"But," objected Reblong, a little upset, "there's only a few of the owners. They couldn't help much."
"But their servants could. Do you know that there's ten servants, on an average, to every family of the rich? Servants who do nothing but make life still easier for people who already hog it all!"
"Well, suppose they did all go to work; who would run our government for us, my friend?"
"Who! Why—if we can do the work, I guess we can certainly do the governing, Reblong."
Reblong turned away, plainly bewildered. "It doesn't look right to me, old man. I'd rather let things stand as they are, so far as I'm concerned."
Somewhere a warning instrument was thrumming loudly. The man with the democratic ideas automatically turned to his locker, and proceeded to change his outer clothing. Reblong meanwhile took off his suit and slipped into some full-length overalls. As he buttoned them up around the neck he stepped in front of a glass.
Smith was nearly floored. The man was almost his exact double; an ordinary, everyday sort of a chap, with a very commonplace face. Perhaps, like Smith's, his face concealed a remarkable technical knowledge; but nobody would have given him a second glance. Was he, thought Smith, a typical Capellan workman?
The other man was ready to go. He hesitated, studying the floor; then said, regretfully:
"The worst part of it is, Reblong, everybody I talk to is as bad as you are. They all admit that things are not what they should be—but nobody cares!"
He went to the door, and Reblong heard him say, under his breath, as he turned the knob: