He turned away from the door, annoyed with himself, and began to pace up and down the living room. He had known he was going to wait for the mail; why had he gone through the pretense of leaving? Couldn’t he be honest with himself, even now, when personal honesty was so important?
His black cocker spaniel Speed, curled up on the couch, looked curiously at him. Feerman patted the dog’s head, reached for a cigarette, and changed his mind. He patted Speed again, and the dog yawned lazily. Feerman adjusted a lamp that needed no adjusting, shuddered for no reason, and began to pace the room again.
Reluctantly, he admitted to himself that he didn’t want to leave his apartment, dreaded it in fact, although nothing was going to happen. He tried to convince himself that this was just another day, like yesterday and the day before. Certainly if a man could believe that, really believe it, events would defer indefinitely, and nothing would happen to him.
Besides, why should anything happen today? He wasn’t at the end of his probationary period yet.
He thought he heard a noise outside his apartment, hurried over and opened the door. He had been mistaken; the mail hadn’t arrived. But down the hall his landlady opened her door and looked at him with pale, unfriendly eyes.
Feerman closed the door and found that his hands were shaking. He decided that he had better take a sanity reading. He entered the bedroom, but his robutler was there, sweeping a little pile of dust toward the center of the room. Already his bed was made; his wife’s bed didn’t require making, since it had been unoccupied for almost a week.
“Shall I leave, sir?” the robutler asked.
Feerman hesitated before answering. He preferred taking his reading alone. Of course, his robutler wasn’t really a person. Strictly speaking, the mechanical had no personality; but he had what seemed like a personality. Anyhow, it didn’t matter whether he stayed or left, since all personal robots had sanity-reading equipment built into their circuits. It was required by law.
“Suit yourself,” he said finally.
The robutler sucked up the little pile of dust and rolled noiselessly out of the room.
Feerman stepped up to the Sanity Meter, turned it on and set the operating control. He watched morosely as the black indicator climbed slowly through the normal twos and threes, through the deviant sixes and sevens, and rested finally on eight-point-two.
One tenth of a point higher than yesterday. One tenth closer to the red line.
Feerman snapped off the machine and lighted a cigarette. He left the bedroom slowly, wearily, as though the day were over, instead of just beginning.
“The mail, sir,” the robutler said, gliding up to him. Feerman grabbed the letters from the robutler’s outstretched hand and looked through them.
“She didn’t write,” he said involuntarily.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the robutler responded promptly.
“You’re sorry?” Feerman looked at the mechanical curiously. “Why?”
“I’m naturally interested in your welfare, sir,” the robutler stated. “As is Speed, to the extent of his intelligence. A letter from Mrs. Feerman would have helped your morale. We are sorry it didn’t come.”
Speed barked softly and cocked his head to one side. Sympathy from a machine, Feerman thought, pity from a beast. But he was grateful all the same.
“I don’t blame her,” he said. “She couldn’t be expected to put up with me forever.” He waited, hoping that the robot would tell him that his wife would return, that he would soon be well. But the robutler stood silently beside Speed, who had gone to sleep again.
Feerman looked through the mail again. There were several bills, an advertisement, and a small, stiff letter. The return address on it was The Academy, and Feerman opened it quickly.
Within was a card, which read, “Dear Mr. Feerman, your application for admission has been processed and found acceptable. We will be happy to receive you at any time. Thank You, the Directors.”
Feerman squinted at the card. He had never applied for admission to The Academy. It was the last thing in the world he wanted to do. “Was this my wife’s idea?” he asked.
“I do not know, sir,” the robutler said.
Feerman turned the card over in his hand. He had always been vaguely aware of the existence of The Academy, of course. One couldn’t help but be aware of it, since its presence affected every stratum of life. But actually, he knew very little about this important institution, surprisingly little.
“What is The Academy?” he asked.
“A large low gray building,” his robutler answered. “It is situated in the Southwest corner of the city, and can be reached by a variety of public conveyances.”
“But what is it?”
“A registered therapy,” the robutler said, “open to anyone upon application, written or verbal. Moreover, The Academy exists as a voluntary choice for all people of plus ten rating, as an alternative to Surgical Personality Alteration.”
Feerman sighed with exasperation. “I know all that. But what is their system? What kind of therapy?”
“I do not know, sir,” the robutler said.
“What’s their record of cures?”
“One hundred percent,” the robutler answered promptly.
Feerman remembered something else now, something that struck him as rather strange. “Let me see,” he said. “No one leaves The Academy. Is that right?”
“There has been no record of anyone leaving after physically entering,” the robutler said.
