Pohl, Frederik - The Midas Plague

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The Midas Plaque

AND SO THEY WERE MARRIED.

The bride and groom made a beautiful couple, she in

her twenty-yard frill of immaculate white, he in his formal

gray ruffled blouse and pleated pantaloons.

It was a small weddingthe best he could afford. For

guests, they had only the immediate family and a few

close friends. And when the minister had performed the

ceremony, Morey Fry kissed his bride and they drove off

to the reception. There were twenty-eight limousines in

all (though it is true that twenty of them contained only

the caterer's robots) and three flower cars.

"Bless you both," said old man Elon sentimentally.

"You've got a fine girl in our Cherry, Morey." He blew

his nose on a ragged square of cambric.

The old folks behaved very well, Morey thought. At

the reception, surrounded by the enormous stacks of

wedding gifts, they drank the champagne and ate a great

many of the tiny, delicious canapes. They listened politely

to the fifteen-piece orchestra, and Cherry's mother even

danced one dance with Morey for sentiment's sake, though

it was clear that dancing was far from the usual pattern

of her life. They tried as hard as they could to blend into

the gathering, but all the same, the two elderly figures

in severely simple and probably rented garments were

dismayingly conspicuous in the quarter-acre of tapestries

and tinkling fountains that was the main ballroom of

Morey's country home.

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, cos-

tame 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

busded up and handed Cherry the bracelet tray. "Lovely,"

Morey exclaimed as Cherry slipped the largest of the lot

on her wrist.

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"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 wait-

ing for the robot accountants to tote up their bill and the

robot cashiers to stamp their ration books, Morey re-

membered 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 de-

lighted 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 nameHenry 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 con-

siderately left them alone, the laughter dried up.

Morey didn't notice. He was very conscientiously mak-

ing 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 we1 mean

do you think we could just sort of stay home andwell,

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. I1 didn't

want to tell you about it, but Wainwright, down at the

office, said something to me yesterday. He told me he

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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 crythere 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 ofwell, 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 implica-

tion 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 play-

ing cards for matchsticks. You live here, vrith 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 andI've eaten

all that terrible food until I'm actually getting fa-fa-/af/ I

thought I could stand it. But I just can't go on like this;

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I'm not used to it. I1 love you, Morey, but I'm going

crazy, living like this. I can't help it, MoreyI'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 rightfor a civilization vidthout ma-

chines, automatic factories, hydroponics and food syn-

thesis, 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, drown-

ing 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 let-

terhead of the National Ration Board, it said:

"We regret to advise you that the following items re-

turned by you in connection with your August quotas as

used and no longer serviceable have been inspected and

found insufficiently worn." The list followeda long one,

Morey saw to his sick disappointment. "Credit is hereby

disallowed for these and you are therefore given an addi-

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Pohl, Frederik - The Midas Plague

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