He gazed thoughtfully at his well-kept hands.
"Did I ever tell you about the last woman I knew?" he asked. "About twenty years ago. We had a son, you know, but he grew up and wanted his own home and robots."
"Natural enough," Robert commented, somewhat briefly since Henry had told him the story before.
"I often wonder what became of him," mused the older man. "That's the trouble with what's left of Earth culture—no families any more."
Now he'll tell about the time he lived in a crowd of five, thought Robert. He, his wife, their boy and the visiting couple with the fleet of robot helicopters.
Deciding that Henry could reminisce just as well without a listener, Robert quietly ordered the robot to turn itself off.
Maybe I will make the trip, he pondered, on the way downstairs, if only to see what it's like with another person about.
At about noon of the second day after that, he remembered that thought with regret.
The ancient roads, seldom used and never repaired, were rough and bumpy. Having no flying robots, Robert was compelled to transport himself and a few mechanical servants in ground vehicles. He had—idiotically, he now realized—started with the dawn, and was already tired.
Consequently, he was perhaps unduly annoyed when two tiny spy-eyes flew down from the hills to hover above his caravan on whirring little propellers. He tried to glance up pleasantly while their lenses televised pictures to their base, but he feared that his smile was strained.