary-
ing runners in an immortal race. There is the refrigerator
inside the house. The cold air, the bubble of heated air
that is the house, the bubble of cooled air that is the re-
frigerator, the momentary bubble of heated air that de-
frosts it. Call the heat Yang, if you will. Call the cold Yin.
Yang overtakes Yin. Then Yin passes Yang. Then Yang
passes Yin. Then
Give them other names. Call Yin a mouth; call Yang a
hand.
If the hand rests, the mouth will starve. If the mouth
stops, the hand will die. The hand, Yang, moves faster.
Yin may not lag behind.
Then call Yang a robot.
And remember that a pipeline has two ends.
Like any once-in-a-lifetime lush, Morey braced himself
for the consequencesand found startledly that there
were none.
Cherry was a surprise to him. "You were so funny,"
she giggled. "And, honestly, so romantic."
He shakily swallowed his breakfast coffee.
The office staff roared and slapped him on the back.
"Howland tells us you're living high, boy!" they bellowed
more or less in the same words. "Hey, listen to what
Morey didwent on the town for the night of a lifetime
and didn't even bring his ration book along to cash in!"
They thought it was a wonderful joke.
But, then, everything was going well. Cherry, it seemed,
had reformed out of recognition. True, she still hated to go
out in the evening and Morey never saw her forcing herself
to gorge on unwanted food or play undesired games. But,
moping into the pantry one afternoon, he found to his in-
credulous delight that they were well ahead of their ration
quotas. In some items, in fact, they were outa month's
supply and more was gone ahead of schedule!
Nor was it the counterfeit stamps, for he had found
them tucked behind a bain-marie and quietly burned them.
He cast about for ways of complimenting her, but caution
prevailed. She was sensitive on the subject; leave it be.
And virtue had its reward.
Wainwright called him in, all smiles. "Morey, great
news! We've all appreciated your work here and we've
been able to show it in some more tangible way than
compliments. I didn't want to say anything till it was
definite, butyour status has been reviewed by Classifica-
tion and the Ration Board. You're out of Class Four
Minor, Morey!"
Morey said tremulously, hardly daring to hope, "I'm
a full Class Four?"
"Class Five, Morey. Class Five! When we do something,
we do it right. We asked for a special waiver and got it
you've skipped a whole class." He added honestly, "Not
that it was just our backing that did it, of course. Your
own recent splendid record of consumption helped a lot.
I told you you could do it!"
Morey had to sit down. He missed the rest of what
Wainwright had to say, but it couldn't have mattered. He
escaped from the office, sidestepped the knot of fellow-
employees waiting to congratulate him, and got to a phone.
Cherry was as ecstatic and inarticulate as he. "Oh, dar-
ling!" was all she could say.
"And I couldn't have done it without you," he babbled.
"Wainwright as much as said so himself. Said if it wasn't
for the way wewell, you have been keeping up with the
rations, it never would have got by the Board. I've been
meaning to say something to you about that, dear, but I
just haven't known how.  But I do appreciate it. I
Hello?" There was a curious silence at the other end of
the phone. "Hello?" he repeated worriedly.
Cherry's voice was intense and low. "Morey Fry, I think
you're mean. I wish you hadn't spoiled the good news."
And she hung up.
Morey stared slack-jawed at the phone.
Howland appeared behind him, chuckling. "Women,"
he said. "Never try to figure them. Anyway, congratula--
tions, Morey."
"Thanks," Morey mumbled.
Howland coughed and said, "Uhby the way, Morey,
now that you're one of the big shots, so to speak, you
won'tuhfeel obliged towell, say anything to Wain-
wright, for instance, about anything I may have said while
w&"
"Excuse me," Morey said, imhearing, and pushed past
him. He thought wildly of calling Cherry back, of racing
home to see just what he'd said that was wrong. Not that
there was much doubt, of course. He'd touched her on her
sore point.
Anyhow, his wristwatch was chiming a reminder of the
fact that his psychiatric appointment for the week was
coming up.
Morey sighed. The day gives and the day takes away.
Blessed is the day that gives only good things.
If any.
The session went badly. Many of the sessions had been
going badly, Morey decided; there had been more and
more whispering in knots of doctors from which he was
excluded, poking and probing in the dark instead of the
precise psychic surgery he was used to. Something was
wrong, he thought
Something was. Semmelweiss confirmed it when he ad-
journed the group session. After the other doctor had left,
he sat Morey down for a private talk. On his own time,
toohe didn't ask for his usual ration fee. That told
Morey how important the problem was.
"Morey," said Semmelweiss, "you're holding back."
"I don't mean to. Doctor," Morey said earnestly.
"Who knows what you 'mean' to do? Part of you
'means' to. We've dug pretty deep and we've found some
important things. Now there's something I can't put my
finger on. Exploring the mind, Morey, is like sending
scouts through cannibal territory. You can't see the can-
nibalsuntil it's too late. But if you send a scout through
the jungle and he doesn't show up on the other side, it's
a fair assumption that something obstructed his way. In
that case, we would label the obstruction 'cannibals.' In
the case of the human mind, we label the obstruction a
'trauma.' What the trauma is, or what its effects on be-
havior will be, we have to find out, once we know that it's
there."
Morey nodded. All of this was familiar; he couldn't see
what Semmelweiss was driving at.
Semmelweiss sighed. "The trouble with healing traumas
and penetrating psychic blocks and releasing inhibitions
the trouble with everything we psychiatrists do, in fact, is
that we can't afford to do it too well. An inhibited man is
under a strain. We try to relieve the strain. But if we
succeed completely, leaving him with no inhibitions at all,
we have an outlaw, Morey. Inhibitions are often socially
necessary. Suppose, for instance, that an average man
were not inhibited against blatant waste. It could happen,
you know. Suppose that instead of consuming his ration
quota in an orderly and responsible way, he did such
things as set fire to his house and everything in it or
dumped his food allotment in the river.
