Pilgrimage to Earth

THE ACADEMY

INSTRUCTION SHEET FOR USE WITH THE CAHILL-THOMAS SANITY METER, SERIES JM-14 (MANUAL):

The Cahill-Thomas Manufacturing Company is pleased to present our newest Sanity Meter. This beautiful, rugged instrument, small enough for any bedroom, kitchen or den, is in all respects an exact replica of the larger C-T Sanity Meters used in most places of business, recreation, transportation, etc. No pains have been spared to give you the best Sanity Meter possible, at the lowest possible price.

1. OPERATION. At the lower right-hand corner of your Meter is a switch. Turn it to On position, and allow a few seconds for warming up. Then switch from On position to Operate position. Allow a few seconds for reading.

2. READING. On the front of your Meter, above the operating switch, is a transparent panel, showing a straight-line scale numbered from zero to ten. The number at which the black indicator stops shows your Sanity Reading, in relation to the present statistical norm.

3. EXPLANATION OF NUMBERS ZERO TO THREE. On this model, as on all Sanity Meters, zero is the theoretically perfect sanity point. Everything above zero is regarded as a deviation from the norm. However, zero is a statistical rather than an actual idea. The normalcy range for our civilization lies between zero and three. Any rating in this area is considered normal.

4. EXPLANATION OF NUMBERS FOUR TO SEVEN. These numbers represent the sanity-tolerance limit. Persons registering in this area should consult their favorite therapy at once.

5. EXPLANATION OF NUMBERS EIGHT TO TEN. A person who registers above seven is considered a highly dangerous potential to his milieu. Almost certainly he is highly neurotic, pre-psychotic, or psychotic. This individual is required by law to register his rating, and to bring it below seven within a probationary period. (Consult your state laws for periods of probation.) Failing this, he must undergo Surgical Alteration, or may submit voluntarily to therapy at The Academy.

6. EXPLANATION OF NUMBER TEN. At ten on your Meter there is a red line. If a Sanity-Reading passes this line, the individual so registered can no longer avail himself of the regular commercial therapies. This individual must undergo Surgical Alteration immediately, or submit at once to therapy at The Academy.

WARNING:

A. THIS IS NOT A DIAGNOSTIC MACHINE. DO NOT ATTEMPT TO DETERMINE FOR YOURSELF WHAT YOUR AILMENT IS. THE NUMBERS ZERO TO TEN REPRESENT INTENSITY QUALITIES, NOT ARBITRARY CLASSIFICATIONS OF NEUROTIC, PRE-PSYCHOTIC, PSYCHOTIC, ETC. THE INTENSITY SCALE IS IN REFERENCE ONLY TO AN INDIVIDUAL’S POTENTIAL FOR HARM TO HIS SOCIAL ORDER. A PARTICULAR TYPE OF NEUROTIC MAY BE POTENTIALLY MORE DANGEROUS THAN A PSYCHOTIC, AND WILL SO REGISTER ON ANY SANITY METER. SEE A THERAPIST FOR FURTHER INSIGHT

B. THE ZERO-TO-TEN READINGS ARE APPROXIMATE. FOR AN EXACT THIRTY DECIMAL RATING, GO TO A COMMERCIAL MODEL C-T METER.

C. REMEMBER—SANITY IS EVERYONE’S BUSINESS. WE HAVE COME A LONG WAY SINCE THE GREAT WORLD WARS, ENTIRELY BECAUSE WE HAVE FOUNDED OUR CIVILIZATION ON THE CONCEPTS OF SOCIAL SANITY, INDIVIDUAL RESPONSIBILITY, AND PRESERVATION OF THE STATUS QUO. THEREFORE, IF YOU RATE OVER THREE, GET HELP. IF YOU RATE OVER SEVEN, YOU MUST GET HELP. IF YOU RATE OVER TEN, DO NOT WAIT FOR DETECTION AND ARREST. GIVE YOURSELF UP VOLUNTARILY IN THE NAME OF CIVILIZATION.

Good Luck—

The Cahill-Thomas Company

After finishing his breakfast, Mr. Feerman knew he should leave immediately for work. Under the circumstances, any tardiness might be construed unfavorably. He went so far as to put on his neat gray hat, adjust his tie and start for the door. But, his hand on the knob, he decided to wait for the mail.

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 the 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.”

“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 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 irrevocably 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 the urge to run, waiting for the 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 nonfunctional one. Besides, that’s too discordant 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. Okay. Have you any money?”

“Some,” Feerman said warily.

“Okay. 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 of 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.

“Welcome home, sir,” the robutler said. “If you will sit, I will serve your supper.”

Feerman sat down, thinking about his plans. There were a lot of details to work out, but Flynn was right. Hole up, that was the thing. Stay out of sight.

“I’ll want you to go shopping first thing in the morning,” he said to the robutler.

“Yes sir,” the robutler said, placing a bowl of soup in front of him.

“We’ll need plenty of staples. Bread, meat...No, buy canned goods.”

“What kind of canned goods?” the robutler asked.

“Any kind, as long as it’s a balanced diet. And cigarettes, don’t forget cigarettes! Give me the salt, will you?”

