The Midas Plague

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