Pilgrimage to Earth

HUMAN MAN’S BURDEN

Edward Flaswell bought his planetoid, sight unseen, at the Interstellar Land Office on Earth. He selected it on the basis of a photograph, which showed little more than a range of picturesque mountains. But Flaswell loved mountains and as he remarked to the Claims Clerk, “Might be gold in them thar hills, mightn’t thar, pardner?”

“Sure, pal, sure,” the clerk responded, wondering what man in his right mind would put himself several light-years from the nearest woman of any description whatsoever. No man in his right mind would, the clerk decided, and gave Flaswell a searching look.

But Flaswell was perfectly sane. He just hadn’t stopped to consider the problem.

Accordingly, Flaswell put down a small sum in credits and made a large promise to improve his land every year. As soon as the ink was dry upon his deed, he purchased passage aboard a second- class drone freighter, loaded it with an assortment of secondhand equipment and set out for his holdings.

Most novice pioneers find they have purchased a sizable chunk of naked rock. Flaswell was lucky. His planetoid, which he named Chance, had a minimal manufactured atmosphere that he could boost to breathable status. There was water, which his well-digging equipment tapped on the twenty-third attempt. He found no gold in them thar hills, but there was some exportable thorium. And best of all, much of the soil was suitable for the cultivation of dir, olge, smis, and other luxury fruits.

As Flaswell kept telling his robot foreman, “This place is going to make me rich!”

“Sure, Boss, sure,” the robot always responded.

The planetoid had undeniable promise. Its development was an enormous task for one man, but Flaswell was only twenty-seven years old, strongly built and of a determined frame of mind. Beneath his hand, the planetoid flourished. Months passed and Flaswell planted his fields, mined his picturesque mountains and shipped his goods out by the infrequent drone freighter that passed his way.

One day, his robot foreman said to him, “Boss Man, sir, you don’t look too good, Mr. Flaswell, sir.”

Flaswell frowned at this speech. The man he had bought his robots from had been a Human Supremacist of the most rabid sort, who had coded the robots’ responses according to his own ideas of the respect due Human People. Flaswell found this annoying, but he couldn’t afford new response tapes. And where else could he have picked up robots for so little money?

“Nothing wrong with me, Gunga-Sam,” Flaswell replied.

“Ah! 1 beg pardon! But this is not so, Mr. Flaswell, Boss. You have been talking to yourself in the fields, you should excuse my saying it.”

“Aw, it’s nothing.”

“And you have the beginning of a tic in your left eye, sahib. And your fingers are trembling. And you are drinking too much. And—”

“That’s enough, Gunga-Sam. A robot should know his place,” Flaswell said. He saw the hurt expression that the robot’s metal face somehow managed to convey. He sighed and said, “You’re right, of course. You’re always right, old friend. What’s the matter with me?”

“You are bearing too much of the Human Man’s Burden.”

“Don’t I know it!” Flaswell ran a hand through his unruly black hair. “Sometimes I envy you robots. Always laughing, carefree, happy—”

“It is because we have no souls.”

“Unfortunately I do. What do you suggest’“

“Take a vacation, Mr. Flaswell, Boss,” Gunga-Sam suggested, and wisely withdrew to let his master think.

Flaswell appreciated his servitor’s kindly suggestion, but a vacation was difficult. His planetoid, Chance, was in the Throcian System, which was about as isolated as one could get in this day and age. True, he was only a fifteen-day flight from the tawdry amusements of Cythera III and not much farther from Nagondicon, where considerable fun could be obtained for the strong in stomach. But distance is money, and money was the very thing Flaswell was trying to make on Chance.

He planted more crops, dug more thorium and began to grow a beard. He continued to mumble to himself in the fields and to drink heavily in the evenings. Some of the simple farm robots grew alarmed when Flaswell lurched past and they began praying to the outlawed Combustion God. But loyal Gunga-Sam soon put a stop to this ominous turn of events.

“Ignorant mechanicals!” he told them. “The Boss Human, he all right. Him strong, him good! Believe me, brothers, it is even as I say!”

But the murmurings did not cease, for robots look to Humans to set an example. The situation might have gotten out of hand if Flaswell had not received, along with his next shipment of food, a shiny new Roebuck-Ward catalog.

