"Good!" I unfolded the newspaper I had carried all the way from Madison Avenue and showed him the inside pages —the ones that were not a mere smear of ink. "See here, Cloud. Planes crashing into Radio City. Buses driving off the George Washington Bridge. Ships going aground at the Battery. We did it, Cloud, you and I!"
"Oh, I wouldn't get upset about it, old man," he said comfortably. "All local, isn't it?"
"Isn't that bad enough? And it isn't local—it can't be. It's just that there isn't any communication outside the city any more—outside of any city, I guess. The shipments of Cheery-
Gum, that's all that ever gets delivered anywhere. Because that's all anybody cares about any more, and we did it, you and I!"
He said sympathetically, "That's too bad, McGory."
"Curse you!" I shrieked at him. "You said it wasn't a drug! You said it wasn't habit-forming! You said—"
"Now, now," he said with gentle firmness. "Why not chew a stick yourself?"
"Because I can't! It gives me hives!"
"Oh, that's right." He looked self-reproachful. "Well," he said dreamily at last, "I guess that's about the size of it, McGory." He was staring at the ceiling again.
"What is?"
"What is what?"
"What's about the— Oh, the devil with it. Cloud, you got us into this, you have to get us out of it. There must be some way of curing this habit."
"But there isn't any habit to cure, McGory," he pointed out.
"But there is!"
"Temper," he said waggishly, and took a corked test tube out of his workbench. He drank it down, every drop, and tossed the tube in a wastebasket. "You see?" he demanded severely. "I don't chew Cheery-Gum."
So I appealed to a Higher Authority.
In the eighteenth century I would have gone to the Church, in the nineteenth, to the State. I went to an office fronting on Central Park where the name on the bronze plaque was The-odor Yust, Analyst.
It wasn't easy. I almost walked out on him when I saw that his jaws were chewing as rhythmically as his secretary's. But Cloud's concoction is not, as he kept saying, a drug, and though it makes you relax and makes you happy and, if you take enough of it, makes you drunk, it doesn't make you unfit to talk to. So I took a grip on my temper, the only bad temper left, and told him what I wanted.
He laughed at me—in the friendliest way. "Put a stop to Cheery-Gum? Mr. McGory!"
"But the plane crashes—"
"No more suicides, Mr. McGory!"
"The train wrecks—"
"Not a murder or a mugging in the whole city in a month."
I said hopelessly, "But it's wrong!"
"Ah," he said in the tone of a discoverer, "now we come down to it. Why is it wrong, Mr. McGory?"
That was the second time I almost walked out. But I said "Let's get one thing straight: I don't want you digging into my problems. That's not why I'm here. Cheery-Gum is wrong, and I am not biased against it. You can take a detached view of collisions and sudden death if you want to, but what about slow death? All over the city, all over the country, people are lousing up their jobs. Nobody cares. Nobody does anything but go through the motions. They're happy. What happens when you get hungry because the farmers are feeling too good to put in their crops?"
He sighed patiently. He took the wad of gum out of his mouth, rolled it neatly into a Kleenex and dropped it in the wastebasket. He took a fresh stick out of a drawer and unwrapped it, but stopped when he saw me looking at him. He chuckled. "Rather I didn't, Mr. McGory? Well, why not oblige you? It's not habit-forming, after all." He dropped the gum back into the drawer and said: "Answering your questions, they won't starve. The farmers are farming, the workers are working, the policemen are policing, and I'm analyzing. And you're worrying. Why? Work's getting done."
"But my secretary—"
"Forget about your secretary, Mr. McGory. Sure, she's a little fuzzy-brained, a little absentminded. Who isn't? But she comes to work, because why shouldn't she?"
"Sure she does, but—"
"But she's happy. Let her be happy, Mr. McGory!"
I looked scandalized at him. "You, a doctor! How can you say that? Suppose you were fuzzy-brained and so on when a patient desperately needed—"
He stopped me. "In the past three weeks," he said gently, "you're the first to come in that door."
I changed tack: "All right, you're an analyst. What about a G.P. or a surgeon?"
He shrugged. "Perhaps," he conceded, "perhaps in one case out of a thousand—somebody hurt in an accident, say—he'd get to the hospital too late, or the surgeon would make some little mistake. Perhaps. Not even one in a thousand—one in a million, maybe. But Cheery-Gum isn't a drug. A quarter-grain of sodium amytol, and your surgeon's as good as new." Absentmindedly he reached into the drawer for the stick of gum.
"And you say," I said accusingly, "that it's not habit-forming!"
He stopped with his hand halfway to his mouth. "Well," he said wryly, "it is a habit. Don't confuse semantics, Mr. McGory. It is not a narcotic addiction. If my supply were cut off this minute, I would feel bad—as bad as if I couldn't play bridge any more for some reason, and no worse." He put the stick of gum away again and rummaged through the bottom drawers of his desk until he found a dusty pack of cigarettes. "Used to smoke three packs a day," he wheezed, choking on the first drag.
He wiped his streaming eyes. "You know, Mr. McGory," he said sharply, "you're a bit of a prig. You don't want people to be happy."
He stopped me before I could work up a full explosion. "Wait! Don't think that you're the only person who thinks about what's good for the world. When I first heard of Cheery-Gum, I worried." He stubbed the cigarette out distastefully, still talking. "Euphoria is well and good, I said, but what about emergencies? And I looked around, and there weren't any. Things were getting done, maybe slowly and erratically, but they were getting done. And then I said, on a high moral plane, that's well and good, but what about the ultimate destiny of man? Should the world be populated by cheerful near-morons? And that worried me, until I began looking at my patients." He smiled reflectively. "I had 'em all, Mr. McGory. You name it, I had it coming in to see me twice a week. The worst wrecks of psyches you ever heard of, twisted and warped and destroying themselves; and they stopped. They stopped eating themselves up with worry and fear and tension, and then they weren't my patients any more. And what's more, they weren't morons. Give them a stimulus, they respond. Interest them, they react. I played bridge the other night with a woman who was catatonic last month; we had to put the first stick of gum in her mouth. She beat the hell out of me, Mr. McGory. I had a mathematician coming here who—well, never mind. It was bad. He's happy as a clam, and the last time I saw him he had finished a paper he began ten years ago, and couldn't touch. Stimulate them— they respond. When things are dull—Cheery-Gum. What could be better?"
I looked at him dully, and said, "So you can't help me."
"I didn't say that. Do you want me to help you?"
"Certainly!"
"Then answer my question: Why don't you chew a stick yourself?"
"Because I can't!" It all tumbled out, the Plans meeting and Leslie Clary Cloud and the beaker that hadn't been diluted and the hives. "A terrific allergy," I emphasized. "Even antihistamines don't help. They said at the clinic that the antibodies formed after a massive initial—"
He said comfortably, "Soma over psyche, eh? Well, what would you expect? But believe me, Mr. McGory, allergies are psychogenic. Now, if you'll just—"
Well, if you can't lick 'em, join 'em, that's what the old man used to say.