"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 afterdinner 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 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. 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 a~ much as said he'd be looking to see if we were there, too. Well, w~ 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 ii 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-fat/ 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.
Maithus 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 .