Lovingly he spread it open upon his crude plastic table and, by the glow of a simple cold-light bulb, began to pore over its contents. What wonders there were for the isolated pioneer! Home distilling plants, and moon makers, and portable solidovision, and—

Flaswell turned a page, read it, gulped and read it again. It said:

MAIL ORDER BRIDES!

Pioneers, why suffer the curse of loneliness alone? Why bear the Hu-Man’s Burden singly? Roebuck-Ward in now offering, for the first time, a limited selection of Brides for the Frontiersman!

The Roebuck-Ward Frontier Model Bride is carefully selected for strength, adaptability, agility, perseverance, pioneer skills and, of course, a measure of comeliness. These girls are conditioned to any planet, since they possess a relatively low center of gravity, a skin properly pigmented for all climates, and short, strong toe and fingernails. Shapewise, they are well proportioned and yet not distractingly contoured, a quality which the hardworking pioneer should appreciate.

The Roebuck-Ward Frontier Model comes in three general sizes (see specifications below) to suit any man’s taste. Upon receipt of your request, Roebuck-Ward will quick-freeze one and ship her to you by third-class Drone Freight. In this way, your express charges are kept to an absolute minimum.

Why not order a Frontier Model Bride TODAY?

Flaswell called for Gunga-Sam and showed him the advertisement. Silently the mechanical read, then looked his master full in the face.

“This is surely it, effendi,” the foreman said.

“You think so, huh?” Flaswell stood up and began to pace nervously around the room. “But I wasn’t planning on getting married just yet. I mean what kind of a way is this to get married? How do I know I’ll like her?”

“It is proper for Human Man to have Human Woman.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Besides, do they quick-freeze a preacher and ship him out, too?”

A slow smile broke over Flaswell’s face as he digested his servant’s shrewd question. “Gunga-Sam,” he said, “as usual, you have gone directly to the heart of the matter. I guess there’s a sort of moratorium on the ceremony while a man makes up his mind. Too expensive to quick-freeze a preacher. And it would be nice to have a gal around who could work her share.”

Gunga-Sam managed to convey an inscrutable smile.

Flaswell sat down and ordered a Frontier Model Bride, specifying the small size, which he felt was plenty big enough. He gave Gunga-Sam the order to radio.

The next few weeks were filled with excitement for Flaswell and he began to scan the skies anxiously. The robots picked up the mood of anticipation. In the evenings, their carefree songs and dances were interspersed with whispering and secret merriment. The mechanicals said to Gunga-Sam over and over again, “Hey, Foreman! The new Human Woman Boss, what will she be like?”

“It’s none of your concern,” Gunga-Sam told them. “That’s Human Man business and you robots leave it alone.” But at the end, he was watching the skies as anxiously as anyone.

During those weeks, Flaswell meditated on the virtues of Frontier Woman. The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea. No pretty, useless, helpless painted woman for him! How pleasant it would be to have a cheerful, commonsense, down-to- gravity gal who could cook, wash, pretty up the place, boss the house robots, make clothes, put up jellies....

So he dreamed away the time and bit his nails to the quick.

At last the drone freighter flashed across the horizon, landed, jettisoned a large packing case, and fled in the direction of Amyra IV.

The robots brought the case to Flaswell.

“Your new bride, sir!” they shouted triumphantly, and flung their oilcans in the air.

Flaswell immediately proclaimed a half-day holiday and soon he was alone in his living room with the great frigid box marked “Handle with Care. Woman Inside.”

He pressed the defrosting controls, waited the requisite hour, and opened the box. Within was another box, which required two hours to defrost. Impatiently he waited, pacing up and down the room and gnawing on the remnants of his fingernails.

And then the time was up, and with shaking hands, Flaswell opened the lid and saw—

“Hey, what is this?” he cried.

The girl within the box blinked, yawned like a kitten, opened her eyes, sat up. They stared at each other and Flaswell knew that something was terribly wrong.

She was clothed in a beautiful, impractical white dress and her name, Sheila, was worked upon it in gold thread. The next thing Flaswell noticed was her slenderness, which was scarcely suitable for hard work on outplanet conditions. Her skin was a creamy white, obviously the kind that would blister under his planetoid’s fierce summer sun. Her hands were long-fingered, red-nailed, elegant—completely unlike anything the Roebuck-Ward Company had promised. As for her legs and other parts, Flaswell decided they would be very well on Earth, but not here, where a man must pay attention to his work.

