Tanaquil Bigelow said triumphantly, “I knew it!”
Walter Bigelow gave his wife a mild, reproving look. He declared soberly, “You’ve done a big thing, Morey. A mighty big thing. God willing, you’ve pronounced the death sentence on our society as we know it. Future generations will revere the name of Morey Fry.” He solemnly shook Morey’s hand.
Morey said dazedly, “I what?
Walter nodded. It was a valedictory. He turned to his wife. “Tanaquil, we’ll have to call an emergency meeting.”
“Of course, Walter,” she said devotedly.
“And Morey will have to be there. Yes, you’ll have to, Morey; no excuses. We want the Brotherhood to meet you. Right, Howland?”
Howland coughed uneasily. He nodded noncommittally and took another drink.
Morey demanded desperately, “What are you talking about? Howland, you tell me!”
Howland fiddled with his drink. “Well,” he said, “it’s like Tan was telling you that night. A few of us, well, politically mature persons have formed a little group. We—”
“Little group!” Tanaquil Bigelow said scornfully. “Howland, sometimes I wonder if you really catch the spirit of the thing at all! It’s everybody, Morey, everybody in the world. Why, there are eighteen of us right here in Old Town! There are scores more all over the world! I knew you were up to something like this, Morey. I told Walter so the morning after we met you. I said, ‘Walter, mark my words, that man Morey is up to something.’ But I must say,” she admitted worshipfully, “I didn’t know it would have the scope of what you’re proposing now! Imagine—a whole world of consumers, rising as one man, shouting the name of Morey Fry, fighting the Ration Board with the Board’s own weapon—the robots. What poetic justice!”