"But inspiration is a human prerogative! If a robot can be inspired, what is left for people now?" "'Tisn't for me to say, miss," Orville said modestly, "only I don't see why we both couldn't be inspired. Peaceful coexistence, like. If robots are designed to serve man, they could do a better job of it if both--man and machine--work side by side harmoniously." "_Work!_" exclaimed the male reporters unharmoniously. Mr. Replogle closed his eyes. He had never expected to hear such a mechanical word in the chaste purlieux of his gallery--his and Mr. Ditmars' gallery, that was, but it didn't matter, soon it wouldn't be anybody's gallery. Reality was following the inexorable course of the dream and they were doomed. "No offense intended," Orville said hastily. "I meant work like maybe painting or knitting. I didn't mean machine work." "And why not machine work?" McGeachin demanded. "Why shouldn't man work with his hands instead of just crafting?" A little man, Replogle thought, would be lynched for saying a more than mechanical thing like that--mechanical, why it was down-right subversive!--but McGeachin was secure because of the position that he maintained only as a result of the sweat and toil of others. Only, of course, robots don't sweat. The light film that had begun to cover Orville was doubtless only excess oil. _Disgusting, nevertheless._ "Listen," McGeachin said, pointing his long, green cigar at the reporters. "Important announcement. I have decided to replace all my feedback equipment, except where the most delicate operations are involved, by people." The typopads clicked furiously. "You ask me why?" although no one had; they were much too stunned. "Because robots, though trustworthy, hard-working, clean, and loyal to a fault, have one drawback--they're expensive. A worker dies or gets sick, it's no extra money out of my pocket--I got to pay taxes for his welfare anyway. A robot breaks down, his loss is all mine. A human worker I got to take care of maybe six, seven hours a day, a robot twenty-four hours--and it isn't as if they worked all that time; they got to have rest periods too, or they wear out too fast. A human worker isn't my responsibility--a robot I got to look out for all the time." "But I thought you liked machines better than people," Mr. Replogle said. "So, is management expected to like labor? Is labor supposed to like management? Traditional enemies. I just figured out why I've been so unhappy most of my life--I _like_ my employees. It's unnatural. It's--" "Wrong, Mr. McGeachin?" quavered _Woman's Own_. "What do you mean?" "I'm going to put people in my factories and have robots at my dinner table.... They don't eat--" McGeachin chuckled fruitily "--so you can see what an economy move that would be."