“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.