“Where can I see a few of these cures?” Feerman asked. “I understand that no one ever leaves The Academy.”
He had them now, Feerman thought, waiting for an answer. Over the telephone he thought he heard a whispering. Suddenly a man’s voice broke in, loud and clear. “This is the Section Chief. Is there some difficulty?”
Hearing the man’s sharp voice, Feerman almost dropped the telephone. His feeling of triumph vanished, and he wished he had never made the call. But he forced himself to go on. “I want some information on The Academy.”
“The location—”
“No! I mean real information!” Feerman said desperately.
“To what purpose do you wish to put this information?” the Section Chief asked, and his voice was suddenly the smooth, almost hypnotic voice of a therapist.
“Insight,” Feerman answered quickly. “Since The Academy is a therapeutic alternative open to me at all times, I would like to know more about it, in order to judge—”
“Very plausible,” the Section Chief said. “But consider. Are you asking for a useful, functional insight? One that will better your integration into society? Or are you asking merely for the sake of an overriding curiosity, thereby yielding to restlessness, and other, deeper drives?”
“I’m asking because—”
“What is your name?” the Section Chief asked suddenly.
Feerman was silent.
“What is your sanity rating?” Still Feerman didn’t speak. He was trying to decide if the call were already traced, and decided that it was.
“Do you doubt The Academy’s essential benevolence?”
“No.”
“Do you doubt that The Academy works for the preservation of the Status Quo?”
“No.”
“Then what is your problem? Why won’t you tell me your name and sanity rating? Why do you feel this need for more information?”
“Thank you,” Feerman murmured, and hung up. He realized that the telephone call had been a terrible mistake. It had been the action of a plus-eight, not a normal man. The Section Chief, with his trained perceptions, had realized that at once. Of course the Section Chief wouldn’t give information to a plus-eight! Feerman knew he would have to watch his actions far more closely, analyze them, understand them, if he ever hoped to return to the statistical norm.
As he sat, there was a knock; the door opened and his boss, Mr. Morgan entered. Morgan was a big, powerfully built man with a full, fleshy face. He stood in front of Feerman’s desk, drumming his fingers on the blotter, looking as embarrassed as a caught thief.
“Heard that report downstairs,” he said, not looking at Feerman, tapping his fingers energetically.
“Momentary peak,” Feerman said automatically. “Actually, my rating has begun to come down.” He couldn’t look at Morgan as he said this. The two men stared intently at different corners of the room. Finally, their eyes met.
“Look, Feerman, I try to stay out of people’s business,” Morgan said, sitting on the corner of Feerman’s desk. “But damn it, man, Sanity is everyone’s business. We’re all in the game together.” The thought seemed to increase Morgan’s conviction. He leaned forward earnestly.
“You know, I’m responsible for a lot of people here. This is the third time in a year you’ve been on probation.” He hesitated. “How did it start?”
Feerman shook his head. “I don’t know, Mr. Morgan. I was just going along quietly—and my rating started to climb.”
Morgan considered, then shook his head. “Can’t be as simple as that. Have you been checked for brain lesions?”
“I’ve been assured it’s nothing organic.”
“Therapy?”
“Everything,” Feerman said. “Electro-therapy, Analysis, Smith’s Method, The Rannes School, Devio-Thought, Differentiation—”
“What did they say?” Morgan asked.
Feerman thought back on the endless line of therapists he had gone to. He had been explored from every angle that psychology had to offer. He had been drugged, shocked, explored. But it all boiled down to one thing.
“They don’t know.”
“Couldn’t they tell you anything?” Morgan asked.
“Not much. Constitutional restlessness, deeply concealed drives, inability to accept the Status Quo. They all agree I’m a rigid type. Even Personality Reconstruction didn’t take on me.”
“Prognosis?”
“Not so good.”
Morgan stood up and began to pace the floor, his hands clasped behind his back. “Feerman, I think it’s a matter of attitude. Do you really want to be part of the team?”
