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She was a frosty girl, plain and colorless, who protected herself against a world she disliked by a mask-like expression and a hypertrophy of intellect.
George Weston was comfortable. It was a habit of his to be comfortable on Sunday afternoons.
“You can prove anything you want by coldly logical reason—if you pick the proper postulates. We have ours and Cutie has his.� “Then let’s get at those postulates in a hurry. The storm’s due tomorrow.� Powell sighed wearily. “That’s where everything falls down. Postulates are based on assumption and adhered to by faith. Nothing in the Universe can shake them.
“You,� said Powell, slowly, “make me sick. You’ve been reading adventure novels.�
“But you are telling me, Susan, that the ‘Society for Humanity� is right; and that Mankind has lost its own say in its future.� “It never had any, really. It was always at the mercy of economic and sociological forces it did not understand—at the whims of climate, and the fortunes of war. Now the Machines understand them; and no one can stop them, since the Machines will deal with them as they are dealing with the Society,—having, as they do, the greatest of weapons at their disposal, the absolute control of our economy.�
