"I knew that," said Ludwig. "Machines are built to be efficient. But what do you think of their output? How does it compare with the work of the Writers?"
Carre cleared his throat. "John, don't you read the magazines any more?"
"No. No time. Do you?"
"I haven't, until yesterday. I read them, all night. I hardly know how to express myself. John, something is wrong with the machines."
"Nonsense! There can't be anything wrong with them. They're fed the plots, fed the variations, and then with perfect logic they create their stories. You're not an electronics expert, you know."
Carre stared at the floor. Ludwig sighed.
"I'm sorry, Herbert. I'm just too tired to be decently courteous. But what I wanted from you, after all, was a literary evaluation and not a scientific one."
"I express myself so badly. There's something wrong, something I can't exactly define, with what they write."
Ludwig looked exasperated. "But what, man? Be concrete."
"I'll try. Here's a short story that was made yesterday. Glance over it, please, and tell me how it strikes you."