s some place, for
sure, the brand new house that Amalgamated had installed Ben, Betty and
Bennie in the day after he had signed up.

"It's--uh--just fine, sir. Betty likes it very much, really. We both
do." He hoped his tone was right.

"Good, Ben. Well, be sure to stop by in the morning. I'll have the
tapes, of course, but I'll want your analysis. Might be a little
vacation bonus in it for you, too."

"Sir, I don't know how to thank you."

The Old Man waved a hand. "Nothing you won't have earned, my boy. Robots
can't sell." That was the set dismissal.

"Yes, sir. Robots can't manage sales, or--" He winked. The Old Man
chuckled. An old joke was never too old for the Old Man. The same old
bromides every time; and the same hearty chuckle. Ben left on the end of
it.

* * * * *

Dialing home on his new, Company-owned, convertible soar-kart, he felt
not too bad. Some of the old lift in spirits came as the kart-pilot
circuits digested the directions, selected a route and zipped up into a
north-north-west traffic pattern. The Old Man was a wonderful sales
manager and boss. The new house-warming pitch that he and Betty would
try tonight was smart. He could feel he had done something.

Exercising his sales ability with fair success, he fed himself this
pitch all along the two hundred mile, twenty-minute hop home from the
city. The time and distance didn't bother him. "Gives me time to think,"
he had told Betty. Whether or not this seemed to her an advantage, she
didn't say. At least she liked the place, "Amalgamated's Country
Gentleman Estate--Spacious, Yet fully Automated."

"We are," the Old Man told Ben when he was given the Company-assigned
quarters, "starting a new trend. With the terrific decline in birth rate
during the past 90 to 100 years, you'll be astonished at how much room
there is out there. No reason for everyone to live in the suburban
centers any more. With millions of empty apartments in them, high time
we built something else, eh? Trouble with people today, no initiative in
obsolescing. But we'll move them."

Home, Ben left the kart out and conveyed up the walk. The front door
opened. Betty had been watching for him. He walked to the family
vueroom, as usual declining to convey in the house. The hell with the
conveyor's feelings, if so simple a robot really had any. He _liked_ to
walk.

"Color pattern," Betty ordered the vuescreen as he came in, "robot audio
out."