"But what are we going to do?"
"Linna, I bought this place so that we could work it out. There is one thing that cannot be duplicated."
"Yes?"
"Service."
"Meaning?"
"You can't machine-clean the house. You can't machine-write books, music, or moving pictures. You can't machine-maintain machinery. You can't machine-doctor a burst appendix. And so forth. You can duplicate the antiques until they have no value. Rembrandt is going to be a household word. The day of the antique is gone, Linna, and the eventual trend will be toward the unique. Mark my words, there will one day be unique shops that deal in nothing but items which they can certify as never having been duplicated."
"But if service is of value," said Linna doubtfully, "how am I going to get along?"
"You'll be of service," said Keg harshly, "or you'll not get along."
"So?"
"Look, Linna. You're my wife. As my wife, you've been spoiled. That's my fault. I liked to spoil you. In the early days I couldn't spoil you because we were in no financial position to do any spoiling, but now you've become a parasite, Linna. You and your dinners and your jewels and your cars and your sleek, vacuum-brained friends. Patron of the arts! Nuts. Bum poetry, slapdash canvases, weird discordant music. No, it's not entirely your fault. I've sponsored it because I thought it gave you pleasure.