“I’ve tried everything—”
“Sure. But have you wanted to change? Insight!” Morgan cried, smashing his fist into his hand as though to crush the word. “Do you have insight?”
“I don’t suppose so,” Feerman said with genuine regret.
“Take my case,” Morgan said earnestly, standing in front of Feerman’s desk with his feet widely and solidly planted. “Ten years ago, this agency was twice as big as it is now, and growing! I worked like a madman, extending my holdings, investing, expanding, making money, and more money.”
“And what happened?”
“The inevitable. My rating shot up from a two-point-three to plus-seven. I was in a bad way.”
“No law against making money,” Feerman pointed out.
“Certainly not. But there is a psychological law against making too much. Society today just isn’t geared for that sort of thing. A lot of the competition and aggression have been bred out of the race. After all, we’ve been in the Status Quo for almost a hundred years now. In that time, there’ve been no new inventions, no wars, no major developments of any kind. Psychology has been normalizing the race, breeding out the irrational elements. So with my drive and ability, it was like—like playing tennis against an infant. I couldn’t be stopped.”
Morgan’s face was flushed, and he had begun to breathe heavily. He checked himself, and went on in a quieter tone. “Of course, I was doing it for neurotic reasons. Power urge, a bad dose of competitiveness. I underwent Substitution Therapy.”
Feerman said, “I don’t see anything unsane about wanting to expand your business.”
“Good Lord, man, don’t you understand anything about Social Sanity, Responsibility, and Stasis? I was on my way to becoming wealthy. From there, I would have founded a financial empire. All quite legal, you understand, but unsane. After that, who knows where I would have gone? Into indirect control of the government, eventually. I’d want to change the psychological policies to conform to my own abnormalities. And you can see where that would lead.”
“So you adjusted,” Feerman said. “I had my choice of Brain Surgery, The Academy, or adjustment. Fortunately, I found an outlet in competitive sports. I sublimated my selfish drives for the good of mankind. But the thing is this, Feerman. I was heading for that red line. I adjusted before it was too late.”
“I’d gladly adjust,” Feerman said, “if I only knew what was wrong with me. The trouble is, I really don’t know.”
Morgan was silent for a long time, thinking. Then he said, “I think you need a rest, Feerman.”
“A rest?” Feerman was instantly on the alert. “You mean I’m fired?”
“No, of course not. I want to be fair, play the game. But I’ve got a team here.” Morgan’s vague gesture included the office, the building, the city. “Unsanity is insidious. Several ratings in the office have begun to climb in the last week.”
“And I’m the infection spot.”
“We must accept the rules,” Morgan said, standing erectly in front of Feerman’s desk. “Your salary will continue until—until you reach some resolution.”
“Thanks,” Feerman said dryly. He stood up and put on his hat.
Morgan put a hand on his shoulder. “Have you considered The Academy?” he asked in a low voice. “I mean, if nothing else seems to work—”
“Definitely and ir
revocably not,” Feerman said, looking directly into Morgan’s small blue eyes.
Morgan turned away. “You seem to have an illogical prejudice against The Academy. Why? You know how our society is organized. You can’t think that anything against the common good would be allowed.”
“I don’t suppose so,” Feerman admitted. “But why isn’t more known about The Academy?” They walked through the silent office. None of the men Feerman had known for so long looked up from their work. Morgan opened the door and said, “You know all about The Academy.”
“I don’t know how it works.”
“Do you know everything about any therapy? Can you tell me all about Substitution Therapy? Or Analysis? Or Olgivey’s Reduction?”
“No. But I have a general idea how they work.”
“Everyone does,” Morgan said triumphantly, then quickly lowered his voice. “That’s just it. Obviously, The Academy doesn’t give out such information because it would interfere with the operation of the therapy itself. Nothing odd about that, is there?”
Feerman thought it over, and allowed Morgan to guide him into the hall. “I’ll grant that,” he said. “But tell me; why doesn’t anyone ever leave The Academy? Doesn’t that strike you as sinister?”