She couldn’t even be said to have a low center of gravity. Quite the contrary.

Flaswell felt, not unreasonably, that he had been swindled, duped, made a fool of.

Sheila stepped out of the crate, walked to a window and looked out over Flaswell’s flowering green fields and his picturesque mountains beyond them.

“But where are the palm trees?” she asked.

“Palm trees?”

“Of course. They told me that Srinigar V had palm trees.”

“This is not Srinigar V,” Flaswell said.

“But aren’t you the Pasha of Srae?” Sheila gasped.

“Certainly not. I am a Frontiersman. Aren’t you a Frontier Model Bride?”

“Do I look like a Frontier Model Bride?” Sheila snapped, her eyes flashing. “I am the Ultra Deluxe Luxury Model Bride and I was supposed to go to the subtropical paradise planet of Srinigar V.”

“We’ve both been cheated. The shipping department must have made an error,” Flaswell said gloomily.

The girl looked around Flaswell’s crude living room and a wince twinged her pretty features. “Oh, well. I suppose you can arrange transportation for me to Srinigar V.”

“I can’t even afford to go to Nagondicon,” Flaswell said. “I will inform Roebuck-Ward of their error. They will undoubtedly arrange transportation for you, when they send me my Frontier Model Bride.”

Sheila shrugged her shoulders. “Travel broadens one,” she said.

Flaswell nodded. He was thinking hard. This girl had, it was obvious, no pioneering qualities. But she was amazingly pretty. He saw no reason why her stay shouldn’t be a pleasant one for both.

“Under the circumstances,” Flaswell said, with an ingratiating smile, “we might as well be friends.”

“Under what circumstances?”

“We are the only two Human People on the planet.” Flaswell rested a hand lightly on her shoulder. “Let’s have a drink. Tell me all about yourself. Do you—”

At that moment, he heard a loud sound behind. He turned and saw a small, squat robot climbing from a compartment in the packing case.

“What do you want?” Flaswell demanded.

“I,” said the robot, “am a Marrying Robot, empowered by the government to provide legal marriages in space. I am further directed by the Roebuck-Ward Company to act as guardian, duenna, and protector for the young lady in my charge, until such time as my primary function, to perform a ceremony of marriage, has been accomplished.”

“Uppity damned robot,” Flaswell grumbled.

“What did you expect?” Sheila asked. “A quick-frozen Human preacher?”

“Of course not. But a robot duenna—”

“The very best kind,” she assured him. “You’d be surprised at how some men act when they get a few light-years from Earth.”

“I would?” Flaswell said disconsolately.

“So I’m told,” Sheila replied, demurely looking away from him. “And after all, the promised bride of the Pasha of Srae should have a guardian of some sort.”

“Dearly beloved,” the robot intoned, “we are here gathered to join—”

“Not now,” Sheila said loftily. “Not this one.”

“I’ll have the robots fix a room for you,” Flaswell growled, and walked away, mumbling to himself about Human Man’s Burden.

He radioed Roebuck-Ward and was told that the proper model Bride would be sent at once and the interloper shipped elsewhere. Then he returned to his farming and mining, determined to ignore the presence of Sheila and her duenna.

Work continued on Chance. There was thorium to be mined out of the soil and new wells to dig. Harvest time was soon at hand, and the robots toiled for long hours in the green-blossomed fields, and lubricating oil glistened on their honest metal faces, and the air was fragrant with the perfume of the dir flowers.

Sheila made her presence felt with subtle yet surprising force. Soon there were plastic lampshades over the naked cold-light bulbs and drapes over the stark windows, and scatter rugs on the floors. And there were many other changes around the house that Flaswell felt rather than saw.

His diet underwent a change, too. The robot chef’s memory tape had worn thin in many spots, so all the poor mechanical could remember how to make was Beef Stroganoff, cucumber salad, rice pudding, and cocoa. Flaswell had, with considerable stoicism, been eating these dishes ever since he came to Chance, varying them occasionally with shipwreck rations.

Then Sheila took the robot chef in hand. Patiently she impressed upon his memory tape the recipes for beef stew, pot roast, tossed green salad, apple pie, and many others. The eating situation upon Chance began to improve markedly.

But when Sheila put up smis jelly in vacuum jars, Flaswell began to have doubts.