"When only a few individuals are doing it, we treat the
individuals. But if it were done on a mass scale, Morey, it
would be the end of society as we know it. Think of the
whole collection of anti-social actions that you see in
every paper. Man beats wife; wife turns into a harpy;
junior smashes up windows; husband starts a black-market
stamp racket. And every one of them traces to a basic
weakness in the mind's defenses against the most impor-
tant single anti-social phenomenonfailure to consume."
Morey flared, "That's not fair. Doctor! That was weeks
ago! We've certainly been on the ball lately. I was just
commended by the Board, in fact"
The doctor said mildly, "Why so violent, Morey? I only
made a general remark."
"It's just natural to resent being accused."
The doctor shrugged. "First, foremost and above all,
we do not accuse patients of things. We try to help you
find things out." He lit his end-of-session cigarette. "Think
about it, please. I'll see you next week."
Cherry was composed and unapproachable. She kissed
him remotely when he came in. She said, "I called Mother
and told her the good news. She and Dad promised to
come over here to celebrate."
"Yeah," said Morey. "Darling, what did I say wrong on
the phone?"
"They'll be here about six."
"Sure. But what did I say? Was it about the rations?
If you're sensitive, I swear 111 never mention them again."
"I am sensitive, Morey."
He said despairingly, "I'm sorry. I just"
He had a better idea. He kissed her.
Cherry was passive at first, but not for long. When he
had finished kissing her, she pushed him away and actually
giggled. "Let me get dressed for dinner."
"Certainly. Anyhow, I was just"
She laid a finger on his lips.
He let her escape and, feeling much less tense, drifted
into the library. The afternoon papers were waiting for
him. Virtuously, he sat down and began going through
them in order. Midway through the World-Telegram-Sun-
Post-and-News, he rang for Henry.
Morey had read clear through to the drama section of
the Times-Herald-Tribune-Mirror before the robot ap-
peared. "Good evening," it said politely.
"What took you so long?" Morey demanded. "Where
are all the robots?"
Robots do not stammer, but there was a distinct pause
before Henry said, "Belowstairs, sir. Did you want them
for something?"
"Well, no. I just haven't seen them around. Get me a
drink."
It hesitated. "Scotch, sir?"
"Before dinner? Get me a Manhattan."
"We're all out of Vermouth, sir."
"All out? Would you mind telling me how?"
"It's all used up, sir."
"Now that's just ridiculous," Morey snapped. "We have
never run out of liquor in our whole lives and you know
it.  Good heavens,  we  just got our allotment in the other
day and I certainly"
He checked himself. There was a sudden flicker of
horror in his eyes as he stared at Henry.
"You certainly what, sir?" the robot prompted.
Morey swallowed. "Henry, did Idid I do something
I shouldn't have?"
"I'm sure I wouldn't know, sir. It isn't up to me to say
what you should and shouldn't do."
"Of course not," Morey agreed grayly.
He sat rigid, staring hopelessly into space, remembering.
What he remembered was no pleasure to him at all.
"Henry," he said. "Come along, we're going belowstairs.
Right now!"
It  had  been  Tanaquil  Bigelow's  remark  about  the
robots. Too many robotsmake too much of everything.
That had implanted the idea; it germinated in Morey's
home. More than a little drunk, less than ordinarily in-
hibited, he had found the problem clear and the answer
obvious.
He stared around him in dismal worry. His ovm robots,
following his own orders, given weeks before . . .
Henry said, "It's just what you told us to do, sir."
Morey groaned. He was watching a scene of unparal-
leled activity, and it sent shivers up and down his spine.
There was the butler-robot, hard at work, his copper
face expressionless. Dressed in Morey's own sports knick-
ers and golfing shoes, the robot solemnly hit a ball against
the wall, picked it up and teed it, hit it again, over and
again, with Morey's own clubs. Until the ball wore rag-
ged and was replaced; and the shafts of the clubs leaned
out of true; and the close-stitched seams in the clothing
began to stretch and abrade.
"My God!" said Morey hollowly.
There were the maid-robots, exquisitely dressed in
Cherry's best, walking up and down in the delicate, slim
shoes, sitting and rising and bending and turning. The
cook-robots and the sendng-robots were preparing diony-
sian meals.
Morey swallowed. "Youyou've been doing this right
along," he said to Henry. "That's why the quotas have
been filled."
"Oh, yes, sir. Just as you told us."
Morey had to sit down. One of the serving-robots po-
litely scurried over with a chair, brought from upstairs fo"
their new chores.
Waste.
Morey tasted the word between his lips.
Waste.
You never wasted things. You used them. If necessary,
you drove yourself to the edge of breakdown to use them;
you made every breath a burden and every hour a torment
to use them, until through diligent consuming and/or oc-
cupational merit, you were promoted to the next higher
class, and were allowed to consume less frantically. But
you didn't wantonly destroy or throw out. You consumed.
Morey thought fearfully: When the Board finds out
about this . . .
Still, he reminded himself, the Board hadn't found out.
It might take some time before they did, for humans, after
all, never entered robot quarters. There was no law against
it, not even a sacrosanct custom. But there was no reason
to. When breaks occurred, which was infrequently, main-
tenance robots or repair squads came in and put them
back in order. Usually the humans involved didn't even
know it had happened, because the robots used their own
TBR radio circuits and the process was next thing to auto-
matic.
Morey said reprovingly, "Henry, you should have told
well, I mean reminded me about this."
"But, sir!" Henry protested. " 'Don't tell a living soul,'
you said. You made it a direct order."
"Umph. Well, keep it that way. Iuh1 have to go
back upstairs. Better get the rest of the robots started on
dinner."
Morey left, not comfortably.
The dinner to celebrate Morey's promotion was-difficult.
Morey liked Cherry's parents. Old Elon, after the pre-
marriage inquisition that father must inevitably give to
daughter's suitor, had buckled right down to the job of
adjustment. The old folks were good about not interfering,
good about keeping their superior social status to them-
selves, good about helping out on the budgetat least
once a week, they could be relied on to come over for a
hearty meal, and Mrs. Elon had more than once remade
some of Cherry's new dresses to fit herself, even to the
extent of wearing all the high-point ornamentation.
And they had been wonderful about the wedding gifts,
when Morey and their daughter got married. The most
any member of Morey's family had been willing to take
was a silver set or a few crystal table pieces. The Elons
had come through with a dazzling promise to accept a
car, a bird-bath for their garden and a complete set of
living-room furniture! Of course, they could afford it
they had to consume so little that it wasn't much strain
for them even to take gifts of that magnitude. But without
their help, Morey knew, the first few months of matrimony
would have been even tougher consuming than they were.
But on this particular night it was hard for Morey to
like anyone. He responded with monosyllables; he barely
grunted when Elon proposed a toast to his promotion and
his brilliant future. He was preoccupied.
Rightly so. Morey, in his deepest, bravest searching,
could find no clue in his memory as to just what the pun-
ishment might be for what he had done. But he had a sick
certainty that trouble lay ahead.
Morey went over his problem so many times that an
anesthesia set in. By the time dinner was ended and he
and his father-in-law were in the den with their brandy,
he was more or less functioning again.
Elon, for the first time since Morey had known him,
offered him one of his cigars. "You're Grade Fivecan
afford to smoke somebody else's now, hey?"
"Yeah," Morey said glumly.
There was a moment of silence. Then Elon, as punctili-
ous as any companion-robot, coughed and tried again.
"Remember being peaked till I hit Grade Five," he remin-
isced meaningfully. "Consuming keeps a man on the go,
all right. Things piled up at the law office, couldn't be
taken care of while ration points piled up, too. And con-
suming comes first, of coursethat's a citizen's prime
duty. Mother and I had our share of grief over that, but
a couple that wants to make a go of marriage and citizen-
ship Just pitches in and does the job, hey?"
Morey repressed a shudder and managed to nod.
"Best thing about upgrading," Eton went on, as if he
had elicited a satisfactory answer, "don't have to spend so
much time consuming, give more attention to work. Great-
est luxury in the world, work. Wish I had as much stamina
as you young fellows. Five days a week in court are about
all I can manage. Hit six for a while, relaxed first time in
my life, but my doctor made me cut down. Said we can't
overdo pleasures. You'll be working two days a week now,
hey?"
Morey produced another nod.
Elon drew deeply on his cigar, his eyes bright as they
watched Morey. He was visibly puzzled, and Morey, even
in his half-daze, could recognize the exact moment at
which Elon drew the wrong inference. "Ah, everything
okay with you and Cherry?" he asked diplomatically.
"Fine!" Morey exclaimed. "Couldn't be better!"
"Good, Good." Elon changed the subject with almost
an audible wrench. "Speaking of court, had an interesting
case the other day. Young fellowyear or two younger
than you, I guesscame in with a Section Ninety-seven
on him. Know what that is? Breaking and entering!"
"Breaking and entering," Morey repeated wonderingly,
interested in spite of himself.  "Breaking and entering
what?"
"Houses. Old term; law's full of them. Originally ap-
plied to stealing things. Still does, I discovered."
"You mean he stole something?" Morey asked in be-
wilderment.
"Exactly! He stole. Strangest thing I ever came across.
Talked it over with one of his bunch of lawyers later; new
one on him, too. Seems this kid had a girl friend, nice kid
but a little, you know, plump. She got interested in art."
"There's nothing wrong with that," Morey said.
"Nothing wrong with her, either. She didn't do any-
thing. She didn't like him too much, though. Wouldn't
marry him. Kid got to thinking about how he could get
her to change her mind andwell, you know that big
Mondrian in the Museum?"
"I've never been there," Morey said, somewhat embar-
rassed.
"Urn. Ought to try it some day, boy. Anyway, comes
closing time at the Museum the other day, this kid sneaks
in. He steals the painting. That's rightsteals it. Takes it
to give to the girl."
Morey shook his head blankly. "I never heard of any-
thing like that in my life."
"Not many have. Girl wouldn't take it, by the way. Got
scared when he brought it to her. She must've tipped off
the police, I guess. Somebody did. Took 'em three hours
to find it, even when they knew it was hanging on a wall.
Pretty poor kid. Forty-two room house."
"And there was a law against it?" Morey asked. "I
mean it's like making a law against breathing."
"Certainly was. Old law, of course. Kid got set back two
grades. Would have been more but, my God, he was only
a Grade Three as it was."
"Yeah," said Morey, wetting his lips. "Say, Dad"
"Urn?"
Morey cleared his throat. "Uh1 wonder1 mean
what's the penalty, for instance, for things likewell, mis-
using rations or anything like that?"
Elon's eyebrows went high. "Misusing rations?"
"Say yon had a liquor ration, it might be, and instead
of drinking it, youwell, flushed it down the drain or
something..."
His voice trailed off. Elon was frowning. He said,
"Funny thing, seems I'm not as broadminded as I thought
I was. For some reason, I don't find that amusing."
"Sorry," Morey croaked.
And he certainly was.
It might be dishonest, but it was doing him a lot of
good, for days went by and no one seemed to have pene-
trated his secret. Cherry was happy. Wainwright found oc-
casion after occasion to pat Morey's back. The wages of
sin were turning out to be prosperity and happiness.
There was a bad moment when Morey came home to
find Cherry in the middle of supervising a team of packing-
robots; the new house, suitable to his higher grade, was
ready, and they were expected to move in the next day.
But Cherry hadn't been belowstairs, and Morey had his
household robots clean up the evidences of what they had
been doing before the packers got that far.
The new house was, by Morey's standards, pure lux-
ury.
It was only fifteen rooms. Morey had shrewdly retained
one more robot than was required for a Class Five, and
had been allowed a compensating deduction in the size
of his house.
The robot quarters Were less secluded than in the old
house, though, and that was a disadvantage. More than
once Cherry had snuggled up to him in the delightful in-
timacy of their one bed in their single bedroom and said,
with faint curiosity, "I wish they'd stop that noise." And
Morey had promised to speak to Henry about it in the
morning. But there was nothing he could say to Henry, of
course, unless he ordered Henry to stop the tireless con-
suming through each of the day's twenty-four hours that
kept them always ahead, but never quite far enough ahead,
of the inexorable weekly increment of ration quotas.
