“I can’t help it,” Cherry said. “Morey, you know I’ve tried. But back home—”
“Dammit,” he flared, “ this is your home. You don’t live with your father any more in that five-room cottage; you don’t spend your evenings hoeing the garden or playing cards for matchsticks. You live here, with me, your husband! You knew what you were getting into. We talked all this out long before we were married—”
The words stopped, because words were useless. Cherry was crying again, but not silently.
Through her tears, she wailed: “Darling, I’ve tried. You don’t know how I’ve tried! I’ve worn all those silly clothes and I’ve played all those silly games and I’ve gone out with you as much as I possibly could and—I’ve eaten all that terrible food until I’m actually getting fa-fa-ter! I thought I could stand it. But I just can’t go on like this; I’m not used to it. I—I love you, Morey, but I’m going crazy, living like this. I can’t help it, Morey— I’m tired of being poor!”
Eventually the tears dried up, and the quarrel healed, and the lovers kissed and made up. But Morey lay awake that night, listening to his wife’s gentle breathing from the suite next to his own, staring into the darkness as tragically as any pauper before him had ever done.
Blessed are the poor, for they shall inherit the Earth.
Blessed Morey, heir to more worldly goods than he could possibly consume.
Morey Fry, steeped in grinding poverty, had never gone hungry a day in his life, never lacked for anything his heart could desire in the way of food, or clothing, or a place to sleep. In Morey’s world, no one lacked for these things; no one could.
Malthus was right—for a civilization without machines, automatic factories, hydroponics and food synthesis, nuclear breeder plants, ocean-mining for metals and minerals…
And a vastly increasing supply of labor…