Here, after all, was a remarkably practical young lady, in spite of her expensive appearance. She could do all the things a Frontier Wife could do. And she had other attributes. What did he need a regular Roebuck-Ward Frontier Model for?

After mulling this for a while, Flaswell said to his foreman, “Gunga-Sam, I am confused.”

“Ah?” said the foreman, his metal face impassive.

“I guess I need a little of that robot intuition. She’s doing very well, isn’t she, Gunga-Sam?”

“The Human Woman is taking her proper share of Human Person’s Burden.”

“She sure is. But can it last? She’s doing as much as any Frontier Model Wife could do, isn’t she? Cooking, canning.”

“The workers love her,” Gunga-Sam said with simple dignity. “You did not know, sir, but when that rust epidemic broke out last week, she toiled night and day, bringing relief and comforting the frightened younger robots.”

“She did all that?” Flaswell gasped, shaken. “But a girl of her background, a luxury model—”

“It does not matter. She is a Human Person and she has the strength and nobility to take on Human Person’s Burden.”

“Do you know,” Flaswell said slowly, “this has convinced me. I really believe she is fit to stay here. It’s not her fault she isn’t a Frontier Model. That’s a matter of screening and conditioning, and you can’t change that. I’m going to tell her she can stay. And then I’ll cancel the other Roebuck order.”

A strange expression glowed in the foreman’s eyes, an expression almost of amusement. He bowed low and said, “It shall be as the master wishes.”

Flaswell hurried out to find Sheila.

She was in the sick bay, which had been constructed out of an old toolshed. With the aid of a robot mechanic, she was caring for the dents and dislocations that are the peculiar lot of metal-skinned beings.

“Sheila,” Flaswell said, “I want to speak to you.”

“Sure,” she answered absently, “as soon as I tighten this bolt.”

She locked the bolt cleverly into place, and tapped the robot with her wrench.

“There, Pedro,” she said, “try that leg now.”

The robot stood up gingerly, put weight on the leg, found that it held. He capered comically around the Human Woman, saying, “You sure fixed it, Boss Lady. Gracias, ma’am.”

And he danced out into the sunshine.

Flaswell and Sheila watched him go, smiling at his antics. “They’re just like children,” Flaswell said.

“One can’t help but love them,” Sheila responded. “They’re so happy, so carefree—”

“But they haven’t got souls,” Flaswell reminded her.

“No,” she agreed somberly. “They haven’t. What did you wish to see me about?”

“I wanted to tell you—” Flaswell looked around. The sick bay was an antiseptic place, filled with wrenches, screwdrivers, hacksaws, ballpeen hammers, and other medical equipment. It was hardly the atmosphere for the sort of announcement he was about to make.

“Come with me,” he said.

They walked out of the hospital and through the blossoming green fields, to the foot of Flaswell’s spectacular mountains. There, shadowed by craggy cliffs, was a still, dark pool of water overhung with giant trees, which Flaswell had force-grown. Here they paused.

“I wanted to say this,” Flaswell said. “You have surprised me completely, Sheila. I expected you would be a parasite, a purposeless person. Your background, your breeding, your appearance all pointed in this direction. But I was wrong. You have risen to the challenge of a Frontier environment, have conquered it triumphantly, and have won the hearts of everybody.”

“Everybody?” Sheila asked very softly.

“I believe I can speak for every robot on the planetoid. They idolize you. I think you belong here, Sheila.”

The girl was silent for a long while, and the wind murmured through the boughs of the giant forcegrown trees, and ruffled the black surface of the lake.

Finally she said, “Do you think I belong here?”

Flaswell felt engulfed by her exquisite perfection, lost in the topaz depths of her eyes. His breath came fast, he touched her hand, her fingers clung.

“Sheila...”

“Yes, Edward...”

“Dearly beloved,” a strident metallic voice barked, “we are here gathered—”

“Not now, you fool!” Sheila cried.

The Marrying Robot came forward and said sulkily, “Much as I hate to interfere in the affairs of Human People, my taped coefficients are such that I must. To my way of thinking, physical contact is meaningless. I have, by way of experiment, clashed limbs with a seamstress robot. All I got for my troubles was a dent. Once I thought I experienced something, an electric something that shot through me giddily and made me think of slowly shifting geometric forms. But upon examination, I discovered the insulation had parted from a conductor center. Therefore, the emotion was invalid.”

