“Class Five, Morey. Class Five! When we do something, we do it right. 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, side-stepped 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. I’ve 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 Wainwright, 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 on her sore point.