Harry gazed out at the sunlight beyond the window, half-squinting and
half-frowning. "No, come to think of it, I don't believe I do. I feel
better now than I have in years."
His companion leaned back. "Meaning that for years you felt all wrong.
Because you were constricted, physically, psychically, and
emotionally. You were cramped, squeezed in a vise until the pressure
became intolerable. But now that pressure has been removed. As a
result you no longer suffer, and there is no need to seek escape in
death or denial of identity.
"This radical change of attitude has been brought about here in just a
little more than two months' time. And yet you're asking me when the
'real treatment' begins."
"I guess I've already had the real treatment then, haven't I?"
"That is correct. Prolonged analysis or drastic therapy is
unnecessary. We've merely given you what you seemed to need."
"I'm very grateful," Harry said. "But how can you afford to do it?"
Dr. Manschoff built another temple to an unknown god. He inspected the
architecture critically now as he spoke. "Because your problem is a
rarity," he said.
"Rarity? I'd have thought millions of people would be breaking down
every month. The Naturalists say--"
The doctor nodded wearily. "I know what they say. But let's dismiss
rumors and consider facts. Have you ever read any _official_ report
stating that the number of cases of mental illness ran into the
millions?"
"No, I haven't."
"For that matter, do you happen to know of _anyone_ who was ever sent
to a treatment center such as this?"
"Well, of course, everybody goes in to see the medics for regular
check-ups and this includes an interview with a psych. But if they're
in bad shape he just puts them on extra tranquilizers. I guess
sometimes he reviews their Vocational Apt tests and shifts them over
into different jobs in other areas."
Dr. Manschoff bowed his head in reverence above the steeple, as if
satisfied with the labors he had wrought. "That is roughly correct.
And I believe, if you search your memory, you won't recall even a
mention of a treatment center. This sort of place is virtually
extinct, nowadays. There are still some institutions for those
suffering from functional mental disorders--paresis, senile dementia,
congenital abnormalities. But regular check-ups and preventative
therapy take care of the great majority. We've ceased concentrating on
the result of mental illnesses and learned to attack the causes.
"It's the old yellow fever problem all over again, you see. Once upon
a time, physicians dealt exclusively with treatment of yellow fever
patients. Then they shifted their attention to the _source_ of the
disease. They went after the mosquitoes, drained the swamps, and the
yellow fever problem vanished.
"That's been our approach in recent years. We've developed _social_
therapy, and so the need for individual therapy has diminished.
"What were the sources of the tensions producing mental disturbances?
Physical and financial insecurity, the threat of war, the aggressive
patterns of a competitive society, the unresolved Oedipus-situation
rooted in the old-style family relationship. These were the swamps
where the mosquitoes buzzed and bit. Most of the swamps have been
dredged, most of the insects exterminated.
"Today we're moving into a social situation where nobody goes hungry,
nobody is jobless or unprovided for, nobody needs to struggle for
status. Vocational Apt determines a man's rightful place and function
in society, and there's no longer the artificial distinction imposed
by race, color or creed. War is a thing of the past. Best of all, the
old-fashioned 'home-life,' with all of its unhealthy emotional ties,
is being replaced by sensible conditioning when a child reaches school
age. The umbilical cord is no longer a permanent leash, a strangler's
noose, or a silver-plated life-line stretching back to the womb."
Harry Collins nodded. "I suppose only the exceptional cases ever need
to go to a treatment center like this."
"Exactly."
"But what makes _me_ one of the exceptions? Is it because of the way
the folks brought me up, in a small town, with all the old-fashioned
books and everything? Is that why I hated confinement and conformity
so much? Is it because of all the years I spent reading? And why--"
Dr. Manschoff stood up. "You tempt me," he said. "You tempt me
strongly. As you can see, I dearly love a lecture--and a captive
audience. But right now, the audience must not remain captive. I
prescribe an immediate dose of freedom."
* * * * *
"You mean I'm to leave here?"
"Is that what you want to do?"
"Frankly, no. Not if it means going back to my job."
"That hasn't been decided upon. We can discuss the problem later, and
perhaps we can go into the answers to those questions you just posed.
But at the moment, I'd suggest you stay with us, though without the
restraint of remaining in your room or in the wards. In other words, I
want you to start going outside again."
"Outside?"
"You'll find several square miles of open country just beyond the
doors here. You're at liberty to wander around and enjoy yourself.
Plenty of fresh air and sunshine--come and go as you wish. I've
already issued instructions which permit you to keep your own hours.
Meals will be available when you desire them."
"You're very kind."
"Nonsense. I'm prescribing what you need. And when the time comes,
we'll arrange to talk again. You know where to find me."
Dr. Manschoff dismantled his steeple and placed a half of the roof in
each trouser-pocket.
And Harry Collins went outdoors.
It was wonderful just to be free and alone--like returning to that
faraway childhood in Wheaton once again. Harry appreciated every
minute of it during the first week of his wandering.
But Harry wasn't a child any more, and after a week he began to wonder
instead of wander.
The grounds around the treatment center were more than spacious; they
seemed absolutely endless. No matter how far he walked during the
course of a day, Harry had never encountered any walls, fences or
artificial barriers; there was nothing to stay his progress but the
natural barriers of high, steeply-slanting precipices which seemed to
rim all sides of a vast valley. Apparently the center itself was set
in the middle of a large canyon--a canyon big enough to contain an
airstrip for helicopter landings. The single paved road leading from
the main buildings terminated at the airstrip, and Harry saw
helicopters arrive and depart from time to time; apparently they
brought in food and supplies.
As for the center itself, it consisted of four large structures, two
of which Harry was familiar with. The largest was made up of
apartments for individual patients, and staffed by nurses and
attendants. Harry's own room was here, on the second floor, and from
the beginning he'd been allowed to roam around the communal halls
below at will.
The second building was obviously administrative--Dr. Manschoff's
private office was situated therein, and presumably the other
staff-members operated out of here.
The other two buildings were apparently inaccessible; not guarded or
policed or even distinguished by signs prohibiting access, but merely
locked and unused. At least, Harry had found the doors locked
when--out of normal curiosity--he had ventured to approach them. Nor
had he ever seen anyone enter or leave the premises. Perhaps these
structures were unnecessary under the present circumstances, and had
been built for future accommodations.
Still, Harry couldn't help wondering.
And now, on this particular afternoon, he sat on the bank of the
little river which ran through the valley, feeling the mid-summer sun
beating down upon his forehead and staring down at the eddying current
with its ripples and reflections.
_Ripples and reflections...._
Dr. Manschoff had answered his questions well, yet new questions had
arisen.
Most people didn't go crazy any more, the doctor had explained, and so
there were very few treatment centers such as this.
_Question: Why were there any at all?_
A place like this cost a fortune to staff and maintain. In an age
where living-space and areable acreage was at such a premium, why
waste this vast and fertile expanse? And in a society more and more
openly committed to the policy of promoting the greatest good for the
greatest number, why bother about the fate of an admittedly
insignificant group of mentally disturbed patients?
Not that Harry resented his situation; in fact, it was almost too good
to be true.
_Question: Was it too good to be true?_
Why, come to realize it, he'd seen less than a dozen other patients
during his entire stay here! All of them were male, and all of
them--apparently--were recovering from a condition somewhat similar to
his own. At least, he'd recognized the same reticence and diffidence
when it came to exchanging more than a perfunctory greeting in an
encounter in an outer corridor. At the time, he'd accepted their
unwillingness to communicate; welcomed and understood it because of
_his_ condition. And that in itself wasn't what he questioned now.
But why were there so _few_ patients beside himself? Why were they all
males? And why weren't _they_ roaming the countryside now the way he
was?
So many staff-members and so few patients. So much room and luxury and
freedom, and so little use of it. So little apparent purpose to it
all.
_Question: Was there a hidden purpose?_
Harry stared down into the ripples and reflections, and the sun was
suddenly intolerably hot, its glare on the water suddenly blinding and
bewildering. He saw his face mirrored on the water's surface, and it
was not the familiar countenance he knew--the features were bloated,
distorted, shimmering and wavering.
Maybe it was starting all over again. Maybe he was getting another one
of those headaches. Maybe he was going to lose control again.
* * * * *
Yes, and maybe he was just imagining things. Sitting here in all this
heat wasn't a good idea.
Why not take a swim?
That seemed reasonable enough. In fact, it seemed like a delightful
distraction. Harry rose and stripped. He entered the water
awkwardly--one didn't dive, not after twenty years of abstinence from
the outdoor life--but he found that he could swim, after a fashion.
The water was cooling, soothing. A few minutes of immersion and Harry
found himself forgetting his speculations. The uneasy feeling had
vanished. Now, when he stared down into the water, he saw his own face
reflected, looking just the way it should. And when he stared up--
He saw her standing there, on the bank.
She was tall, slim, and blonde. Very tall, very slim, and very blonde.
She was also very desirable.
Up until a moment ago, Harry had considered swimming a delightful
distraction. But now--
"How's the water?" she called.
"Fine."
She nodded, smiling down at him.
"Aren't you coming in?" he asked.
"No."
"Then what are you doing here?"
"I was looking for you, Harry."
"You know my name?"