“Uppity damned robot,” Flaswell growled.

“Excuse my presumption. I was merely trying to explain that I personally find my instructions unintelligible—that is, to prevent any and all physical contact until a ceremony of marriage has been performed. But there it is; those are my orders. Can’t I get it over with now?”

“No!” said Sheila.

The robot shrugged his shoulders fatalistically and slid into the underbrush.

“Can’t stand a robot who doesn’t know his place,” said Flaswell. “But it’s all right.”

“What?”

“Yes,” Flaswell said, with an air of conviction. “You are as good as any Frontier Model Wife and far prettier. Sheila, will you marry me?”

The robot, who had been thrashing around in the underbrush, now slid eagerly toward them.

“No,” said Sheila.

“No?” Flaswell repeated uncomprehendingly.

“You heard me. No! Absolutely no!”

“But why? You fit so well here, Sheila. The robots adore you. I’ve never seen them work so well—”

“I’m not interested in your robots,” she said, standing very straight, her hair disheveled, her eyes blazing.

“And I am not interested in your planetoid. And I am most emphatically not interested in you. I am going to Srinigar V, where I will be the pampered bride of the Pasha of Srae!”

They stared at each other, Sheila white-faced with anger, Flaswell red with confusion.

The Marrying Robot said, “Now should I start the ceremony? Dearly beloved...”

Sheila whirled and ran toward the house.

“I don’t understand,” the Marrying Robot said plaintively. “It’s all very bewildering. When does the ceremony take place?”

“It doesn’t,” Flaswell said, and stalked toward the house, his brows beetling with rage.

The robot hesitated, sighed metallically and hurried after the Ultra Deluxe Luxury Model Bride.

All that night, Flaswell sat in his room, drank deeply and mumbled to himself. Shortly after dawn, the loyal Gunga-Sam knocked and slipped into the room.

“Women!” Flaswell snarled to his servitor.

“Ah?” said Gunga-Sam.

“I’ll never understand them,” Flaswell said. “She led me on. I thought she wanted to stay here. I thought...”

“The mind of Human Man is murky and dark,” said Gunga-Sam, “but it is as crystal compared to the mind of Human Woman.”

“Where did you get that?” Flaswell asked.

“It is an ancient robot proverb.”

“You robots. Sometimes I wonder if you don’t have souls.”

“Oh, no, Mr. Flaswell, Boss. It is expressly written in our Construction Specifications that robots are to be built with no souls, to spare them anguish.”

“A very wise provision,” Flaswell said, “and something they might consider with Human People, too. Well, to hell with her. What do you want?”

“I came to tell you, sir, that the drone freighter is landing.”

Flaswell turned pale. “So soon? Then it’s bringing my new bride!”

“Undoubtedly.”

“And it will take Sheila away to Srinigar V.”

“Assuredly, sir.”

Flaswell groaned and clutched his head. Then he straightened and said, “All right, all right. I’ll see if she’s ready.”

He found Sheila in the living room, watching the drone freighter spiral in. She said, “The very best of luck, Edward. I hope your new bride fulfills all your expectations.”

The drone freighter landed and the robots began removing a large packing case.

“I had better go,” Sheila said. “They won’t wait long.” She held out her hand.

Flaswell took it.

He held her hand for a moment, then found he was holding her arm. She did not resist, nor did the Marrying Robot break into the room. Flaswell suddenly found that Sheila was in his arms. He kissed her and felt exactly like a small sun going nova.

Finally she said, “Wow,” huskily, in a not quite believing voice.

Flaswell cleared his throat twice. “Sheila, I love you. I can’t offer you much luxury here, but if you’d stay—”

“It’s about time you found out you loved me, you dope!” she said. “Of course I’m staying!”

The next few minutes were ecstatic and decidedly vertiginous. They were interrupted at last by the sound of loud robot voices outside. The door burst open and the Marrying Robot stamped in, followed by Gunga-Sam and two farm mechanicals.

“Really!” the Marrying Robot said. “It is unbelievable! To think I’d see the day when robot pitted himself against robot!”

“What happened?” Flaswell asked.

“This foreman of yours sat on me,” the Marrying Robot said indignantly, “while his cronies held my limbs. I was merely trying to enter this room and perform my duty as set forth by the government and the Roebuck-Ward Company.”

“Why, Gunga-Sam!” Flaswell said, grinning.

