Frederik Pohl The Best of Frederik Pohl

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still only a Grade Three) while the tests were going on, and when they were over, he said
enthusiastically, "It's a beauty, Morey. That series-corrupter-sensational! Never saw a prettier
piece of machinery."
Morey flushed gratefully.
Wainwnight left, exuding praise, and Morey patted his pilot mode] affectionately and
admired its polychrome gleam. The looks of the machine, as Wainwright had lectured many a time,
were as important as its function: "You have to make them want to play it, boy! They won't play it
if they don't see it!" And consequently the whole K series was distinguished by flashing rainbows
of light, provocative strains of music, haunting scents that drifted into the nostrils of the
passerby with compelling effect.
Morey had drawn heavily on all the old masterpieces of design- the one-arm bandit, the
pinball machine, the juke box. You put your ration book in the hopper. You spun the wheels until
you selected the game you wanted to play against the machine. You punched buttons or spun dials
or, in any of 325 different ways, you pitted your human skill against the magnetic-taped skills of
the machine.
And you lost. You had a chance to win, but the inexorable statistics of the machine's
setting made sure that if you played long enough, you had to lose.
That is to say, if you risked a ten-point ration stamp-showing, perhaps, that you had
consumed three six-course meals-your statistic return was eight points. You might hit the jackpot
and get a thousand points back, and thus be exempt from a whole freezenful of steaks and joints
and prepared vegetables; but it seldom happened. Most likely you lost and got nothing.
Got nothing, that is, in the way of your hazarded ration stamps. But the beauty of the
machine, which was Morey's main contribution, was that, win on lose, you always found a pellet of
vitamin-drenched, sugar-coated antibiotic hormone gum in the hopper. You played your game, won on
lost your stake, popped your hormone gum into your mouth and played another. By the time that game
was ended, the gum was used up, the coating dissolved; you discarded it and started another.
"That's what the man from the NRB liked," Howland told Morey confidentially. "He took a
set of schematics back with him; they might install it on all new machines. Oh, you're the fair-
haired boy, all right!"
It was the first Morey had heard about a man from the National Ration Board. It was good
news. He excused himself and hurried to phone Cherry the stony of his latest successes. He reached
her at her mother's, where she was spending the evening, and she was properly impressed and
affectionate. He came back to Howland in a glowing humor.
"Drink?" said Howland diffidently.
"Sure," said Morey. He could afford, he thought, to drink as much of Howland's liquor as
he liked; poor guy, sunk in the consuming quicksands of Class Three. Only fair for somebody a
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little more successful to give him a hand once in a while.
And when Howland, learning that Cherry had left Morey a bachelor for the evening, proposed
Uncle Piggotty's again, Morey hardly hesitated at all.
The Bigelows were delighted to see him. Morey wondered briefly if they had a home;
certainly they didn't seem to spend much time in it.
It turned out they did, because when Morey indicated virtuously that he'd only stopped in
at Piggotty's for a single drink before dinner, and Howiand revealed that he was free for the
evening, they captured Morey and bore him off to their house.
Tanaquil Bigelow was haughtily apologetic. "I don't suppose this is the kind of place Mr.
Fry is used to," she observed to her husband, right across Morey, who was standing between them.
"Still, we call it home."
Morey made an appropriately polite remark. Actually, the place nearly turned his stomach.
It was an 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
on 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-niche 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, dinnen ended without destroying his evening or his strained digestive
system.
And afterward, they were a pleasant company in the Bigelow's
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, deans," 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. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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