“Why?”
“I do not know, sir.”
Feerman crumpled the card and dropped it into an ashtray. It was all very strange. The Academy was so well known, so accepted, one never thought to ask about it. It had always been a misty place in his mind, faraway, unreal. It was the place you went to if you became plus ten, since you didn’t want to undergo lobotomy, topectomy, or any other process involving organic personality loss. But of course you tried not to think of the possibility of becoming plus ten, since the very thought was an admission of instability, and therefore you didn’t think of the choices open to you if it happened.
For the first time in his life, Feerman decided he didn’t like the setup. He would have to do some investigating. Why didn’t anyone leave The Academy? Why wasn’t more known of their therapy, if their cures were really one hundred percent effective?
“I’d better get to work,” Feerman said. “Make me anything at all for supper.”
“Yes, sir. Have a good day, sir.”
Speed jumped down from the couch and followed him to the door. Feerman knelt down and stroked the dog’s sleek black head. “No, boy, you stay inside. No burying bones today.”
“Speed does not bury bones,” the robutler said.
“That’s right.” Dogs today, like their masters, rarely had a feeling of insecurity. No one buried bones today. “So long.” He hurried past his landlady’s door and into the street.
Feerman was almost twenty minutes late for work. As he entered the building, he forgot to present his probationary certificate to the scanning mechanism at the door. The gigantic commercial Sanity Meter scanned him, its indicator shot past the seven point, lights flashed red. A harsh metallic voice shouted over the loudspeaker. “Sir! Sir! Your deviation from the norm has passed the safety limit! Please arrange for therapy at once!”
Quickly Feerman pulled his probationary certificate out of his wallet. But perversely, the machine continued to bellow at him for a full ten seconds longer. Everyone in the lobby was staring at him. Messenger boys stopped dead, pleased at having witnessed a disturbance. Businessmen and office girls whispered together, and two Sanity Policemen exchanged meaningful glances. Feerman’s shirt, soaked with perspiration, was plastered against his back. He resisted an urge to run from the building, instead walked toward an elevator. But it was nearly full, and he couldn’t bring himself to enter.
He trotted up a staircase to the second floor, and then took an elevator the rest of the way up. By th
e time he reached the Morgan Agency he had himself under control. He showed his probationary certificate to the Sanity Meter at the door, mopped his face with a handkerchief, and walked in.
Everyone in the agency knew what had happened. He could tell by their silence, their averted faces. Feerman walked rapidly to his office, closed the door and hung up his hat.
He sat down at his desk, still slightly out of wind, filled with resentment at the Sanity Meter. If only he could smash all the damned things! Always prying, setting off their alarms in your ear, unstabilizing you....
Feerman cut off the thought quickly. There was nothing wrong with the Meters. To think of them as active persecuting agents was paranoidal, and perhaps a symptom of his present unsane status. The Meters were mere extensions of man’s will. Society as a whole, he reminded himself, must be protected against the individual, just as a human body must be protected against malfunction of any of its parts. As fond as you might be of your gall bladder, you would sacrifice it mercilessly if it were going to impair the rest of you.
He sensed something shaky in this analogy, but decided not to pursue it any farther. He had to find out more about The Academy.
After lighting a cigarette he dialed the Therapy Reference Service.
“May I help you, sir?” a pleasant-voiced woman answered.
“I’d like to get some information about The Academy,” Feerman said, feeling a trifle foolish. The Academy was so well known, so much a part of everyday life, it was tantamount to asking what form of government your country had.
“The Academy is located—”
“I know where it’s located,” Feerman said. “I want to know what sort of therapy they administer.”
“That information is not available, sir,” the woman said, after a pause.
“No? I thought all data on commercial therapies was available to the public.”
“Technically, it is,” the woman answered slowly. “But The Academy is not, strictly, a commercial therapy. It does accept money, however, it admits charity cases as well, without quota. Also, it is partially supported by the government.”
Feerman tapped the ash of his cigarette and said impatiently, “I thought all government projects were open to the public.”
“As a general rule, they are. Except when such knowledge will be harmful to the public.”
“Then such knowledge of The Academy would be harmful?” Feerman said triumphantly, feeling that he was getting to the heart of the matter.
“Oh, no sir!” The woman’s voice became shrill with amazement. “I didn’t mean to imply that! I was just stating the general rules for withholding of information. The Academy, although covered by the laws, is, to some extent, extralegal. This status is allowed because of The Academy’s one-hundred percent record of cures.”
“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. “Electrotherapy, 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 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.”
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