How bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man’s eyes!
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Josh sat in the red-leather chair, half of which belonged to him, and studied the amber depths of the liquid in the glass. Here, at least, was a kind of happiness—oblivion.
The only trouble was that oblivion refused to come. Whisky had ceased to affect him. Had Hedonics, Inc. taken that away, too?
There was still no ice; perhaps there never would be any ice. The house was silent; perhaps it always would be silent. It was good for thinking, but there was no longer any point in thought.
How could he have overlooked all the clues that pointed—inescapably—to the fact that hedonics worked. His cold cured! His ulcer cured! Anyone who could do that could not be a quack.
But the proofs had rolled off his well-oiled mind.
Was he what Wright had called him, a materialist? If so, he could, at least, accept the testimony of his senses.
Hedonics worked. He could accept that. It worked physically: it had cured the incurable. It worked psychologically: it had turned Ethel into a radiantly happy woman.
He could accept, too, the inevitability of hedonics’ conquest of the nation and after that the world. It was a juggernaut built out of humanity’s eternal hopes; nothing could stop it. All over the United States people would be happy. All over the world people would be happy. Everybody would be happy.
Everybody but Joshua P. Hunt.
He took a sip of bourbon and let it slide down his throat and into his stomach. A twinge of pain made his stomach recoil; then it began to burn. It was a familiar sensation. His ulcer was back.
When happiness is for sale, only a fool will not buy.
Perhaps he was a materialist, but he wasn’t a fool. He could swallow his pride.
He dialed P-L-E-A-S-U-R.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Hunt,” the girl said, and she actually sounded sorry. “The clause is in the contract, and we must abide by it for our own protection. Anyone who has broken a contract is ineligible for further participation. Otherwise, you see, there would be no end of people withdrawing and coming back, and the bookkeeping problems would be enormous. We must, of course, keep our incidental expenses to a minimum. You do understand, don’t you, Mr. Hunt?”
Josh held the telephone for a long time after he had heard the connection broken before he remembered what its strange finality reminded him of.
The Gates of Paradise might sound like that as they clicked shut in front of the forever barred.