“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 right, Dad, if I’ve got it coming to me, I’ll take my medicine.”
“Way to talk,” Elon said approvingly. “Now go home. Get a good night’s sleep. First thing in the morning, go to the Ration Board. Tell ’em the whole story, beginning to end. They’ll be easy on you.” Elon hesitated. “Well, fairly easy,” he amended. “I hope.”
The condemned man ate a hearty breakfast.
He had to. That morning, as Morey awoke, he had the sick certainty that he was going to be consuming triple rations for a long, long time to come.
He kissed Cherry good-by and took the long ride to the Ration Board in silence. He even left Henry behind.
At the Board, he stammered at a series of receptionist robots and was finally brought into the presence of a mildly supercilious young man named Hachette.
“My name,” he started, “is Morey Fry. I—I’ve come to—talk over something I’ve been doing with—”