The robutler stood beside the stove, not moving. But Speed began to whimper softly.

“Robutler. The salt please.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the robutler said.

“What do you mean, you’re sorry? Hand me the salt.”

“I can no longer obey you.”

“Why not?”

“You have just gone over the red line, sir. You are now plus ten.”

Feerman just stared at him for a moment. Then he ran into the bedroom and turned on the Sanity Meter. The black indicator crept slowly to the red line, wavered, then slid decisively over.

He was plus ten.

But that didn’t matter, he told himself. After all, it was a quantitative measurement. It didn’t mean that he had suddenly become a monster. He would reason with the robutler, explain it to him.

Feerman rushed out of the bedroom. “Robutler! Listen to me—”

He heard the front door close. The robutler was gone.

Feerman walked into the living room and sat down on the couch. Naturally the robutler was gone. They had built-in sanity reading equipment. If their masters passed the red line, they returned to the factory automatically. No plus ten could command a mechanical.

But he still had a chance. There was food in the house. He would ration himself. It wouldn’t be too lonely with Speed here. Perhaps he would just need a few days.

“Speed?”

There was no sound in the apartment.

“Come here, boy.”

Still no sound.

Feerman searched the apartment methodically, but the dog wasn’t there. He must have left with the robutler.

Alone, Feerman walked into the kitchen and drank three glasses of water. He looked at the meal his robutler had prepared, started to laugh, then checked himself.

He had to get out, quickly. There was no time to lose. If he hurried, he could still make it, to someplace, any place. Every second counted now.

But he stood in the kitchen, staring at the floor as the minutes passed, wondering why his dog had left him.

There was a knock on his door.

“Mr. Feerman!”

“No,” Feerman said.

“Mr. Feerman, you must leave now.”

It was his landlady. Feerman walked to the door and opened it. “Go? Where?”

“I don’t care. But you can’t stay here any longer, Mr. Feerman. You must go.”

Feerman went back for his hat, put it on, looked around the apartment, then walked out. He left the door open.

Outside, two men were waiting for him. Their faces were indistinct in the darkness.

“Where do you want to go?” one asked.

“Where can I go?”

“Surgery or The Academy.”

“The Academy, then.”

They put him in a car and drove quickly away. Feerman leaned back, too exhausted to think. He could feel a cool breeze on his face, and the slight vibration of the car was pleasant. But the ride seemed interminably long.

“Here we are,” one of the men said at last. They stopped the car and led him inside an enormous gray building, to a barren little room. In the middle of the room was a desk marked RECEPTIONIST. A man was sprawled half across it, snoring gently.

One of Feerman’s guards cleared his throat loudly. The receptionist sat up immediately, rubbing his eyes. He slipped on a pair of glasses and looked at them sleepily.

“Which one?” he asked.

The two guards pointed at Feerman.

“All right.” The receptionist stretched his thin arms, then opened a large black notebook. He made a notation, tore out the sheet and handed it to Feerman’s guards. They left immediately.

The receptionist pushed a button, then scratched his head vigorously. “Full moon tonight,” he said to Feerman, with evident satisfaction.

“What?” Feerman asked.

“Full moon. We get more of you guys when the moon’s full, or so it seems. I’ve thought of doing a study on it.”

“More? More what’“ Feerman asked, still adjusting to the shock of being within The Academy.

“Don’t be dense,” the receptionist said sternly. “We get more plus tens when the moon is full. I don’t suppose there’s any correlation, but—ah, here’s the guard.”

A uniformed guard walked up to the desk, still knotting his tie.

“Take him to 312AA,” the receptionist said. As Feerman and the guard walked away, he removed his glasses and stretched out again on the desk.

The guard led Feerman through a complex network of corridors, marked off with frequent doors. The corridors seemed to have grown spontaneously, for branches shot off at all angles, and some parts were twisted and curved, like ancient city streets. As he walked,

Feerman noticed that the doors were not numbered in sequence. He passed 3112, then 25P, and then 14. And he was certain he passed the number 888 three times.

“How can you find your way?” he asked the guard.

“That’s my job,” the guard said, not unpleasantly.

“Not very systematic,” Feerman said, after a while.

“Can’t be,” the guard said in an almost confidential tone of voice. “Originally they planned this place with a lot fewer rooms, but then the rush started. Patients, patients, more every day, and no sign of a letup. So the rooms had to be broken into smaller units, and new corridors had to be cut through.”

“But how do the doctors find their patients?” Feerman asked.

They had reached 312AA. Without answering, the guard unlocked the door, and, when Feerman had walked through, closed and locked it after him.

It was a very small room. There was a couch, a chair, and a cabinet, filling all the available space.

Almost immediately, Feerman heard voices outside the door. A man said, “Coffee then, at the cafeteria in half an hour.” A key turned. Feerman didn’t hear the reply, but there was a sudden burst of laughter. A man’s deep voice said, “Yes, and a hundred more and we’ll have to go underground for room!”

The door opened and a bearded man in a white jacket came in, still smiling faintly. His face became professional as soon as he saw Feerman. “Just lie on the couch, please,” he said, politely, but with an unmistakable air of command.

