Bureau--which is nothing but a giant posting machine."

"Have you seen it--Central, I mean? I see the concourse where we line up
every day to have our cards posted--but what's behind those twelve
hundred windows?"

* * * * *

She nodded briskly. "I saw it from one of the last planes. Central
covers miles and miles in both directions. They said then it was the
biggest machine on earth--and do you know, Mark"--she paused
dramatically--"I think the Machine is the government! Roll up your
chair, Mark."

Mark did. "But doesn't there have to be somebody to take care of the
Machine?" he asked, holding her chair.

"Not that I know of. They said it was perfect--that barring an
earthquake it would run for a thousand years without a human hand."

The iron-juice cocktail was pretty good, the way Penelope had flavored
it with enzymes. But Mark inevitably got back to the thing that worried
him. "What will happen when that release slip of mine goes through for
thirty-five thousand points?"

Penelope raised her white eyebrows. "I don't know, but undoubtedly
something drastic. I'll tell you what. I'll hold your slip for a while
and you go out and see if you can get some points on your credit side.
Stir up a little trouble. Get the points first and argue after."...

Mark went out and tried to get some points next day, but he couldn't
seem to get his heart in his work. It was all so pointless. Why couldn't
the old lady give him back that slip, anyway? Mark got pretty much in
the dumps, and after he managed to get his foot stepped on and demanded
three hundred points, only to be countered by a claim of four hundred
for hurting the other man's instep, he began to feel very low indeed.

At the end of the week he was walking slowly along the street watching
for Conley, because he was getting further in the red every day, when he
saw a foot stuck out in his way and heard a voice say, "Don't you
stumble over my lame foot," and he looked up and saw the old lady. Her
black eyes were soft. "You don't look happy, Mark."

"No." He held out his card.

"Hm." Her keen old eyes shot back to his. "Thirty-two hundred in the
red. That's more than before. You've lost two hundred points this week,
Mark."

"I know," he said dully.

"Here. Push me, Mark." She pulled the shawl around her and Mark started
pushing the wheel-chair. "You're a nice boy," she said when they reached
a quiet street. "You just can't adjust