In the following grim and unnecessary sessions on the mechanical horses, Morey had plenty of time to reflect on the lesson. Stolen treasures are less sweet than one would like, when one dare not enjoy them in the open.
But some of Morey’s treasures were fairly earned.
The new Bradmoor K-50 Spin-a-Game, for instance, was his very own. His job was design and creation, and he was a fortunate man in that his efforts were permitted to be expended along the line of greatest social utility—namely, to increase consumption.
The Spin-a-Game was a well-nigh perfect machine for the purpose. “Brilliant,” said Wainwright, beaming, when the pilot machine had been put through its first tests. “Guess they don’t call me the Talent-picker for nothing. I knew you could do it, boy!”
Even Howland was lavish in his praise. He sat munching on a plate of petits-fours (he was 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.
Wainwright left, exuding praise, and Morey patted his pilot model 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 freezerful of steaks and joints and prepared vegetables; but it seldom happened. Most likely you lost and got nothing.