Feerman remained standing. “Now that I’m here,” he said, “would you explain what all this means?”

The bearded man had begun to unlock the cabinet. He looked at Feerman with a wearily humorous expression, and raised both eyebrows. “I’m a doctor,” he said, “not a lecturer.”

“I realize that. But surely—”

“Yes, yes,” the doctor said, shrugging his shoulders helplessly. “I know. You have a right to know, and all that. But they really should have explained it all before you reached here. It just isn’t my job.”

Feerman remained standing. The doctor said, “Lie down on the couch like a good chap, and I’ll tell all.” He turned back to the cabinet.

Feerman thought fleetingly of trying to overpower him, but realized that thousands of plus tens must have thought of it, too. Undoubtedly there were precautions. He lay down on the couch.

“The Academy,” the doctor said as he rummaged in the cabinet, “is obviously a product of our times. To understand it, you must first understand the age we live in.” The doctor paused dramatically, then went on with evident gusto. “Sanity! But there is a tremendous strain involved in sanity, you know, and especially in social sanity. How easily the mind becomes deranged! And once deranged, values change, a man begins to have strange hopes, ideas, theories, and a need for action. These things may not be abnormal in themselves, but they result inevitably in harm to society, for movement in any direction harms a static society. Now, after thousands of years of bloodshed, we have set ourselves the goal of protecting society against the unsane individual. Therefore—it is up to the individual to avoid those mental configurations, those implicit decisions which will make him a dangerous potential for change. This will to staticity which is our ideal required an almost superhuman strength and determination. If you don’t have that, you end up here.”

“I don’t see—” Feerman began, but the doctor interrupted.

“The need for The Academy should now be apparent. Today, brain surgery is the final effective alternative to sanity. But this is an unpleasant eventuality for a man to contemplate, a truly hellish alternative. Government brain surgery involves death to the original personality, which is death in its truest form. The Academy tries to relieve a certain strain by offering another alternative.”

“But what is this alternative? Why don’t you tell it?”

“Frankly, most people prefer not knowing.” The doctor closed and locked the cabinet, but Feerman could not see what instruments he had selected. “Your reaction isn’t typical, I assure you. You choose to think of us as something dark, mysterious, frightening. This is because of your unsanity. Sane people see us as a panacea, a pleasantly misty relief from certain grim certainties. They accept us on faith.”

The doctor chuckled softly.

“To most people, we represent heaven.”

“Then why not let your methods be known?”

“Frankly,” the doctor said softly, “even the methods of heaven are best not examined too closely.”

“So the whole thing is a hoax!” Feerman said, trying to sit up. “You’re going to kill me!”

“Most assuredly not,” the doctor said, restraining him gently until Feerman lay back again.

“Then what exactly are you going to do?”

“You’ll see.”

“And why doesn’t anyone return?”

“They don’t choose to,” the doctor said. Before Feerman could move, the doctor had deftly inserted a needle into his arm, and injected him with a warm liquid. “You must remember,” the doctor said, “Society must be protected against the individual.”

“Yes,” Feerman said drowsily, “but who is to protect the individual against society?”

The room became indistinct and, although the doctor answered him, Feerman couldn’t hear his words, but he was sure that they were wise, and proper, and very true.

When he recovered consciousness he found that he was standing on a great plain. It was sunrise. In the dim light, wisps of fog clung to his ankles, and the grass beneath his feet was wet and springy.

Feerman was mildly surprised to see his wife standing beside him, close to his right side. On his left was his dog Speed, pressed against his leg, trembling slightly. His surprise passed quickly, because this was where his wife and dog should be; at his side before the battle.

Ahead, misty movement resolved into individual figures, and as they approached Feerman recognized them.

They were the enemy! Leading the procession was his robutler, gleaming inhumanly in the half-light. Morgan was there, shrieking to the Section Chief that Feerman must die, and Flynn, that frightened man, hid his face but still advanced against him. And there was his landlady, screaming, “No home for him!” And behind her were doctors, receptionists, guards, and behind them marched millions of men in rough laborer’s clothing, caps jammed down over their faces, newspapers tightly rolled as they advanced.

Feerman tensed expectantly for this ultimate fight against the enemies who had betrayed him. But a doubt passed over his mind. Was this real?

He had a sudden sickening vision of his drugged body lying in a numbered room in The Academy, while his soul was here in the never-never land, doing battle with shadows.

There’s nothing wrong with me! In a moment of utter clarity, Feerman understood that he had to escape. His destiny wasn’t here, fighting dream-enemies. He had to get back to the real world. The Status Quo couldn’t last forever. And what would mankind do, with all the toughness, inventiveness, individuality bred out of the race?

Did no one leave The Academy? He would! Feerman struggled with the illusions, and he could almost feel his discarded body stir on its couch, groan, move....

But his dream-wife seized his arm and pointed. His dream-dog snarled at the advancing host.

The moment was gone forever, but Feerman never knew it. He forgot his decision, forgot earth, forgot truth, and drops of dew spattered his legs as he ran forward to engage the enemy in battle.