[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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 moment's curiosity about what the robots
were doing, she was not likely to be able to guess at the facts. Her upbringing was, for once, on
Morey's side- she 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 fumitune 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 instance, that would nub 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 success-and so was his scheme!
To the successful man come the rewards of success. Morey arrived home one evening after a
hand 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 veny 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. Porfinio 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 glumly. "Hello."
Mr. Porfirio shook Morey's hand warmly. "I'm not exactly from a newspaper," he corrected.
"Trans-video Press is what it is, actually. We're a news wire service; we supply 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 to-well, 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 I 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 Manha-I 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. "We-Wi-well, we just keep after it. Hand work, that's all."
Ponfirio 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 himself to it-setting a regular schedule, for example, and keeping
file:///F|/rah/Frederik%20Pohl/Frederik%20Pohl%20-%20Best%20of%20Frederik%20Pohl.txt (71 of 152) [1/23/03 12:26:27 PM]
file:///F|/rah/Frederik%20Pohl/Frederik%20Pohl%20-%20Best%20of%20Frederik%20Pohl.txt
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 see-
but 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 being-well, 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 noticed 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 Bradmoon K-SO 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
Wainwnight, beaming, when the pilot machine had been put through its first tests. "Guess they
don't call me the Talentpicker for nothing. I knew you could do it, boy!"
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]