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relationship as quickly as possible but she is unable to get there. Oved has her seated at his desk for an hour, going over entries in her case-records and proving that she has no idea of verification procedures, then there is a full staff meeting called in the welfare center and Elizabeth, surrounded by two middle-aged men in her case unit, finds herself seated on a row of chairs set up in the front where they are lectured by a Mr. Grey, dispatched from Central Office to fill them in on the latest policies and procedures.
    “The latest policies and procedures are classically simple,” Mr. Grey says in a high bleat, rubbing his hands together and running through some memoranda on the desk set up before the rows. He is an extraordinarily fat man in his fifties who Elizabeth envisions as a welfare case himself: Home Relief probably or maybe aid to the disabled for a psychological condition, but he is highly possessed of procedures and necessities and does not seem aware of his disastrous limitations. “Classically simple,” Mr. Grey says, “we are going to come to grips with the root problem for the first time and eliminate the causes of the public assistance problem at the point of origin. You are all aware that the relief recipient is a sick person, socially unintegrated and in a state of psychic background: now we will resolve this. The procedures which you will be handed today will explicate the method of attack but briefly stated it is this: we have a three month program. Next month we will diagnose the condition of the various clients; you will go out into the field and interview all of your recipients and identify exactly those reasons and that psychological disability which put him on relief. This should be simple; the case records have ample background information. The month after that you shall initiate efforts at rehabilitation, drawing upon the diagnoses and working in conjunction with the Medical Social Worker who is standing by to assist you in these coordinated efforts. And the third month you shall totally rehabilitate the client and put him in contact with the social mores and imperatives of the larger culture. Is that clear?” Grey says and stands before them, still rubbing his hands, his eyes dazzled by the fluorescence, the sound of flush toilets working in the rear of the loft. “Are there any questions?”
    “Lot of bullshit,” Oved says, turning from the row ahead and muttering to his case unit and the two middle-aged men surrounding Elizabeth dig their elbows into her and yelp enthusiastically but when Oved turns back toward Grey his face must be quite bland once again for he does not move in his seat. “Are there
any
questions?” Grey asks but there seems to be no question whatsoever. Grey begins to look pained, struggles in his place. “This is a complicated procedure,” he says desperately, “there have got to be some questions. Aren’t there any professionally-oriented social work objectives in this room?”
    “I have a question,” Elizabeth says as those surrounding her look at her with hatred. Phones squall in the background; there is a murmur which can only be the clients in Intake below conferring among one another, preparing a murderous assault upstairs. “Assuming that we can effectuate rehabilitation and put them in contact with the mores of the outer culture, they’re going to need a middle-class income to sustain that new compensation, aren’t they? But most of them because of their psychic deficiencies, are capable only of finding lower-class employment and very few will be able to descend to the middle-class. I mean
ascend
to the middle-class of course. So renewed decompensation may begin as they find that their goals are irretrievably beyond their means. What would you suggest that we do then?” Elizabeth says, running a hand across her forehead, clearing the itch from her eyes. “This is something we must enter into at the point of rehabilitation,” she