“Certainly not. You’ve got a very strange outlook.” Morgan punched the elevator button as he talked. “You seem to be trying to create a mystery where there isn’t one. Without prying into their professional business, I can assume that their therapy involves the patient’s remaining at The Academy. There’s nothing strange about a substitute environment. It’s done all the time.”
“If that’s the truth, why don’t they say so?”
“The fact speaks for itself.”
“And where,” Feerman asked, “is the proof of their hundred percent cures?”
The elevator arrived, and Feerman stepped in. Morgan said, “The proof is in their saying so. Therapists can’t lie. They can’t, Feerman!”
Morgan started to say something else, but the elevator doors slid shut. The elevator started down, and Feerman realized with a shock that his job was gone.
IT WAS A strange sensation, not having a job any longer. He had no place to go. Often he had hated his work. There had been mornings when he had groaned at the thought of another day at the office. But now that he had it no longer, he realized how important it had been to him, how solid and reliable. A man is nothing, he thought, if he doesn’t have work to do.
He walked aimlessly, block after block, trying to think. But he was unable to concentrate. Thoughts kept sliding out of reach, eluding him, and were replaced by glimpses of his wife’s face. And he couldn’t even think about her, for the city pressed in on him, its faces, sounds, smells.
The only plan of action that came to mind was unfeasible. Run away, his panicky emotions told him. Go where they’ll never find you. Hide!
But Feerman knew this was no solution. Running away was sheer escapism, and proof of his deviation from the norm. Because what, really, would he be running from? From the sanest, most perfect society that Man had ever conceived. Only a madman would run from that.
Feerman began to notice the people he passed. They looked happy, filled with the new spirit of Responsibility and Social Sanity, willing to sacrifice old passions for a new era of peace. It was a good world, a hell of a good world. Why couldn’t he live in it?
He could. With the first confidence he had felt in weeks, Feerman decided that he would conform, somehow.
If only he could find out how.
After hours of walking, Feerman discovered that he was hungry. He entered the first diner he saw. The place was crowded with laborers, for he had walked almost to the docks.
He sat down and looked at a menu, telling himself that he needed time to think. He had to assess his actions properly, figure out—
“Hey mister.”
He looked up. The bald, unshaven counterman was glaring at him.
“What?”
“Get out of here.”
“What’s wrong?” Feerman asked, trying to control his sudden panic.
“We don’t serve no madmen here,” the counterman said. He pointed to the Sanity Meter on the wall, that registered everyone walking in. The black indicator pointed slightly past nine. “Get out.”
Feerman looked at the other men at the counter. They sat in a row, dressed in similar rough brown clothing. Their caps were pulled down over their eyes, and every man seemed to be reading a newspaper.
“I’ve got a probationary—”
“Get out,” the counterman said. “The law says I don’t have to serve no plus-nines. It bothers my customers. Come on, move.”
The row of laborers sat motionless, not looking at him. Feerman felt the blood rush to his face. He had the sudden urge to smash in the counterman’s bald, shiny skull, wade into the row of listening men with a meat cleaver, spatter the dirty walls with their blood, smash, kill. But of course, aggression was unsane, and an unsatisfactory response. He mastered the impulse and walked out.
Feerman continued to walk, resisting an urge to run, waiting for that train of logical thought that would tell him what to do. But his thoughts only became more confused, and by twilight he was ready to drop from fatigue.
He was standing on a narrow, garbage-strewn street in the slums. He saw a hand-lettered sign in a second-floor window, reading, J.J. FLYNN, PSYCHOLOGICAL THERAPIST. MAYBE I CAN HELP YOU. Feerman grinned wryly, thinking of all the high-priced specialists he had seen. He started to walk away, then turned, and went up the staircase leading to Flynn’s office. He was annoyed with himself again. The moment he saw the sign he had known he was going up. Would he never stop deceiving himself?
