“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.