"Oh, yes, Mr. Wylie, Mr. Wilson had a comfortable night. He's talking
to Dr. Adams, now. I couldn't interrupt. He seems quite cheerful--said
if you phoned to tell you he'd call back when he finished his
consultation."
I turned over the last page--read, cut one more paragraph, marked the
lines on my long tally sheet, counted them, and felt, suddenly, the
negative pressure of completion--the vacuum's strain, the sense of
deprivation. Work can be addictive--one more self-enchantment of the
cortex--another of the infinite autohypnoses. And when the addict's
done with it, what comfort is there for his unemployment?
I stacked the many pages, scribbled a note to Harold, and phoned to
his office that the manuscript would be ready for his messenger at the
desk. A few merry hours and a little excitement for the profligate, dun
days of my fellow citizens, God bless and pity them--a vicarious trip
beyond the confines of mass production--a description of the flavor of
a few of the trees they had cut down.
Bill came for it and carried it to the lobby.
Now, my clothes.
My costume.