The Midas Plague

enormous glaringly new mansion, bigger even than Morey’s former house, stuffed to bursting with bulging sofas and pianos and massive mahogany chairs and tri-D sets and bedrooms and drawing rooms and breakfast rooms and nurseries.

The nurseries were a shock to Morey; it had never occurred to him that the Bigelows had children. But they did and, though the ¦children were only five and eight, they were still up, under the care of a brace of robot nursemaids, doggedly playing with their overstuffed animals and miniature trains.

“You don’t know what a comfort Tony and Dick are,” Tanaquil Bigelow told Morey. “They consume so much more than their rations. Walter says that every family ought to have at least two or three children to, you know. Help out. Walter’s so intelligent about these things, it’s a pleasure to hear him talk. Have you heard his poem, Morey? The one he calls The Twoness of—”

Morey hastily admitted that he had. He reconciled himself to a glum evening. The Bigelows had been eccentric but fun back at Uncle Piggotty’s. On their own ground, they seemed just as eccentric, but painfully dull.

They had a round of cocktails, and another, and then the Bigelows no longer seemed so dull. Dinner was ghastly, of course; Morey was nouveau-riche enough to be a snob about his relatively Spartan table. But he minded his manners and sampled, with grim concentration, each successive course of chunky protein and rich marinades. With the help of the endless succession of table wines and liqueurs, dinner ended without destroying his evening or his strained digestive system.

And afterward, they were a pleasant company in the Bigelows’ ornate drawing room. Tanaquil Bigelow, in consultation with the children, checked over their ration books and came up with the announcement that they would have a brief recital by a pair of robot dancers, followed by string music by a robot quartet. Morey prepared himself for the worst, but found before the dancers were through that he was enjoying himself. Strange lesson for Morey: When you didn’t have to watch them, the robot entertainers were fun!

“Good night, dears,” Tanaquil Bigelow said firmly to the children when the dancers were done. The boys rebelled, naturally, but they went. It was only a matter of minutes, though, before one of them was back, clutching at Morey’s sleeve with a pudgy hand.

Morey looked at the boy uneasily, having little experience with children. He said, “Uh-what is it, Tony?”

“Dick, you mean,” the boy said. “Gimme your autograph.” He poked an engraved pad and a vulgarly jeweled pencil at Morey.

Morey dazedly signed and the child ran off, Morey staring after him. Tanaquil Bigelow laughed and explained, “He saw your name in Porfirio’s column. Dick loves Porfirio, reads him every day. He’s such an intellectual kid, really. He’d always have his nose in a book if I didn’t keep after him to play with his trains and watch tri-D.”

“That was quite a nice write-up,” Walter Bigelow commented—a little enviously, Morey thought. “Bet you make Consumer of the Year. I wish,” he signed, “that we could get a little ahead on the quotas the way you did. But it just never seems to work out. We eat and play and consume like crazy, and somehow at the end of the month we’re always a little behind in something—everything keeps piling up—and then the Board sends us a warning, and they call me down and, first thing you know, I’ve got a couple of hundred added penalty points and we’re worse off than before.”

“Never you mind,” Tanaquil replied staunchly. “Consuming isn’t everything in life. You have your work.”

Bigelow nodded judiciously and offered Morey another drink. Another drink, however, was not what Morey needed. He was sitting in a rosy glow, less of alcohol than of sheer contentment with the world.

He said suddenly, “Listen.”

Bigelow looked up from his own drink. “Eh?”

“If I tell you something that’s a secret, will you keep it that way?”

Bigelow rumbled, “Why, I guess so, Morey.”

But his wife cut in sharply, “Certainly we will, Morey. Of course! What is it?” There was a gleam in her eye, Morey noticed. It puzzled him, but he decided to ignore it.

He said, “About that write-up. I—I’m not such a hot-shot consumer, really, you know. In fact—” All of a sudden, everyone’s eyes seemed to be on him. For a tortured moment, Morey wondered if he was doing the right thing. A secret that two people know is compromised, and a secret known to three people is no secret. Still—

“It’s like this,” he said firmly. “You remember what we were talking about at Uncle Piggotty’s that night? Well, when I went home I went down to the robot quarters, and I—”

He went on from there.

Tanaquil Bigelow said triumphantly, “I knew it!”

Walter Bigelow gave his wife a mild, reproving look. He declared soberly, “You’ve done a big thing, Morey. A mighty big thing. God willing, you’ve pronounced the death sentence on our society as we know it. Future generations will revere the name of Morey Fry.” He solemnly shook Morey’s hand.

Morey said dazedly, “I what?

Walter nodded. It was a valedictory. He turned to his wife. “Tanaquil, we’ll have to call an emergency meeting.”

“Of course, Walter,” she said devotedly.

“And Morey will have to be there. Yes, you’ll have to, Morey; no excuses. We want the Brotherhood to meet you. Right, Howland?”

Howland coughed uneasily. He nodded noncommittally and took another drink.

Morey demanded desperately, “What are you talking about? Howland, you tell me!”

Howland fiddled with his drink. “Well,” he said, “it’s like Tan was telling you that night. A few of us, well, politically mature persons have formed a little group. We—”

“Little group!” Tanaquil Bigelow said scornfully. “Howland, sometimes I wonder if you really catch the spirit of the thing at all! It’s everybody, Morey, everybody in the world. Why, there are eighteen of us right here in Old Town! There are scores more all over the world! I knew you were up to something like this, Morey. I told Walter so the morning after we met you. I said, ‘Walter, mark my words, that man Morey is up to something.’ But I must say,” she admitted worshipfully, “I didn’t know it would have the scope of what you’re proposing now! Imagine—a whole world of consumers, rising as one man, shouting the name of Morey Fry, fighting the Ration Board with the Board’s own weapon—the robots. What poetic justice!”

Bigelow nodded enthusiastically. “Call Uncle Piggotty’s, dear,” he ordered. “See if you can round up a quorum right now! Meanwhile, Morey and I are going belowstairs. Let’s go, Morey—let’s get the new world started!”

Morey sat there open-mouthed. He closed it with a snap. “Bigelow,” he whispered, “do you mean to say that you’re going to spread this idea around through some kind of subversive organization?”

“Subversive?” Bigelow repeated stiffly. “My dear man, all creative minds are subversive, whether they operate singly or in such a group as the Brotherhood of Freemen. I scarcely like—”

“Never mind what you like,” Morey insisted. “You’re going to call a meeting of this Brotherhood and you want me to tell them what I just told you. Is that right?”

“Well-yes.”

Morey got up. “I wish I could say it’s been nice, but it hasn’t. Good night!”

And he stormed out before they could stop him.

Out on the street, though, his resolution deserted him. He hailed a robot cab and ordered the driver to take him on the traditional time-killing ride through the park while he made up his mind.

The fact that he had left, of course, was not going to keep Bigelow from going through with his announced intention. Morey remembered, now, fragments of conversation from Bigelow and his wife at Uncle Piggotty’s, and cursed himself. They had, it was perfectly true, said and hinted enough about politics and purposes to put him on his guard. All that nonsense about twoness had diverted him from what should have been perfectly clear: They were subversives indeed.

He glanced at his watch. Late, but not too late; Cherry would still be at her parents’ home.

He leaned forward and gave the driver their address. It was like beginning the first of a hundred-shot series of injections: you know it’s going to cure you, but it hurts just the same.

Morey said manfully: “And that’s it, sir. I know I’ve been a fool. I’m willing to take the consequences.”

Old Elon rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “Ura,” he said.