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said, "Uh-what is it, Tony?"
"Dick, you mean," the boy said. "Gimme your autograph." He poked an engraved
pad and a vulgarly jeweled pencil at Morey.
Morey dazedly signed and the child ran off, Morey staring after him.
Tanaquil Bigelow laughed and explained, "He saw your name in Ponfinio's
column. Dick loves Porfirio, reads him every day. He's such an intellectual
kid, really. He'd always have his nose in a book if I didn't keep after him to
play with his trains and watch tri-D."
"That was quite a nice write-up," Walter Bigelow commented- a little
enviously, Morey thought. "Bet you make Consumer of the Year. I wish," he
sighed, "that we could get a little ahead on the quotas the way you did. But
it just never seems to work out. We eat and play and consume like crazy, and
somehow at the end of the month we're always a little behind in something-
everything keeps piling up-and then the Board sends us a warning, and they
call me down and, first thing you know, I've got a couple of hundred added
penalty points and we're worse off than before."
"Never you mind," Tanaquil replied staunchly. "Consuming isn't everything in
life. You have your work."
Bigelow nodded judiciously and offered Morey another drink. Another drink,
however, was not what Morey needed. He was sitting in a rosy glow, less of
alcohol than of sheer contentment with the world.
He said suddenly, "Listen."
Bigelow looked up from his own drink. "Eh?"
"If I tell you something that's a secret, will you keep it that way?"
Bigelow rumbled, "Why, I guess so, Morey."
But his wife cut in sharply, "Certainly we will, Morey. Of course! What is
it?" There was a gleam in hen eye, Morey noticed. It puzzled him, but he
decided to ignone it.
He said, "About that write-up. I-I'm not such a hot-shot con-
sumer, really, you know. In fact-" All of a sudden, everyone's eyes seemed to
be on him. For a tortured moment, Morey wondered if he was doing the right
thing. A secret that two people know is compromised, and a secret known to
three people is no secret. Still- "It's like this," he said firmly. "You
remember what we were talking about at Uncle Piggotty's that night? Well, when
I went home I went down to the robot quarters, and I-"
He went on from there.
Tanaquil Bigelow said triumphantly, "I knew it!"
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Walter Bigelow gave his wife a mild, reproving look. He declared soberly,
"You've done a big thing, Morey. A mighty big thing. God willing, you've
pronounced the death sentence on our society as we know it. Future generations
will revere the name of Morey Fry." He solemnly shook Morey's hand.
Morey said dazedly, "I what?"
Walter nodded. It was a valedictory. He turned to his wife. "Tanaquil, we'll
have to call an emergency meeting."
"Of course, Walter," she said devotedly.
"And Morey will have to be there. Yes, you'll have to, Morey; no excuses. We
want the Brotherhood to meet you. Right, Howland?"
Howland coughed uneasily. He nodded noncommittally and took another drink.
Morey demanded desperately, "What are you talking about? Howland, you tell
me!"
Howland fiddled with his drink. "Well," he said, "it's like Tan was telling
you that night. A few of us, well, politically mature persons have formed a
little group. We-"
"Little group!" Tanaquil Bigelow said scornfully. "Howland, sometimes I
wonder if you really catch the spirit of the thing at all! It's everybody,
Morey, everybody in the world. Why, there are eighteen of us night here in Old
Town! There are scores more all over the world! I knew you were up to
something like this, Morey. I told Walter so the morning after we met you. I
said, 'Walter, mark my words, that man Morey is up to something.' But I must
say," she admitted worshipfully, "I didn't know it would have the scope of
what you're proposing now! Imagine-a whole world of consumers, rising as one
man, shouting the name of Morey Fry, fighting the Ration Board with the
Board's own weapon-the robots. What poetic justice!"
Bigelow nodded enthusiastically. "Call Uncle Piggotty's, dean," he ordered.
"See if you can round up a quorum right now! Meanwhile, Morey and I
are going belowstairs. Let's go, Morey-let's get the new world started!"
Morey sat there open-mouthed. He closed it with a snap. "Bigelow," he
whispered, "do you mean to say that you're going to spread this idea around
through some kind of subversive organization?"
"Subversive?" Bigelow repeated stiffly. "My dear man, all creative minds are
subversive, whether they operate singly or in such a group as the
Brotherhood of Freemen. I scarcely like-"
"Never mind what you like," Morey insisted. "You're going to call a meeting of
this Brotherhood and you want me to tell them what I just told you.
Is that right?"
"Well-yes."
Morey got up. "I wish I could say it's been nice, but it hasn't. Good night!"
And he stormed out before they could stop him.
Out on the street, though, his resolution deserted him. He hailed a robot cab
and ordered the driven to take him on the traditional time-killing ride
through the park while he made up his mind.
The fact that he had left, of course, was not going to keep Bigelow from going
through with his announced intention. Morey remembered, now, fragments of
conversation from Bigelow and his wife at Uncle Piggotty's, and cursed
himself. They had, it was perfectly true, said and hinted enough about
politics and purposes to put him on his guard. All that nonsense about twoness
had diverted him from what should have been perfectly clear: They were
subversives indeed.
He glanced at his watch. Late, but not too late; Cherry would still be at her
parents' home.
He leaned f'nward and gave the driver their address. It was like beginning the
first of a hundred-shot series of injections: you know it's going to cure you,
but it hurts just the same.
Morey said manfully: "And that's it, sin. I know I've been a fool. I'm willing
to take the consequences."
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Old Elon rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. "Urn," he said.
Cherry and her mother had long passed the point where they could say anything
at all; they were seated side by side on a couch across the room,
listening with expressions of strain and incredulity.
Elon said abruptly, "Excuse me. Phone call to make." He left the room to make
a brief call and returned. He said over his shoulder to his wife, "Coffee.
We'll need it. Got a problem here."
Morey said, "Do you think-I mean what should I do?"
Elon shrugged, then, surprisingly, grinned. "What can you do?" he demanded
cheerfully. "Done plenty already, I'd say. Drink some coffee. Call I
made," he explained, "was to Jim, my law clerk. He'll be here in a minute. Get
some dope from Jim, then we'll know better."
Cherry came oven to Morey and sat beside him. All she said was, "Don't worry,"
but to Morey it conveyed all the meaning in the world. He returned the
pressure of hen hand with a feeling of deepest relief. Hell, he said to
himself, why should I worry? Worst they can do to me is drop me a couple of
grades and what's so bad about that?
He grimaced involuntarily. He had remembered his own early struggles as a
Class One and what was so bad about that.
The law clerk arrived, a smallish robot with a battened stainlesssteel hide
and dull coppery features. Elon took the robot aside for a terse conversation
before he came back to Morey.
"As I thought," he said in satisfaction. "No precedent. No laws prohibiting.
Therefore no crime."
"Thank heaven!" Morey said in ecstatic relief.
Elon shook his head. "They'll probably give you a reconditioning and you can't
expect to keep your Grade Five. Probably call it antisocial behavior.
Is, isn't it?"
Dashed, Morey said, "Oh." He frowned briefly, then looked up. "All night, Dad,
if I've got it coming to me, I'll take my medicine."
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