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Stella had to do her midweek shopping. There were four people before her in the queue. She watched the blond at the counter striking feverishly away at the numbers on the cold, light-flickering machine. There seemed to be a raging war between two mechanical contraptions, one, robot-like and the other stationary, but able to respond to the extent of punching, by sharp flickers of red light. It was an all consuming battle, as a swift hand positioned the price label of the ceaseless flow of item on the coneyor belt and the right delivered the punches. The intending owners were more unnoticed onlookers. Anyway, there is a belated recognition of them in ''thank you, call again balance sheet. '' It's all so mechanical, she thought. I mean, any creature-baboon, extraterrestial being or anything - could as well receive the same treatment as long as the conditions are met- ''bring to the counter, labelled items from the shelves.'' Where is the human touch? She wondered.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE: The Merchant of Venice

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If I can catch him once upon the hip,
I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him.
He hates our sacred nation, and he rails,
Even there where merchants most do congregate,
On me, my bargains, and my well-won thrift,
Which he calls interest;......
(Act 1 Scene Three, lines 39-44)