But, though Cherry might once in a while have a mo-
ment's curiosity about what the robots were doing, she
was not likely to be able to guess at the facts. Her up-
bringing was, for once, on Morey's sideshe knew so little
of the grind, grind, grind of consuming that was the lot
of the lower classes that she scarcely noticed that there
was less of it.
Morey almost, sometimes, relaxed.
He thought of many ingenious chores for robots, and
the robots politely and emotionlessly obeyed.
Morey was a success.
It wasn't all gravy. There was a nervous moment for
Morey when the quarterly survey report came in the mail.
As the day for the Ration Board to check over the degree
of wear on the turned-in discards came due, Morey began
to sweat. The clothing and furniture and household goods
the robots had consumed for him were very nearly in
shreds. It had to look plausible, that was the big thing
no normal person would wear a hole completely through
the knee of a pair of pants, as Henry had done with his
dress suit before Morey stopped him. Would the Board
question it?
Worse, was there something about the way the robots
consumed the stuff that would give the whole show away?
Some special wear point in the robot anatomy, for in-
stance, that would rub a hole where no human's body
could, or stretch a seam that should normally be under
no strain at all?
It was worrisome. But the worry was needless. When
the report of survey came, Morey let out a long-held
breath. Not a single item disallowed!
Morey was a successand so was his scheme!
To the successful man come the rewards of success.
Morey arrived home one evening after a hard day's work
at the office and was alarmed to find another car parked
in his drive. It was a tiny two-seater, the sort affected by
top officials and the very well-to-do.
Right then and there Morey learned the first half of the
embezzler's lesson: Anything different is dangerous. He
came uneasily into his own home, fearful that some high
officer of the Ration Board had come to ask questions.
But Cherry was glowing. "Mr. Porfirio is a newspaper
feature writer and he wants to write you up for their
'Consumers of Distinction' page! Morey, I couldn't be
more proud!"
"Thanks," said Morey ginmiy. "Hello."
Mr. Porfirio shook Morey's hand warmly. "I'm not ex-
actly from a newspaper," he corrected. "Trans-video Press
is what it is, actually. We're a news wire service; we sup-
ply forty-seven hundred papers with news and feature
material. Every one of them," he added complacently, "on
the required consumption list of Grades One through Six
inclusive. We have a Sunday supplement self-help feature
on consuming problems and we like towell, give credit
where credit is due. You've established an enviable record,
Mr. Fry. We'd like to tell our readers about it."
"Urn," said Morey. "Let's go in the drawing room."
"Oh, no!" Cherry said firmly. "I want to hear this. He's
so modest, Mr. Porfirio, you'd really never know what
kind of a man he is just to listen to him talk. Why, my
goodness, I'm his wife and I swear / don't know how he
does all the consuming he does. He simply"
"Have a drink, Mr. Porfirio," Morey said, against all
etiquette. "Rye? Scotch? Bourbon? Gin-and-tonic? Brandy
Alexander? Dry Manha1 mean what would you like?"
He became conscious that he was babbling like a fool.
"Anything," said the newsman. "Rye is fine. Now, Mr.
Fry, I notice you've fixed up your place very attractively
here and your wife says that your country home is just as
nice. As soon as I came in, I said to myself, 'Beautiful
home. Hardly a stick of furniture that isn't absolutely
necessary. Might be a Grade Six or Seven.' And Mrs. Fry
says the other place is even barer."
"She does, does she?" Morey challenged sharply. "Well,
let me tell you, Mr. Porfirio, that every last scrap of my
furniture allowance is accounted for! I don't know what
you're getting at, but"
"Oh, I certainly didn't mean to imply anything like
that! I just want to get some information from you that I
can pass on to our readers. You know, to sort of help
them do as well as yourself. How do you do it?"
Morey swallowed. "Weuhwell, we just keep after
it. Hard work, that's  all."
Porfirio nodded admiringly. "Hard work," he repeated,
and fished a triple-folded sheet of paper out of his pocket
to make notes on. "Would you say," he went on, "that
anyone could do as well as you simply by devoting him-
self to itsetting a regular schedule, for example, and
keeping to it very strictly?"
"Oh, yes," said Morey.
"In other words, it's only a matter of doing what you
have to do every day?"
"That's it exactly. I handle the budget in my house
more experience than my wife, you seebut no reason
a woman can't do it."
"Budgeting," Porfirio recorded approvingly. "That's our
policy, too."
The interview was not the terror it had seemed, not even
when Porfirio tactfully called attention to Cherry's slim
waistline ("So many housewives, Mrs. Fry, find it difficult
to keep from beingwell, a little plump") and Morey had
to invent endless hours on the exercise machines, while
Cherry looked faintly perplexed, but did not interrupt.
From the interview, however, Morey learned the second
half of the embezzler's lesson. After Porfirio had gone, he
leaped in and spoke more than a little firmly to Cherry.
"That business of exercise, dear. We really have to start
doing it. I don't know if you've nodced it, but you are
beginning to get just a trifle heavier and we don't want
that to happen, do we?"
In the following grim and unnecessary sessions on the
mechanical horses, Morey had plenty of time to reflect on
the lesson. Stolen treasures are less sweet than one would
like, when one dare not enjoy them in the open.
But some of Morey's treasures were fairly earned.
The new Bradmoor K-50 Spin-a-Game, for instance,
was his very own. His job was design and creation, and
he was a fortunate man in that his efforts were permitted
to be expended along the line of greatest social utility
namely, to increase consumption.
The Spin-a-Game was a well-nigh perfect machine for
the purpose. "Brilliant," said Wainwright, beaming, when
the pilot machine had been put through its first tests.
"Guess they don't call me the Talent-picker for nothing. I
knew you could do it, boy!"
Even Howland was lavish in his praise. He sat munch-
ing on a plate of petits-fours (he was still only a Grade
Three) while the tests were going on, and when they were
over, he said enthusiastically, "It's a beauty, Morey. "That
series-corruptersensational! Never saw a prettier piece
of machinery.'*
Morey flushed gratefully.