Flynn’s office was small and dingy. The paint was peeling from the walls, and the room had an unwashed smell. Flynn was seated behind an unvarnished wooden desk, reading an adventure magazine. He was small, middle-aged and balding. He was smoking a pipe.
Feerman had meant to start from the beginning. Instead he blurted out, “Look, I’m in a jam. I’ve lost my job, my wife’s left me, I’ve been to every therapy there is. What can you do?”
Flynn took the pipe out of his mouth and looked at Feerman. He looked at his clothes, hat, shoes, as though estimating their value. Then he said, “What did the others say?”
“In effect, that I didn’t have a chance.”
“Of course they said that,” Flynn said, speaking rapidly in a high, clear voice. “These fancy boys give up too easily. But there’s always hope. The mind is a strange and complicated thing, my friend, and sometimes—” Flynn stopped abruptly and grinned with sad humor. “Ah, what’s the use? You’ve got the doomed look, no doubt of it.” He knocked the ashes from his pipe and stared at the ceiling. “Look, there’s nothing I can do for you. You know it, I know it. Why’d you come up here?”
“Looking for a miracle, I suppose,” Feerman said, wearily sitting down on a wooden chair.
“Lots of people do,” Flynn said conversationally. “And this looks like the logical place for one, doesn’t it? You’ve been to the fancy offices of the specialists. No help there. So it would be right and proper if an itinerant therapist could do what the famous men failed to do. A sort of poetic justice.”
“Pretty good,” Feerman said, smiling faintly.
“Oh, I’m not at all bad,” Flynn said, filling his pipe from a shaggy green pouch. “But the truth of the matter is, miracles cost money, always have, always will. If the big boys couldn’t help you, I certainly couldn’t.”
“Thanks for telling me,” Feerman said, but made no move to get up.
“It’s my duty as a therapist,” Flynn said slowly, “to remind you that The Academy is always open.”
“How can I go there?” Feerman asked. “I don’t know anything about it.”
“No one does,” Flynn said. “Still, I hear they cure every time.”
“Death is a cure.”
“But a non-functional one. Besides, that’s too discordan
t with the times. Deviants would have to run such a place, and deviants just aren’t allowed.”
“Then why doesn’t anyone ever leave?”
“Don’t ask me,” Flynn said. “Perhaps they don’t want to.” He puffed on his pipe. “You want some advice. OK. Have you any money?”
“Some,” Feerman said warily. “OK. I shouldn’t be saying this, but . . . Stop looking for cures! Go home. Send your robutler out for a couple month’s supply of food. Hole up for a while.”
“Hole up? Why?”
Flynn scowled furiously at him. “Because you’re running yourself ragged trying to get back to the norm, and all you’re doing is getting worse. I’ve seen it happen a thousand times. Don’t think about sanity or unsanity. Just lie around a couple months, rest, read, grow fat. Then see how you are.”
“Look,” Feerman said, “I think you’re right. I’m sure of it! But I’m not sure if I should go home. I made a telephone call today . . . I’ve got some money. Could you hide me here? Could you hide me?” Flynn stood up and looked fearfully out the window at the dark street. “I’ve said too much as it is. If I were younger—but I can’t do it! I’ve given you unsane advice! I can’t commit an unsane action on top of that!”
“I’m sorry,” Feerman said. “I shouldn’t have asked you. But I’m really grateful. I mean it.” He stood up. “How much do I owe you?”
“Nothing,” Flynn said. “Good luck to you.”
“Thanks.” Feerman hurried downstairs and hailed a cab. In twenty minutes he was home.
THE HALL was strangely quiet as Feerman walked toward his apartment. His landlady’s door was closed as he passed it, but he had the impression that it had been open until he came, and that the old woman was standing beside it now, her ear against the thin wood. He walked faster, and entered his apartment.
It was quiet in his apartment, too. Feerman walked into the kitchen. His robutler was standing beside the stove, and Speed was curled up in the corner.
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