He spread his hands. "Why Lucy, it ain't bad. Morgee's rigged up a shack with a real tin roof. Got a floor and a potbelly. Got bunks. Sheila Morgee's the happiest female I ever did see." She slammed her fist on the table top. "Well she can have her filthy shack in the dump! _I'm_ through! Living here right on the edge is getting just as bad as being inside. Cinders, smoke, smells, sea gulls--and rats, rats, rats!" Her voice rose hysterically. He spoke soothingly. "What can we do, Lucy? Twenty years ago we paid ten thousand for this place. Now the State wouldn't give us over three. How long would that last? In a year or so we'd be wards. Broke. The State would take us." "What's so bad about that?" she countered. "We'd have two rooms in a plastic prefab. Plenty of food capsules. An entertaintime screen. Now they even give you the choice of a permajade juniper bush or a simulated maple tree for the lawn." He snorted. "Lawn! Artificial grass you spray green in the spring and brown in the autumn!" Her voice rose again. "That's better than looking out at those dingy cattails all day long--watching them shake as the rats swim around the roots!" He was silent. She continued, her voice weary but resolute. "I'm through, Ralph. I can't stand those nightmares no more. If you won't sell to the State, I'll bring suit for my share and I'll leave anyway. I'm not going on living like this." He shook his head, frowning. "I won't fight, Lucy, if you really want to go. You can keep what the State gives for the house. But I'm telling you, it's a mistake. We ain't got much here, but at least we're alive." Her voice was bitter. "I've had enough. I'm selling. If you won't come, go and live with the rats in the dump!" He went to bed. He knew that further argument would be futile. A few weeks later the man from the State came. Ralph had already signed the papers, waiving his share of the proceeds from the sale of the house. The State had agreed to pay twenty-seven hundred. Sitting down in the one stable armchair remaining in the living room, the State man--a Mr. Feckwith--opened his document case. "All that remains," he explained to Mrs. Leeson, "is for you to sign these papers." He passed them over to her. As she read, a look of consternation spread on her careworn face. "What does this mean? Don't I get the twenty-seven hundred?" Mr. Feckwith coughed politely. "Well, you see, Mrs. Leeson, before you can become a State ward and qualify for a prefab, plus furnishings and food, you have to turn all assets over to the State. Otherwise you are not considered, ah, dependent." She hesitated. "But I--I won't have a penny!" Mr. Feckwith smiled reassuringly. His chubby face beamed. "You won't _require_ a penny, Mrs. Leeson! All needs are taken care of. Shelter, food, clothes, medicine. And you'll have all the extras--an entertaintime screen, the news tape delivered every day, the monthly excursion. Think of it!"