Wainwright left, exuding praise, and Morey patted his
pilot model affectionately and admired its polychrome
gleam. The looks of the machine, as Wainwright had lec-
tured many a time, were as important as its function;
"You have to make them want to play it, boy! They won't
play it if they don't see it!" And consequently the whole
K series was distinguished by flashing rainbows of light,
provocative strains of music, haunting scents that drifted
into the nostrils of the passerby with compelling effect.
Morey had drawn heavily on all the old masterpieces of
designdie one-arm bandit, the pinball machine, the juke
box. You put your ration book in the hopper. You spun
the wheels until you selected the game you wanted to play
against the machine. You punched buttons or spun dials
or, in any of 325 different ways, you pitted your human
skill against the magnetic-taped skills of the machine.
And you lost. You had a chance to win, but the inexor-
able statistics of the machine's setting made sure that if
you played long enough, you had to lose.
That is to say, if you risked a ten-point ration stamp
showing, perhaps, that you had consumed three six-course
mealsyour statistic return was eight points. You might
hit the jackpot and get a thousand points back, and thus
be exempt from a whole freezerful of steaks and joints
and prepared vegetables; but it seldom happened. Most
likely you lost and got nothing.
Got nothing, that is, m the way of your hazarded ration
stamps. But the beauty of the machine, which was Morey's
main contribution, was that, win or lose, you always found
a pellet of vitamin-drenched, sugar-coated antibiotic hor-
mone gum in the hopper. You played your game, won or
lost your stake, popped your hormone gum into your
mouth and played another. By the time that game was
ended, the gum was used up, the coating dissolved; you
discarded it and started another.
"That's what the man from the NRB liked," Howland
told Morey confidentially. "He took a set of schematics
back with him; they might install it on all new machines.
Oh, you're the fair-haired boy, all right!"
It was the first Morey had heard about a man from the
National Ration Board. It was good news. He excused
himself and hurried to phone Cherry the story of his latest
successes. He reached her at her mother's, where she was
spending the evening, and she was properly impressed and
affectionate. He came back to Howland in a glowing hu-
mor.
"Drink?" said Howland diffidently.
"Sure," said Morey. He could afford, he thought, to
drink as much of Howland's liquor as he liked; poor guy,
sunk in the consuming quicksands of Class Three. Only
fair for somebody a little more successful to give him a
hand once in a while.
And when Howland, learning that Cherry had left
Morey a bachelor for the evening, proposed Uncle Pig-
gotty's again, Morey hardly hesitated at all.
The Bigelows were delighted to see him. Morey won-
dered briefly if they had a home; certainly they didn't
seem to spend much time in it.
It turned out they did, because when Morey indicated
virtuously that he'd only stopped in at Piggotty's for a
single drink before dinner, and Howland revealed that he
was free for the evening, they captured Morey and bore
him off to their house.
Tanaquil Bigelow was haughtily apologetic. "I don't
suppose this is the kind of place Mr. Fry is used to," she
observed to her husband, right across Morey, who was
standing between them. "Still, we call it home."
Morey made an appropriately polite remark. Actually,
the place nearly turned his stomach. It was an enormous
glaringly new mansion, bigger even than Morey's former
house, stuffed to bursting with bulging sofas and pianos
and massive mahogany chairs and tri-D sets and bedrooms
and drawing rooms and breakfast rooms and nurseries.
The nurseries were a shock to Morey; it had never oc-
cured to him that the Bigelows had children. But they did
and, though the children were only five and eight, they
were still up, under the care of a brace of robot nurse-
maids, doggedly playing with their overstuffed animals and
miniature trains.
"You don't know what a comfort Tony and Dick are,"
Tanaquil Bigelow told Morey. "They consume so much
more than their rations. Walter says that every family
ought to have at least two or three children to, you know,
help out. Walter's so intelligent about these things, it's a
pleasure to hear him talk. Have you heard his poem,
Morey? The one he calls The Twoness of"
Morey hastily admitted that he had. He reconciled him-
self to a glum evening. The Bigelows had been eccentric
but fun back at Uncle Piggotty's. On their own ground,
they seemed just as eccentric, but painfully dull.
They had a round of cocktails, and another, and then
the Bigelows no longer seemed so dull. Dinner was ghastly,
of course; Morey was nouveau-riche enough to be a snob
about his relatively Spartan table. But he minded his man-
ners and sampled, with grim concentration, each successive
course of chunky protein and rich marinades. With the
help of the endless succession of table wines and liqueurs,
dinner ended without destroying his evening or his strained
digestive system.
And afterward, they were a pleasant company in the
Bigelow's ornate drawing room. Tanaquil Bigelow, in con-
sultation with the children, checked over their ration books
and came up with the announcement that they would have
a brief recital by a pair of robot dancers, followed by
string music by a robot quartet. Morey prepared himself
for the worst, but found before the dancers were through
that he was enjoying himself. Strange lesson for Morey:
When you didn't have to watch them, the robot entertain-
ers were funt
"Good night, dears," Tanaquil Bigelow said firmly to
the children when the dancers were done. The boys re-
belled, naturally, but they went. It was only a matter of
minutes, though, before one of them was back, clutching
at Morey's sleeve with a pudgy hand.
Morey looked at the boy uneasily, having little experi-
ence with children. He said, "Uhwhat is it, Tony?"
"Dick, you mean," the boy said. "Gimme your auto-
graph." He poked an engraved pad and a vulgarly jeweled
pencil at Morey.
Morey dazedly signed and the child ran off, Morey star-
ing after him. Tanaquil Bigelow laughed and explained,
"He saw your name in Porfirio's column. Dick loves Por-
firio, reads him every day. He's such an intellectual kid,
really. He'd always have his nose in a book if I didn't keep
after him to play with his trains and watch tri-D."
