the side of the wall next to the Tevee screen. Whatever item was being advertised at the time the button was punched was automatically ordered, the consumer's name and address recorded, the price deducted from his salary, and an extra point added to his consumer's cooperative card for the year.

It was not only very important how many items one ordered in a year, but also the kinds of items. Items that aided an employee in being acceptable to the office group were especially smiled upon by Office Managers. Alice had always been careful to get in every such order.

Alice knew all about the system. She knew all about Kelsey's work. She had listened to him talking about it endlessly, either to her or to others. She had watched Kelsey rise from Office Boy to Chief Clerk, getting the glad reports of his progress every evening. She couldn't imagine anyone at the office being more likeable than Kelsey. He was so human, she had thought, so human—

"Alice?"

"Yes, Master Kelsey?"

"Did you ever find that paper?"

She turned quickly. She could feel fear. Did they know that a robot could feel fear as well as love? Could anyone, or anything, feel one without the other? Did they know that a robot, at least this robot, could feel fear at the idea of being labeled inefficient, and being sent back to the factory and remade, rebuilt, dismantled, changed—and probably having a soul burned out that no one had ever known was there? Did they know that if a robot could feel love or fear, that it could also steal, deliberately steal and hide something?

"You mean the paper from the office?"

"Yes, yes, Alice. The order paper."

"No," she said. She hesitated and said it again. "No."

"I'm sure I brought it home. Well, the only thing to do is mark it as lost, and have another order made out tomorrow. No real hurry I guess. Only one more receptionist to be replaced."

She had stolen it. She had hidden it. She would never never use it of course. That would be impossible, too risky, too frightening even to think about actually doing. But it was there to dream about. She was good at dreaming. When you stand alone in the dark of a dark, dark closet every night, and when you're alone almost all the time of the day or night, dreaming becomes an art, a necessary art. It becomes 

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