Cherry was a surprise to him. "You were so funny," she giggled. "And, honestly, so romantic."
He shakily swallowed his breakfast coffee.
The office staff roared and slapped him on the back. "Howland tells us you're living high, boy!" they bellowed more or less in the same words. "Hey, listen to what Morey did-went on the town for the night of a lifetime and didn't even bring his ration book along to cash in!"
They thought it was a wonderful joke.
But, then, everything was going well. Cherry, it seemed, had reformed out of recognition. True, she still hated to go out in the evening and Morey never saw her forcing herself to gorge on unwanted food or play undesired games. But, moping into the pantry one afternoon, he found to his incredulous delight that they were well ahead of their ration quotas. In some items, in fact, they were out - a month's supply and more was gone ahead of schedule!
Nor was it the counterfeit stamps, for he had found them tucked behind a bain-marie and quietly burned them. He cast about for ways of complimenting her, but caution prevailed. She was sensitive on the subject; leave it be.
And virtue had its reward.
Wainwnight called him in, all smiles. "Morey, great news! We've all appreciated your work here and we've been able to show it in some more tangible way then compliments. I didn't want to say anything till it was definite, but-your status has been reviewed by Classification and the Ration Board. You're out of Class Four Minor, Morey!"
Morey said tremulously, hardly daring to hope, "I'm a full Class Four?"
"Class Five, Morey. Class Five! When we do something, we do it night. We asked for a special waiver and got it-you've skipped a whole class." He added honestly, "Not that it was just our backing that did it, of course. Your own recent splendid record of consumption helped a lot. I told you you could do it!"
Morey had to sit down. He missed the rest of what Wainwright had to say, but it couldn't have mattered. He escaped from the office, sidestepped the knot of fellow-employees waiting to congratulate him, and got to a phone.
Cherry was as ecstatic and inarticulate as he. "Oh, darling!" was all she could say.
"And I couldn't have done it without you," he babbled. "Wainwright as much as said so himself. Said if it wasn't for the way we- well, you have been keeping up with the rations, it never would have got by the Board. rye been meaning to say something to you about that, dear, but I just haven't known how. But I do appreciate it. I- Hello?" There was a curious silence at the other end of the phone. "Hello?" he repeated worriedly.
Cherry's voice was intense and low. "Morey Fry, I think you're mean. I wish you hadn't spoiled the good news." And she hung up.
Morey stared slack-jawed at the phone.
Howland appeared behind him, chuckling. "Women," he said. "Never try to figure them. Anyway, congratulations, Morey."
"Thanks," Morey mumbled.
Howland coughed and said, "Uh-by the way, Morey, now that you're one of the big shots, so to speak, you won't-uh-feel obliged to-well, say anything to Wainwnight, for instance, about anything I may have said while we-"
"Excuse me," Morey said, unhearing, and pushed past him. He thought wildly of calling Cherry back, of racing home to see just what he'd said that was wrong. Not that there was much doubt, of course. He'd touched her sore point.
Anyhow, his wristwatch was chiming a reminder of the fact that his psychiatric appointment for the week was coming up.
Morey sighed. The day gives and the day takes away. Blessed is the day that gives only good things.
If any.
The session went badly. Many of the sessions had been going badly, Morey decided; there had been more and more whispering in knots of doctors from which he was excluded, poking and probing in the dark instead of the precise psychic surgery he was used to. Something was wrong, he thought.
Something was. Semmeiweiss confirmed it when he adjourned the group session. After the other doctor had left, he sat Morey down for a private talk. On his own time, too-he didn't ask for his usual nation fee. That told Morey how important the problem was.
"Morey," said Semmeiweiss, "you're holding back."
"I don't mean to, Doctor," Morey said earnestly.
"Who knows what you 'mean' to do? Part of you 'means' to. We've. dug pretty deep and we've found some important things. Now there's something I can't put my finger on. Exploring the mind, Morey, is like sending scouts through cannibal territory. You can't see the cannibals-until it's too late. But if you send a scout through the jungle and he doesn't show up on the other side, it's a fain assumption that something obstructed his way. In that case, we would label the obstruction 'cannibals.' In the case of the human mind, we label the obstruction a 'trauma.' What the trauma is, or what its effects on behavior will be, we have to find out, once we know that it's there."
Morey nodded. All of this was familiar; he couldn't see what Semmeiweiss was driving at.
Semmeiweiss sighed. "The trouble with healing traumas and penetrating psychic blocks and releasing inhibitions-the trouble with everything we psychiatrists do, in fact, is that we can't afford to do it too well. An inhibited man is under a strain. We try to relieve the strain. But if we succeed completely, leaving him with no inhibitions at all, we have an outlaw, Morey. Inhibitions are often socially necessary. Suppose, for instance, that an average man were not inhibited against blatant waste. It could happen, you know. Suppose that instead of consuming his ration quota in an orderly and responsible way, he did such things as set fire to his house and everything in it or dumped his food allotment in the river.
"When only a few individuals are doing it, we treat the individuals. But if it were done on a mass scale, Morey, it would be the end of society as we know it. Think of the whole collection of anti-social actions that you see in every paper. Man beats wife; wife turns into a harpy; junior smashes up windows; husband starts a black-market stamp racket. And every one of them traces to a basic weakness in the mind's defenses against the most important single anti-social phenomenon-failure to consume."
Morey flared, "That's not fair, Doctor! That was weeks ago! We've certainly been on the ball lately. I was just commended by the Board, in fact-"
The doctor said mildly, "Why so violent, Morey? I only made a general remark."
"It's just natural to resent being accused."
The doctor shrugged. "First, foremost and above all, we do not accuse patients of things. We try to help you find things out." He lit his end-of-session cigarette. "Think about it, please. I'll see you next week."
Cherry was composed and unapproachable. She kissed him remotely when he came in. She said, "I called Mother and told her the good news. She and Dad promised to come over here to celebrate."
"Yeah," said Morey. "Darling, what did I say wrong on the phone?"
"They'll be here about six."
"Sure. But what did I say? Was it about the rations? If you're sensitive, I swear I'll never mention them again."
"I am sensitive, Morey."
He said despairingly, "I'm sorry. I just-"
He had a better idea. He kissed her.
Cherry was passive at first, but not for long. When he had finished kissing her, she pushed him away and actually giggled. "Let me get dressed for dinner."
"Certainly. Anyhow, I was just-"
She laid a finger on his lips.
He let her escape and, feeling much less tense, drifted into the library. The afternoon papers were waiting for him. Virtuously, he sat down and began going through them in order. Midway through the World-Telegram-Sun-Post-and-News, he rang for Henry.
Morey had read clear through to the drama section of the Times-Herald-Tribune-Mirror before the robot appeared. "Good evening," it said politely.