He thought it over for a while, then said: "Just what is it you do to
men like that? How can you be so sure he'll never hurt anyone again?"
Brownlee started to answer him, but a uniformed officer put his head
in the door. "Excuse me, Dr. Brownlee, the District Attorney would
like to talk to you."
Brownlee excused himself and followed the cop out, leaving me to
explain things to His Grace.
"Do you remember that, a couple of centuries ago, the laws of some
countries provided the perfect punishment for pickpockets and
purse-snatchers?"
He gave me a wry grin. "Certainly. The hands of the felon were
amputated at the wrist. Usually with a headsman's ax, I believe."
"Exactly. And they never picked another pocket again as long as they
lived." I said. "Society had denied them the means to pick pockets."
"Go on."
* * * * *
"Do you remember Manny the Moog? The little fellow who was brought in
yesterday?"
"Distinctly. I thought it was odd at the time that you should release
a man who has a record of such activities as car-stealing and reckless
driving, especially when the witness against him turned out to be a
perfectly respectable person. I took it for granted that he was one of
your ... ah ... 'tame zanies', I think you called them. But I did not
and still don't understand how you can be so positive."
"I let Manny go because he's incapable of driving a car. The very
thought of being in control of a machine so much more powerful than he
is would give him chills. Did you ever see what happens when you lock
a claustrophobe up in a dark closet--the mad, unreasoning,
uncontrollable panic of absolute terror? That's what would happen to
Manny if you put him behind the wheel of a running automobile. It's
worse than fear; fear is controllable. Blind terror isn't.
"Manny had one little twist, in his mind. He liked to get into a
car--_any_ car, whether it was his or not--and drive. He became king
of the road. He wasn't a little man any more. He was God, and lesser
beings had better look out.
"We got to him before he actually killed anyone, but there is a woman
in Queens today who will never walk again because of Manny the Moog.
But there won't be any more like her. We took the instrument of
destruction away from him; we 'cut off his hands'. Now he's leading a
reasonably useful life. We don't need to sacrifice another's life
before we neutralize the danger."
"What about Joey Partridge?" His Grace asked. "He's one of your
zanies, too, isn't he?
"That's right. He couldn't keep from using his fists. He liked the
feel of solid flesh and bone giving under the impact of those big
fists of his. Boxing wasn't enough; he had to be able to feel
flesh-to-flesh contact, with no padded glove between. He almost killed
a couple of men before we got to him."
"What did you do to his hands?"
"Nothing. Not a thing. There's nothing at all wrong with his hands.
But he _thinks_ there is. He's firmly convinced that the bones are as
brittle as chalk, that if he uses those fists, _he_ will be the one
who will break and shatter. It even bothers him to shake hands, as you
saw last night. It took a lot of guts to do what he did last
night--walk over to those two thugs knowing he couldn't defend
himself. He's no coward. But he's as terrified of having his hands
hurt as Manny is of driving a car."
"I see" the Duke said thoughtfully.
* * * * *
"There are other cases, plenty of them," I went on. "We have
pyromaniacs who are perfectly harmless now because they have a deathly
terror of flame. We have one fellow who used to be very nasty with a
knife; he grows a beard now because the very thought of having a sharp
edge that close to him is unnerving. The reality would send him
screaming. We have a girl who had the weird idea that it was fun to
drop things out of windows or off the tops of high buildings. Aside
from the chance of people below being hurt, there was another danger.
Two cops grabbed her just as she was about to drop her baby brother
off the roof of her apartment house.
"But we don't worry about her any more. People with acute acrophobia
are in no condition to pull stunts like that."
"What will you do to this Hammerlock Smith, then?" His Grace asked.
"Actually, he's one of the simpler cases. A large percentage of our
zanies lose control when they're under the influence of alcohol or
drugs. Alcohol is by far the more common. Under the influence, they do
things they would never do when sober.
"As long as they remain sober, they have control. But, give them a few
drinks and the control slips and then vanishes completely. One of our
others was a little like Manny the Moog; he drove like a madman--which
he was when he was drunk. Sober, he was as careful and cautious a
driver as you'd want--a perfectly reliable citizen. But, after losing
his license and the right to own a car, he'd still get drunk and steal
cars.
"He has his license back now, but we know we can trust him with it. He
will never be able to take another drink.
"Smith is of that type. So, apparently, is Nestor. When we get through
with Smith, he'll be sober, and he'll stay that way to his grave."
* * * * *
"Astounding." The Duke looked at me again. "I can see the results, of
course. I'm going to see that some sort of similar program is started
in England, even if I have to stand up in the House of Lords to do it.
But, I still don't understand how it can be done so rapidly--a matter
of hours. What is the technique used?"
"It all depends on the therapist," I said. "Brownlee is one of the
best, but there are others who are almost as good. Some of the
officers have started calling them _hexperts_ because, in effect,
that's exactly what they do--put a hex on the patient."
"A _geas_, in other words."