The SF Hall of Fame Volume Two B (43 page)

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,
costume 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 bustled 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 waiting for the robot accountants to tote up
their bill and the robot cashiers to stamp their ration books, Morey remembered
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 delighted 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 name—Henry 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 considerately
left them alone, the laughter dried up.

Morey didn't notice. He was very conscientiously making 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 we—I mean do you think we could just
sort of stay home and—well, 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
oflf, 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. I—I 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 cry—there 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 of—well, 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 implication 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 playing cards for matchsticks.
You live here, with 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 and—I've eaten all that terrible food until I'm actually getting
fa-fa-ter!
I thought I could stand it. But I just can't go on like this; I'm not used to
it. I—I love you, Morey, but I'm going crazy, living like this. I can't help
it, Morey—
I'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 right—for a civilization without machines,
automatic factories, hydroponics and food synthesis, 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, drowning 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 letterhead
of the National Ration Board, it said:

"We regret to advise you that the following items
returned by you in connection with your August quotas as used and no longer
serviceable have been inspected and found insufficiently worn." The list
followed—a long one, Morey saw to his sick disappointment. "Credit is
hereby disallowed for these and you are therefore given an additional 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
emo-tionlessly, 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 certainly 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 coffee—
lots
of cream and sugar. And besides the
toast, scrambled eggs, fried potatoes, orange juice—no, make it half a
grapefruit.
And
orange juice, come to think of it."

"Right away, sir," said the valet. "You won't
be having breakfast at nine then, will you, sir?"

"I certainly will," said Morey virtuously.
"Double portions!" 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 him of
waste, he could claim he was experimenting. 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?"