Busman. That it’s of no consequence whatsoever.
Fabry. Busman’s right. (Helena sits in armchair R. of L.C. table.)
Busman. I should think so, my boy; but do you know what is to blame for this lovely mess?
Fabry. What?
Busman. The number! (Crosses to L. of L.C. table) Upon my soul, we might have known that some day or other the Robots would be stronger than human beings, and that this was bound to happen. And we were doing all we could to bring it about as soon as possible. You, Domin, you, Fabry, myself—
Domin. Are you accusing us? (Turning on him.)
Busman. Oh, do you suppose the management controls the output? It’s the demand that controls the output.
Helena. And is it for that we must perish?
Busman. That’s a nasty word, Madame Helena. We don’t want to perish. I don’t, anyhow. (He sits L. of table.)
Domin. No? What do you want to do?