Bigelow looked at him round-eyed. “Didn’t you understand the poem?”
“Of course I did. But diagram it for me in simple terms so I can tell my wife.”
Bigelow beamed. “It’s about the dichotomy of robots,” he explained. “Like the Utile salt mill that the boy wished for: it ground out salt and ground out salt and ground out salt. He had to have salt, but not that much salt. Whitehead explains it clearly—”
They had another drink on Bigelow’s book.
Morey wavered over to Tanaquil Bigelow. He said fuzzily, “Listen. Mrs. Walter Tanaquil Strongarm Bigelow. Listen.”
She grinned smugly at him. “Brown hair,” she said dreamily.
Morey shook his head vigorously. “Never mind hair,” he ordered. “Never mind poem. Listen. In pre-cise and el-e-men-ta-ry terms, explain to me what is wrong with the world today.”
“Not enough brown hair,” she said promptly.
“Never mind hair!”
“All right,” she said agreeably. “Too many robots. Too many robots make too much of everything.”