The SF Hall of Fame Volume Two B (48 page)

"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
important single anti-social phenomenon—failure 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 I'll 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 appeared. "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 I—did 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 robots—make too much of everything.

That had implanted the idea; it germinated in Morey's home.
More than a little drunk, less than ordinarily inhibited, he had found the
problem clear and the answer obvious.

He stared around him in dismal worry. His own 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 unparalleled
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 knickers 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 ragged 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 serving-robots were preparing
dionysian meals.

Morey swallowed. "You—you'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 politely
scurried over with a chair, brought from upstairs for 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 occupational 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, maintenance
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 automatic.

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. I—uh—I 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 premarriage 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 themselves, good about helping out on the
budget—at 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 birdbath 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 punishment 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 Five—can afford to smoke
somebody else's now, hey?"

"Yeah," Morey said glumly.

There was a moment of silence. Then Elon, as punctilious as
any companion-robot, coughed and tried again. "Remember being peaked till
I hit Grade Five," he reminisced 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 consuming comes first, of
course—that'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 citizenship just
pitches in and does the job, hey?"

Morey repressed a shudder and managed to nod.

"Best thing about upgrading," Elon went on, as if
he had elicited a satisfactory answer, "don't have to spend so much time
consuming, give more attention to work. Greatest 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 fellow—year or two younger than you, I guess—came 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
applied to stealing things. Still does, I discovered."

"You mean he
stole
something?" Morey asked
in bewilderment.

"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
anything. 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 and—well, you know that
big Mondrian in the Museum?"

"I've never been there," Morey said, somewhat
embarrassed.

"Um. Ought to try it someday, boy. Anyway, comes
closing time at the Museum the other day, this kid sneaks in. He steals the
painting. That's right—
steals
it. Takes it to give to the girl."

Morey shook his head blankly. "I never heard of
anything 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—"

"Um?"

Morey cleared his throat. "Uh—I wonder—I mean what's
the penalty, for instance, for things like—well, misusing rations or anything
like that?"

Elon's eyebrows went high. "Misusing rations?"

"Say you had a liquor ration, it might be, and instead
of drinking it, you—well, 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 penetrated his secret. Cherry was
happy. Wainwright found occasion 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 luxury.

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 intimacy 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
consuming 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.