The Marrying Robot hurried up to Sheila. “Are you damaged? Any dents? Any short-circuits?”

“I don’t think so,” said Sheila breathlessly.

Gunga-Sam said to Flaswell, “The fault is all mine, Boss, sir. But everyone knows that Human Man and Human Woman need solitude during the courtship period. I merely performed what I considered my duty to the Human Race in this respect, Mr. Flaswell, Boss, sahib.”

“You did well, Gunga-Sam,” Flaswell said. “I’m deeply grateful and—oh, Lord!”

“What is it?” Sheila asked apprehensively.

Flaswell was staring out the window. The farm robots were carrying the large packing case toward the house.

“The Frontier Model Bride!” said Flaswell. “What’ll we do, darling? I canceled you and legally contracted for the other one. Do you think we can break the contract?”

Sheila laughed. “Don’t worry. There’s no Frontier Model Bride in that box. Your order was canceled as soon as it was received.”

“It was?”

“Certainly.” She looked down, ashamed. “You’ll hate me for this—”

“I won’t,” he promised. “What is it?”

“Well, Frontiersmen’s pictures are on file at the Company, you know, so Brides can see what they’re getting. There is a choice—for the girls, I mean—and I’d been hanging around die place so long, unable to get unclassified as an Ultra Deluxe, that I—I made friends with the head of the order department. And,” she said all in a rush, “I got myself sent here.”

“But the Pasha of Srae—”

“I made him up.”

“But why?” Flaswell asked puzzledly. “You’re so pretty—”

“That everybody expects me to be a toy for some spoiled, pudgy idiot,” she finished with a good deal of heat. “I don’t want to be! I want to be a wife! And I’m just as good as any chunky, homely female!”

“Better,” he said.

“I can cook and doctor robots and be practical, can’t I? Haven’t I proved it?”

“Of course, dear.”

She began to cry. “But nobody would believe it, so I had to trick you into letting me stay long enough to—to fall in love with me.”

“Which I did,” he said, drying her eyes for her. “It’s all worked out fine. The whole thing was a lucky accident.”

What looked like a blush appeared on Gunga-Sam’s metallic face.

“You mean it wasn’t an accident?” Flaswell exclaimed.

“Well, sir, Mr. Flaswell, effendi, it is well known that Human Man needs attractive Human Woman. The Frontier Model sounded a little severe and Memsahib Sheila is a daughter of a friend of my former master. So I took the liberty of sending the order directly to her. She got her friend in the order department to show her your picture and ship her here. I hope you are not displeased with your humble servant for disobeying.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Flaswell finally got out “It’s like I always said—you robots understand Human People better than anyone.” He turned to Sheila. “But what is in that packing case?”

“My dresses and my jewelry, my shoes, my cosmetics, my hair styler, my—”

“But—”

“You want me to look nice when we go visiting, dear,” Sheila said. “After all, Cythera III is only fifteen days away. I looked it up before I came.”

Flaswell nodded resignedly. You had to expect something like this from an Ultra Deluxe Luxury Model Bride.

“Now!” Sheila said, turning to the Marrying Robot.

The robot didn’t answer.

“Now!” Flaswell shouted.

“You’re quite sure?” the robot queried sulkily.

“Yes! Get started!”

“I just don’t understand,” the Marrying Robot said. “Why now? Why not last week? Am I the only sane one here? Oh, well. Dearly beloved...”

And the ceremony was held at last. Flaswell proclaimed a three day holiday and the robots sang and danced and celebrated in their carefree robot fashion.

Thereafter, life was never the same on Chance. The Flaswells began to have a modest social life, to visit and be visited by couples fifteen and twenty days out, on Cythera III, Tham, and Randico I. But the rest of the time, Sheila was an irreproachable Frontier Wife, loved by the robots and idolized by her husband. The Marrying Robot, following his instruction manual, retrained himself as an accountant and bookkeeper, skills for which his mentality was peculiarly well suited. He often said the whole place would go to pieces if it weren’t for him.

And the robots continued to dig thorium from the soil, and the dir, olge, and smis blossomed, and Flaswell and Sheila shared together the responsibility of Human People’s Burden.

Flaswell was always quite vocal on the advantages of shopping at Roebuck-Ward. But Sheila knew that the real advantage was in having a foreman like the loyal, soulless Gunga-Sam.