What brought him back to awareness was a sensation he had not felt in a dozen years. It was not, Morey abruptly realized, the dying traces of his hangover that made his stomach feel so queer. He was hungry-actually hungry.
He looked about him. He was in the Old Town, miles from home, jostled by crowds of lower-class people. The block he was on was as atrocious a slum as Morey had ever seen-Chinese pagodas stood next to rococo imitations of the chapels around Versailles; gingerbread marred every facade; no building was without its brilliant signs and flarelights.
He saw a blindingly overdecorated eating establishment called Billie's Budget Busy Bee and crossed the street toward it, dodging through the unending streams of traffic. It was a miserable excuse for a restaurant, but Morey was in no mood to care. He found a seat under a potted palm, as far from the tinkling fountains and robot string ensemble as he could manage, and ordered recklessly, paying no attention to the ration prices. As the waiter was gliding noiselessly away, Morey had a sickening realization: He'd come out without his ration book. He groaned out loud; it was too late to leave without causing a disturbance. But then, he thought rebelliously, what difference did one more unrationed meal make, anyhow?
Food made him feel a little better. He finished the last of his pro fiterole au chocolat, not even leaving on the plate the uneaten one-third that tradition permitted, and paid his check. The robot cashier reached automatically for his ration book. Morey had a moment of grandeur as he said simply, "No ration stamps."
Robot cashiers are not equipped to display surprise, but this one tried. The man behind Morey in line audibly caught his breath, and less audibly mumbled something about slummers. Morey took it as a compliment and strode outside feeling almost in good humor.
Good enough to go home to Cherry? Morey thought seriously of it for a second; but he wasn't going to pretend he was wrong and certainly Cherry wasn't going to be willing to admit that she was at fault.
Besides, Morey told himself grimly, she was undoubtedly asleep. That was an annoying thing about Cherry at best: she never had any trouble getting to sleep. Didn't even use her quota of sleeping tablets, though Morey had spoken to her about it more than once. Of course, he reminded himself, he had been so polite and tactful about it, as befits a newlywed, that very likely she hadn't even understood that it was a complaint. Well, that would stop!
Man's man Morey Fry, wearing no collar ruff but his own, strode determinedly down the streets of the Old Town.
"Hey, Joe, want a good time?"
Morey took one unbelieving look. "You again!" he roared.
The little man stared at him in genuine surprise. Then a faint glimmer of recognition crossed his face. "Oh, yeah," he said. "This morning, huh?" He clucked commiseratingly. "Too bad you wouldn't deal with me. Your wife was a lot smarten. Of course, you got me a little sore, Jack, so naturally I had to raise the price a little bit."
"You skunk, you cheated my poor wife blind! You and I are going to the local station house and talk this over."
The little man pursed his lips. "We are, huh?"
Morey nodded vigorously. "Damn right! And let me tell you-" He stopped in the middle of a threat as a large hand cupped around his shoulder.
The equally large man who owned the hand said, in a mild and cultured voice, "Is this gentleman disturbing you, Sam?"
"Not so far," the little man conceded. "He might want to, though, so don't go away."
Morey wrenched his shoulder away. "Don't think you can strongarm me. I'm taking you to the police."
Sam shook his head unbelievingly. "You mean you're going to call the law in on this?"
"I certainly am!"
Sam sighed regretfully. "What do you think of that, Walter? Treating his wife like that. Such a nice lady, too."
"What are you talking about?" Morey demanded, stung on a peculiarly sensitive spot.
"I'm talking about your wife," Sam explained. "Of course, I'm not married myself. But it seems to me that if I was, I wouldn't call the police when my wife was engaged in some kind of criminal activity or other. No, sir, I'd try to settle it myself. Tell you what," he advised, "why don't you talk this over with hen? Make her see the error of-"
"Wait a minute," Morey interrupted. "You mean you'd involve my wife in this thing?"
The man spread his hands helplessly. "It's not me that would involve her, Buster," he said. "She already involved her own self. II takes two to make a crime, you know. I sell, maybe; I won't deny it. But after all, I can't sell unless somebody buys, can I?"
Morey stared at him glumly. He glanced in quick speculation at the large-sized Walter; but Walter was just as big as he'd remembered, so that took care of that. Violence was out; the police were out; that left no really attractive way of capitalizing on the good luck of running into the man again.
Sam said, "Well, I'm glad to see that's off your mind. Now, returning to my original question, Mac, how would you like a good time? You look like a smart fellow to me; you look like you'd be kind of interested in a place I happen to know of down the block."
Morey said bitterly, "So you're a dive-steerer, too. A real talented man."
"I admit it," Sam agreed. "Stamp business is slow at night, in my experience. People have their minds more on a good time. And, believe me, a good time is what I can show 'em. Take this place I'm talking about, Uncle Piggotty's is the name of it, it's what I would call an unusual kind of place. Wouldn't you say so, Walter?"
"Oh, I agree with you entirely," Walter rumbled.
But Morey was hardly listening. He said, "Uncle Piggotty's, you say?"
"That's right," said Sam.
Morey frowned for a moment, digesting an idea. Uncle Piggotty's sounded like the place Howland had been talking about back at th plant; it might be interesting, at that.
While he was making up his mind, Sam slipped an arm through us on one side and Walter amiably wrapped a big hand around th other. Morey found himself walking.
"You'll like it," Sam promised comfortably. "No hard feelings about this morning, sport? Of course not. Once you get a look at Piggotty's, you'll get over your mad, anyhow. It's something special. swear, on what they pay me for bringing in customers, I wouldn't do it unless I believed in it."
"Dance, Jack?" the hostess yelled oven the noise at the bar. Sh stepped back, lifted her flounced skirts to ankle height and execute a tricky nine-step.
"My name is Morey," Morey yelled back. "And I don't want t' dance, thanks."
The hostess shrugged, frowned meaningfully at Sam and danced away.
Sam flagged the bartender. "First round's on us," he explained to Morey. "Then we won't bother you any more. Unless you want us to, of course. Like the place?" Morey hesitated, but Sam didn't wait. "Fine place," he yelled, and picked up the drink the bartender left him. "See you around."
He and the big man were gone. Morey stared after them uncertainly, then gave it up. He was here, anyhow; might as well at least have a drink. He ordered and looked around.
Uncle Piggotty's was a third-rate dive disguised to look, in parts of it at least, like one of the exclusive upper-class country clubs. The bar, for instance, was treated to resemble the clean lines of nailed wood; but underneath the surface treatment, Morey could detect the intricate laminations of plyplastic. What at first glance appeared to be burlap hangings were in actuality elaborately textured synthetics. And all through the bar the motif was carried out.
A floor show of sorts was going on, but nobody seemed to be paying much attention to it. Morey, straining briefly to hear the master of ceremonies, gathered that the wit was on a more than mildly vulgar level. There was a dispirited string of chorus beauties in long ruffled pantaloons and diaphanous tops; one of them, Morey was almost sure, was the hostess who had talked to him just a few moments before.