"Frederik Pohl - The Midas Plague" - читать интересную книгу автора (Pohl Frederick)

"Come on. What is it?"
She looked up at him and rubbed at her eyes. Almost
sullenly, she said, "Sorry."
"I know you're sorry. Look, we love each other. Let's
talk this thing out."
She picked up her drink and held it for a moment,
before setting it down untasted. "What's the use, Morey?"
"Please. Let's try."
She shrugged.
He went on remorselessly, "You aren't happy, are you?
And it's because ofwell, all this." His gesture took in
the richly furnished conservatory, the thick-piled carpet,
the host of machines and contrivances for their comfort
and entertainment that waited for their touch. By implica-
tion it took in twenty-six rooms, five cars, nine robots.
Morey said, with an effort, "It isn't what you're used to,
is it?"
"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 play-
ing cards for matchsticks. You live here, vrith 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 andI've eaten
all that terrible food until I'm actually getting fa-fa-/af/ I
thought I could stand it. But I just can't go on like this;
I'm not used to it. I1 love you, Morey, but I'm going
crazy, living like this. I can't help it, MoreyI'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 rightfor a civilization vidthout ma-