"That was quite a nice write-up," Walter Bigelow com-
menteda little enviously, Morey thought. "Bet you make
Consumer of the Year. I wish," he sighed, "that we could
get a little ahead on the quotas the way you did. But it
just never seems to work out. We eat and play and con-
sume like crazy, and somehow at the end of the month
we're always a little behind in somethingeverything
keeps piling upand then the Board sends us a warning,
and they call me down and, first thing you know, I've got
a couple of hundred added penalty points and we're worse
off than before."
"Never you mind," Tanaquil replied staunchly. "Con-
suming isn't everything in life. You have your work."
Bigelow nodded judiciously and offered Morey another
drink.  Another drink,  however, was not what Morey
needed. He was sitting in a rosy glow, less of alcohol than
of sheer contentment with the world.
He said suddenly, "Listen."
Bigelow looked up from his own drink. "Eh?"
"If I tell you something that's a secret, will you keep it
that way?"
Bigelow rumbled, "Why, I guess so, Morey."
But his wife cut in sharply, "Certainly we will, Morey.
Of course! What is it?" There was a gleam in her eye,
Morey noticed. It puzzled him, but he decided to ignore it.
He said, "About that write-up. II'm not such a hot-
shot consumer, really, you know. In fact" All of a
sudden, everyone's eyes seemed to be on him. For a tor-
tured moment, Morey wondered if he was doing the right
thing. A secret that two people know is compromised, and
a secret known to three people is no secret. Still
"It's like this," he said firmly. "You remember what we
were talking about at Uncle Piggotty's that night? Well,
when I went home I went down to the robot quarters, and
I"
He went on from there.
Tanaquil Bigelow said triumphantly, "I knew it!"
Walter Bigelow gave his wife a mild, reproving look.
He declared soberly. "You've done a big thing, Morey. A
mighty big thing. God willing, you've pronounced the
death sentence on our society as we know it. Future gen-
orations will revere the name of Morey Fry." He solemnly
shook Morey's hand.
Morey said dazedly, "I -what?"
Walter nodded. It was a valedictory. He turned to his
wife. "Tanaquil, we'll have to call an emergency meeting."
"Of course, Walter," she said devotedly.
"And Morey will have to be there. Yes, you'll have to,
Morey; no excuses. We want the Brotherhood to meet
you. Right, Howland?"
Howland coughed uneasily. He nodded noncommittally
and took another drink.
Morey demanded desperately, "What are you talking
about? Howland, you tell me!"
Howland fiddled with his drink. "Well," he said, "it's
like Tan was telling you that night. A few of us, well,
politically mature persons have formed a little group.
We"
"Little group!" Tanaquil Bigelow said scornfully. "How-
land, sometimes I wonder if you really catch the spirit of
the thing at all! It's everybody, Morey, everybody in the
world. Why, there are eighteen of us right here in Old
Town! There are scores more all over the world! I knew
you were up to something like this, Morey. I told Walter
so the morning after we met you. I said, 'Walter, mark
my words, that man Morey is up to sometliing.' But I
must say," she admitted worshipfully, "I didn't Imow it
would have the scope of what you're proposing now! Im-
aginea whole world of consumers, rising as one man,
shouting the name of Morey Fry, fighting the Ration
Board with the Board's own weaponthe robots. What
poetic justice!"
Bigelow nodded enthusiastically. "Call Uncle Piggotty's,
dear," he ordered. "See if you can round up a quorum
right now! Meanwhile, Morey and I are going belowstairs.
Let's go, Moreylet's get the new world started!"
Morey sat there open-mouthed. He closed it with a
snap. "Bigelow," he whispered, "do you mean to say that
you're going to spread this idea around through some kind
of subversive organization?"
"Subversive?" Bigelow repeated stiffly. "My dear man,
all creative minds  are  subversive,  whether they operate
singly or in such a group as the Brotherhood of Freemen.
I scarcely like"
"Never mind what you like," Morey insisted. "You're
going to call a meeting of this Brotherhood and you want
me to tell them what I just told you. Is that right?"
"Wellyes."
Morey got up. "I wish I could say it's been nice, but it
hasn't. Good night!"
And he stormed out before they could stop him.
* Out on the street, though, his resolution deserted him.
He hailed a robot cab and ordered the driver to take him
on the traditional time-killing ride through the park while
he made up his mind.
The fact that he had left, of course, was not going to
keep Bigelow from going through with his announced in-
tention. Morey remembered, now, fragments of conversa-
tion from Bigelow and his wife at Uncle Piggotty's, and
cursed himself. They had, it was perfectly true, said and
hinted enough about politics and purposes to put him on
his guard. All that nonsense about twoness had diverted
him from what should have been perfectly clear: They
were subversives indeed.
He glanced at his watch. Late, but not too late; Cherry
would still be at her parents' home.
He leaned forward and gave the driver their address. It
was like beginning the first of a hundred-shot series of
injections: you know it's going to cure you, but it hurts
just the same.
Morey said manfully: "And that's it, sir. I know I've
been a fool. I'm willing to take the consequences."
Old Elon rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. "Um," he said.
Cherry and her mother had long passed the point where
they could say anything at all; they were seated side by
side on a couch across the room, listening with expres-
sions of strain and incredulity.
Elon said abruptly, "Excuse me. Phone call to make."
He left the room to make a brief call and returned. He
said over his shoulder to his wife, "Coffee. We'll need it.
Got a problem here."
Morey said, "Do you think1 mean what should I do?"
Elon shrugged, then, surprisingly, grinned. "What can
you do?" he demanded cheerfully. "Done plenty already,
I'd say. Drink some coffee. Call I made," he explained,
"was to Jim, my law clerk. He'll be here in a minute. Get
some dope from Jim, then we'll know better."
Cherry came over to Morey and sat beside him. All she
said was, "Don't worry," but to Morey it conveyed all the
meaning in the world. He returned the pressure of her
hand with a feeling of deepest relief. Hell, he said to him-
self, why should I worry? Worst they can do to me is drop
me a couple of grades and what's so bad about that?
He grimaced involuntarily. He had remembered his own
early struggles as a Class One and what was so bad about
that.
The law clerk arrived, asmallish robot with a battered
stainless-steel hide and dull coppery features. Elon took
the robot aside for a terse conversation before he came
back to Morey.
"As I thought," he said in satisfaction. "No precedent.
No laws prohibiting. Therefore no crime."
"Thank heaven!" Morey said in ecstatic relief.
Elon shook his head. "They'll probably give you a re-
conditioning and you can't expect to keep your Grade
Five. Probably call it anti-social behavior. Is, isn't it?"
Dashed, Morey said, "Oh." He frowned briefly, then
looked up. "All right, Dad, if I've got it coming to me,
I'll take my medicine."
"Way to talk," Elon said approvingly. "Now go home.
Get a good night's sleep. First thing in the morning, go
to the Ration Board. Tell 'em the whole story, beginning
to end. They'll be easy on you." Elon hesitated. "Well,
fairly easy," he amended. "I hope."
The condemned man ate a hearty breakfast.
He had to. That morning, as Morey awoke, he had the
sick certainty that he was going to be consuming triple
rations for a long, long time to come.
He kissed Cherry good-by and took the long ride to the
Ration Board in silence. He even left Henry behind.
At the Board, he stammered at a series of receptionist
robots and was finally brought into the presence of a
mildly supercilious young man named Hachette:
"My name," he started, "is Morey Fry. II've come
totalk over something I've been doing with"
"Certainly, Mr. Fry," said Hachette. "I'll take you in
to Mr. Newman right away."
"Don't you want to know what I did?" demanded
Morey.
Hachette smiled. "What makes you think we don't
know?" he said, and left.
That was Surprise Number One.
Newman explained it. He grinned at Morey and rue-
fully shook his head. "All the time we get this," he com-
plained. "People just don't take the trouble to learn any-
thing about the world around them. Son," he demanded,
"what do you think a robot is?"
Morey said, "Hub?"
"I mean how do you think it operates? Do you think it's
just a kind of a man with a tin skin and wire nerves?"
"Why, no. It's a machine, of course. It isn't human."
Newman beamed. "Fine!" he said. "It's a machine. It
hasn't got flesh or blood or intestinesor a brain. Oh"
he held up a hand"robots are smart enough. I don't
mean that. But an electronic thinking machine, Mr. Fry,
takes about as much space as the house you're living in.
It has to. Robots don't carry brains around with them;
brains are too heavy and much too bulky."
"Then how do they think?"
"With their brains, of course."
"But you just said"
"I said they didn't carry them. Each robot is in constant
radio communication with the Master Control on its TBR
circuitthe 'Talk Between Robots' radio. Master Control
gives the answer, the robot acts."
"I see," said Morey. "Well, that's very interesting,
but"
"But you still don't see," said Newman. "Figure it out.
If the robot gets information from Master Control, do you
see that Master Control in return necessarily gets informa-
tion from the robot?"
"Oh," said Morey. Then, louder, "Oh! You mean that
all my robots have been" The words wouldn't come.
Newman nodded in satisfaction. "Every bit of informa-
tion of that sort comes to us as a matter of course. Why,
Mr. Fry, if you hadn't come in today, we would have been
sending for you within a very short time."
That was the second surprise. Morey bore up under it
bravely. After all, it changed nothing, he reminded him-
self.
He said, "Well, be that as it may, sir, here I am. I came
in of my own free will. I've been using my robots to con-
sume my ration quotas"
"Indeed you have," said Newman.
"and I'm willing to sign a statement to that effect any
time you like. I don't know what the penalty is, but I'll
take it. I'm guilty; I admit my guilt."
Newman's eyes were wide. "Guilty?" he repeated. "Pen-
alty?"
Morey was startled. "Why, yes," he said. "I'm not deny-
ing anything."
"Penalties," repeated Newman musingly. Then he began
to laugh. He laughed, Morey thought, to considerable
excess; Morey saw nothing he could laugh at, himself, in
the situation. But the situation, Morey was forced to ad-
mit, was rapidly getting completely incomprehensible.
"Sorry," said Newman at last, wiping his eyes, "but I
couldn't help it. Penalties! Well, Mr. Fry, let me set your
mind at rest. I wouldn't worry about the penalties if I
were you. As soon as the reports began coming through
on what you had done with your robots, we naturally as-
signed a special team to keep observing you, and we for-
warded a report to the national headquarters. We made
certainahrecommendations in it andwell, to make
a long story short, the answers came back yesterday.
"Mr. Fry, the National Ration Board is delighted to
know of your contribution toward improving our distribu-
tion problem. Pending a further study, a tentative program
has been adopted for setting up consuming-robot units all
over the country based on your scheme. Penalties? Mr.
Fry, you're a herol"
A hero has responsibilities. Morey's were quickly made
clear to him. He was allowed time for a brief reassuring
visit to Cherry, a triumphal tour of his old office, and then
he was rushed off to Washington to be quizzed. He found
the National Ration Board in a frenzy of work.
"The most important job we've ever done," one of the
high officers told him. "I wouldn't be surprised if it's the
last one we ever have! Yes, sir, we're trying to put our-
selves out of business for good and we don't want a single
thing to go wrong."
"Anytiling I can do to help" Morey began diffidently.
"You've done fine, Mr. Fry. Gave us just the push
we've been needing. It was there all the time for us to see,
but we were too close to the forest to see the trees, if you
get what I mean. Look, I'm not much on rhetoric and this
is the biggest step mankind has taken in centuries and I
can't put it into words. Let me show you what we've been
doing."
He and a delegation of other officials of the Ration
Board and men whose names Morey had repeatedly seen
in the newspapers took Morey on an inspection tour of
the entire plant.
"It's a closed cycle, you see," he was told, as they
looked over a chamber of industriously plodding con-
sumer-robots working off a shipment of shoes. "Nothing
is permanently lost. If you want a car, you get one of the
newest and best. If not, your car gets driven by a robot
until it's ready to be turned in and a new one gets built
for next year. We don't lose the metalsthey can be sal-
vaged. All we lose is a little power and labor. And the
Sun and the atom give us all the power we need, and the
robots give us more labor than we can use. Same thing
applies, of course, to all products."
