Evelyn E. Smith

“ Replogle knew, he would have been torn to pieces. But top management was boss; it was government; it was divine right. Nobody did anything.
"If the machine can replace man," Orville suggested, "why can't man replace the machine? Plenty of room for both.... Did I say something wrong?" he added, seeing the expressions on the human faces that surrounded him.
"You're just ahead of your time, boy." McGeachin clapped him on the shoulder. "But you're right. Why can't man co-exist with the machine? Why can't robots paint pictures and write books and compose operas, while people work in the factories? ”

“ 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. ”

“ Ditmars, "is a proud day in the life of the Cimabue Gallery."
"It is a proud day in the life of modern art," added Mr. Replogle, feeling that Mr. Ditmars was giving too parochial a picture of the situation, "for it proves with more force than ever that the machine will not conquer man." ”

“ The only exception was the robot attendants, which were, unfortunately, necessary, for no one paid attention to human beings any more unless they were top management or very high in the hierarchy of handcrafters.
Cimabue could afford all this luxury, and more too, for, now that big business had become an art, art had become a big business. People saved the excess from their government subsidies—or, if they were lucky enough to have professional status, their salaries—to buy a painting, a holograph manuscript ... ”

“ Every head swivelled to catch sight of the well-known but seldom-seen financier, as he came jerkily through the crowd. All the journalists were dressed in the maroon or beige or navy synthetics of almost similar cut that mass production had enforced upon the entire population, save for the very wealthy. ”

“ Why, almost every picture on exhibit is already sold—the buyers have kindly allowed us to retain them on our walls for the duration of the show as a service to the public."
"Cimabue is more than a mere commercial venture," Mr. Replogle added, wishing he could slip off for a paraspirin; his head hurt most mechanically. "It is a cultural institution."
"Yeah, Orville did get pretty good write-ups," the World-Post and Journal man conceded, "though any half-way decent artist sells like hotcakes these days. People naturally go for anything that's hand-made." ”

“ 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.... ”