Garrick wasn't a medical doctor, but he remembered enough of his basic pre-specialization to know there was something in that fizzy golden drink. It tasted perfectly splendid—just cold enough, just fizzy enough, not quite too sweet. And after two sips of it, he was buoyant with strength and well-being.
He put the glass down and said: "Thank you for whatever it was. Now let's talk."
"Gladly, gladly!" boomed Mr. Roosenburg. "Kathryn, the files!"
Garrick looked after her, shaking his head. Not only was she a statistician, which was robot work, she was also a file clerk—and that was barely robot work. It was the kind of tiling handled by a semisentient punchcard sorter in a decently run sector.
Roosenburg said sharply: "Shocks you, doesn't it? But that's why you're here." He was a slim, fair little man and he wore a golden beard cropped square.
Garrick took another sip of the fizzy drink. It was good stuff; it didn't intoxicate, but it cheered. He said: "I'm glad to know why I'm here."
The golden beard quivered. "Area Control sent you down and didn't tell you this was a disaster area?"
Garrick put down the glass. "I'm a psychist. Area Control said you needed a psychist. From what I've seen, it's a supply problem, but—"
"Here are the files," said Kathryn Pender, and stood watching him.
Roosenburg took the spools of tape from her and dropped them in his lap. He asked tangentially: "How old are you, Roger?"
Garrick was annoyed. "I'm a qualified psychist! I happen to be assigned to Area Control and—"
"How old are you?"
Garrick scowled. "Twenty-four."
Roosenburg nodded. "Umm. Rather young," he observed. "Maybe you don't remember how things used to be."
Garrick said dangerously: "All the information I need is on that tape. I don't need any lectures from you."
Roosenburg pursed his lips and got up. "Come here a minute, will you?"
He moved over to the rail of the sun deck and pointed. "See those things down there?"
Garrick looked. Twenty stories down, the village straggled off toward the sea in a tangle of pastel oblongs and towers. Over the bay, the hills of the mainland were faintly visible through mist and, riding the bay, the flat white floats of the solar receptors.
"It's a power plant. That what you mean?"
Roosenburg boomed: "A power plant. All the power the world can ever use, out of this one and all the others, all over the world." He peered out at the bobbing floats, soaking up energy from the Sun. "And people used to try to wreck them," he added.
Garrick said stiffly: "I may only be twenty-four years old, Mr. Roosenburg, but I have completed school."
"Oh, yes. Of course you have, Roger. But maybe schooling isn't the same thing as living through a time like that. I grew up in the Era of Plenty, when the law was Consume! My parents were poor and I still remember the misery of my childhood. Eat and consume, wear and use. I never had a moment's peace, Rogerl For the very poor, it was a treadmill; we had to consume so much that we could never catch up, and the further we fell behind, the more the Ration Board forced on us—"
"That's ancient history, Mr. Roosenburg. Morey Fry liberated us from all that."
The girl said softly: "Not all of us."
The man with the golden beard nodded. "Not all of us— as you should know, Roger, being a psychist."
Garrick sat up straight and Roosenburg went on: 'Try showed us that the robots could help at both ends—by producing and by consuming. But it came a little late for some of us. The patterns of childhood do linger on."
Kathryn Pender leaned toward Garrick. "What he's trying to say, Mr. Garrick, is that we've got a compulsive consumer on our hands."
III
North Guardian Island—nine miles away. It wasn't as much as a mile wide and not much more than that in length, but it had its city and its bathing beaches, its parks and theaters. It was possibly the most densely populated island in the world .. . for the number of its inhabitants.
The President of the Council convened their afternoon meeting in a large and lavish room. There were 19 council-men around a lustrous mahogany table. Over the President's shoulder, the others could see the situation map of North Guardian and the areas surrounding. North Guardian glowed blue, cold, impregnable. The sea was misty green; the mainland, Fisherman's Island, South Guardian and the rest of the little archipelago were hot, hostile red.
Little flickering fingers of red attacked the blue. Flick, and a ruddy flame wiped out a comer of a beach. Flick, and a red spark appeared in the middle of the city, to grow and blossom, and then to die. Each little red whip-flick was a point where, momentarily, the defenses of the island were down; but always and always, the cool blue brightened around the red and drowned it.
The President was tall, stooped, old. It wore glasses, though robot eyes saw well enough without. It said, in a voice that throbbed with power and pride: "The first item of the order of business will be a report of the Defense Secretary."
The Defense Secretary rose to its feet, hooked a thumb in its vest and cleared its throat. "Mr. President—"
"Excuse me, sir." A whisper from the sweet-faced young blonde taking down the minutes of the meeting. "Mr. Trumie has just left Bowling Green, heading north."
The whole council turned to glance at the situation map, where Bowling Green had just flared red.
The President nodded stiffly, like the crown of an old redwood nodding. "You may proceed, Mr. Secretary," it said after a moment.
"Our invasion fleet," began the Secretary, in its high, clear voice, "is ready for sailing on the first suitable tide. Certain units have been, ah, inactivated, at the, ah, instigation of Mr. Trumie. But on the whole, repairs have been completed and the units will be serviceable within the next few hours." Its lean, attractive face turned solemn. "I am afraid, however, that the Air Command has sustained certain, ah, increments of attrition—due, I should emphasize, to chances involved in certain calculated risks—"
"Question! Question!" It was the Commissioner of Public Safety, small, dark, fire-eyed, angry.
"Mr. Commissioner?" the President began, but it was interrupted again by the soft whisper of the recording stenographer, listening intently to the earphones that brought news from outside.
"Mr. President," it whispered, "Mr. Trumie has passed the Navy Yard."
The robots turned to look at the situation map. Bowling Green, though it smoldered in spots, had mostly gone back to blue. But the jagged oblong of the Yard flared red and bright. There was a faint electronic hum in the air, almost a sigh.
The robots turned back to face each other. "Mr. President! I demand that the Defense Secretary explain the loss of the Graf Zeppelin and the 456th Bomb Group!"
The Defense Secretary nodded to the Commissioner of Public Safety. "Mr. Trumie threw them away," it said sorrowfully.
Once again, that sighing electronic drone from the assembled robots.
The Council fussed and fiddled with its papers, while the situation map on the wall flared and dwindled, flared and dwindled.
The Defense Secretary cleared its throat again. "Mr. President, there is no question that the, ah, absence of an effective air component will seriously hamper, not to say endanger, our prospects of a suitable landing. Nevertheless—and I say this, Mr. President, in full knowledge of the conclusions that may —indeed, should!—be drawn from such a statement—nevertheless, Mr. President, I say that our forward elements will successfully complete an assault landing—"
"Mr. President!" The breathless whisper of the blonde stenographer again. "Mr. President, Mr. Trumie is in the building!"