"But what's in it for the robots?" Morey asked.
"I beg your pardon?" one of the biggest men in the
country said uncomprehendingly.
Morey had a difficult moment. His analysis had condi-
tioned him against waste and this decidedly was sheer
destruction of goods, no matter how scientific the jargon
might be.
"If the consumer is just using up things for the sake of
using them up," he said doggedly, realizing the danger he
was inviting, "we could use wear-and-tear machines in-
stead of robots. After all why waste them?"
They looked at each other worriedly.
"But that's what you were doing," one pointed out with
a faint note of threat.
"Oh, no!" Morey quickly objected. "I built in satisfac-
tion circuitsmy training in design, you know. Adjustable
circuits, of course."
"Satisfaction circuits?" he was asked. "Adjustable?"
"Well, sure. If the robot gets no satisfaction out of using
up things"
"Don't talk nonsense," growled the Ration Board offi-
cial. "Robots aren't human. How do you make them feel
satisfaction? And adjustable satisfaction at that!"
Morey explained. It was a highly technical explanation,
involving the use of great sheets of paper and elaborate
diagrams. But there were trained men in the group and
they became even more excited than before.
"Beautiful!" one cried in scientific rapture. "Why, it
takes care of every possible moral, legal and psychological
argument!"
"What does?" the Ration Board official demanded.
"How?"
"You tell him, Mr. Fry."
Morey tried and couldn't. But he could show how his
principle operated. The Ration Board lab was turned over
to him, complete with more assistants than he knew how
to give orders to, and they built satisfaction circuits for
a squad of robots working in a hat factory.
Then Morey gave his demonstration. The robots manu-
factured hats of all sorts. He adjusted the circuits at the
end of the day and the robots began trying on the hats,
squabbling over them, each coming away triumphantly
with a huge and diverse selection. Their metallic features
were incapable of showing pride or pleasure, but both
were evident in the way they wore their hats, their fierce
possessiveness . . . and their faster, neater, more intensive,
more dedicated work to produce a still greater quantity of
hats . . . which they also were allowed to own.
"You see?" an engineer exclaimed deUghtedly. "They
can be adjusted to want hats, to wear them loyingly, to
wear the hats to pieces. And not just for the sake of wear-
ing them outthe hats are an incentive for them!"
"But how can we go on producing just hats and more
hats?" the Ration Board man asked puzzledly. "Civiliza-
tion does not live by hats alone."
"That," said Morey modestly, "is the beauty of it.
Look."
He set the adjustment of the satisfaction circuit as
porter robots brought in skids of gloves. The hat-manu-
facturing robots fought over the gloves with the same
mechanical passion as they had for hats.
"And that can apply to anything we  or the robots 
produce," Morey added. "Everything from pins to yachts.
But the point is that they get satisfaction from possession,
and the craving can be regulated according to the glut in
various industries, and the robots show their appreciation
by working harder." He hesitated. "That's what I did for
my servant-robote. It's a feedback, you see. Satisfaction
leads to more workand better workand that means
more goods, which they can be made to want, which
means incentive to work, and so on, all around."
"Closed cycle," whispered the Ration Board man in
awe. "A reed closed cycle this time!"
And so the inexorable laws of supply and demand were
irrevocably repealed. No longer was mankind hampered
by inadequate supply or drowned by overproduction. What
mankind needed was there. What the race did not require
passed into the insatiableand adjustablerobot maw.
Nothing was wasted.
For a pipeline has two ends.
Morey was thanked, complimented, rewarded, given a
ticker-tape parade through the city, and put on a plane
back home. By that time, the Ration Board had liquidated
itself.
Cherry met him at the airport. They jabbered excitedly
at each other all the way to the house.
In their own living room, they finished the kiss they had
greeted each other with. At last Cherry broke away,
laughing.
Morey said, "Did I tell yon I'm through with Bradmoor?
From now on I work for the Board as civilian consultant.
And," he added impressively, "starting right away. I'm a
Class Eight!"
"My!" gasped Cherry, so worshipfully that Morey felt
a twinge of conscience.
He said .honestly, "Of course, if what they were saying
in Washington is so, the classes aren't going to mean much
pretty soon. Still, it's quite an honor."
"It certainly is," Cherry said staunchly. "Why, Dad's
only a Class Eight himself and he's been a judge for I
don't know how many years."
Morey pursed his lips. "We can't all be fortunate," he
said generously. "Of course, the classes still will count for
somethingthat is, a Class One will have so much to con-
sume in a year, a Class Two will have a little less, and so
on. But each person in each class will have robot help, you
see, to do the actual consuming. The way it's going to be,
special facsimile robots will"
Cherry flagged him down. "I know, dear. Each family
gets a robot duplicate of every person in the family."
"Oh," said Morey, slightly annoyed. "How did you
know?"
"Ours came yesterday," she explained. "The man from
the Board said we were the first in the areabecause it
was your idea, of course. They haven't even been activated
yet. I've still got them in the Green Room. Want to see
them?"
"Sure," said Morey buoyantly. He dashed ahead of
Cherry to inspect the results of his own brainstorm. There
they were, standing statue-still against the wall, waiting to
be energized to begin their endless tasks.
"Yours is real pretty," Morey said gallantly. "Butsay,
is that thing supposed to look like me?" He inspected the
chromium face of the man-robot disapprovingly.
"Only roughly, the man said." Cherry was right behind
him. "Notice anything else?"
Morey leaned closer, inspecting the features of the
facsimile robot at a close range. "Well, no," he said. "It's
got a kind of a squint that I don't like, butOh, you
mean that!" He bent over to examine a smaller robot, half
hidden between the other pair. It was less than two feet
high,  big-headed, pudgy-limbed,  thick-bellied.  In fact,
Morey thought wonderingly, it looked almost like
"My God!" Morey spun around, staring wide-eyed at
his wife. "You mean"
"I mean," said Cherry, blushing slightly.
Morey reached out to grab her in his arms.
"Darling!" he cried. "Why didn't you tell me?"