down the money and returned to his seat. To Jory he said: "I feel bad today."

"Uh-huh," Jory said disinterestedly. He turned a page of the book he had propped next to his plate.

"Don't be a wise guy," Ernie grunted. He turned his attention to his plate. Several mouthfuls of spaghetti convinced him that he was hungry after all. He swallowed and opened his carton of milk. He looked up at the book Jory was holding. Jory was a funny guy, always reading.

"What's the book today?" he asked.

Jory held the cover so he could see the title. "Celine's 'Journey to the End of Night.' It's French."

Ernie's interest quickened. "French, huh? Has it got any good stuff in it? You know, like Miller has?" He laughed.

"No."

"Well, what's it about?"

"About a guy who thinks he might commit suicide."

"Oh." Ernie thought about it for a minute. "Is that all it's about? Just some guy wonderin' if he should bump himself off?"

"Yes." Jory turned a page.

"Oh." Ernie thought about it again. "And he made a whole book out of it? Just that ... no sex or nothing?"

"No. No sex or nothing."

Ernie laughed. "Well, it sounds pretty stale to me."

Jory sighed and gave up reading. He put the book down. "No, it isn't stale. The book does depress me, though." He pushed it to one side.

His eyes traveled around the cafeteria; he thought for a moment then said: "Do you ever get the feeling, Ernie, that your life has gotten stuck? That you are just going round and round, caught in one single groove—that you just repeat the same scene, day after day?"

Ernie shook his head. "Nah. I never feel like that."

"I do. I get to feeling it bad, sometimes. Why do you suppose that is, Ernie?"

Ernie considered the question for a moment. "Well," he said helpfully, "it might mean you're cracking up."

Jory laughed. "Thanks. But when I need an analyst I'll go out and hire one. No, I think I feel that way because life has somehow become a lot more futile than it need be."

Ernie shrugged and let it go. He wiped the last trace of spaghetti sauce from his plate. Jory got funny moods—probably because he read so much, Ernie suspected—but he was a good man. All the guys in the plant figured Jory for a regular guy. He liked to read some pretty funny books, but so what? It was his eyesight, wasn't it?

Ernie remembered something else. "Hey," he said to Jory as he lit a cigarette, "Harrigan over in the tool room told me that you write stories. That right?"

"Yeah. But I don't have as much time for it as I once did."

"You ought to stay home nights like I do. Then you'd have time." Ernie paused and added piously, "It makes you sharper on the job, too."

Jory started to laugh but caught it in time. He worked on the line next to Ernie, and had witnessed the foul-up this morning. He said, "What do you do until bedtime? Watch TV?"

"Every night. Boxing is good on Fridays. Monday night ain't so hot. Wednesday, tonight, will be good. Lots of Westerns.

"You ought to try it. Come to think of it you look sort of tired. You shouldn't go out drinking week nights."

Jory shrugged. "Maybe I will try it. What are your favorite programs?"

Ernie told him.

"Say," Ernie asked, "do you make any money writing stories?"

"Once in awhile. If I sell the story I'm working on now, I think I'll lay off for a couple of months and get a cabin down in Mexico. The fishing will be good at Vera Cruz—" He stopped and frowned. "No. I guess I won't. I can't."

"Why can't you?"

"Something I forgot. Never mind."

"No," Ernie persisted, "you were saying—"

"Forget it."

"Oh, I get it. You're afraid to lay off because they might not hire you back?"

"Nuts. There's always some place that is hiring. You'd be