"You don't understand," Rath said. "He may effect a cure of his
nonexistent Martian psychosis. But to cure something that is not there
is, in effect, to erect a gratuitous delusional system. You might say
that the machine would work in reverse, producing psychosis instead of
removing it."
Mr. Follansby groaned and leaned against a Bell Psychosomatica.
"The result," Rath summed up, "would be to convince the customer that
he was a Martian. A sane Martian, naturally."
Haskins suddenly shouted, "I remember! I remember now! He said he
worked for the New York Rapid Transit Corporation! I remember
distinctly!"
"That's a break," Rath said, reaching for the telephone.
Haskins wiped his perspiring face in relief. "And I just remembered
something else that should make it easier still."
"What?"
"The customer said he had been an alcoholic at one time. I'm sure of
it, because he was interested at first in the IBM Alcoholic Reliever,
until I talked him out of it. He had red hair, you know, and I've had a
theory for some time about red-headedness and alcoholism. It seems--"
"Excellent," Rath said. "Alcoholism will be on his records. It narrows
the search considerably."
As he dialed the NYRT Corporation, the expression on his craglike face
was almost pleasant.
It was good, for a change, to find that a human could retain some
significant facts.
-- -- -- -- --
"But surely you remember your goricae?" the Regenerator was saying.
"No," Caswell answered wearily.
"Tell me, then, about your juvenile experiences with the thorastrian
fleep."
"Never had any."
"Hmm. Blockage," muttered the machine. "Resentment. Repression. Are you
sure you don't remember your goricae and what it meant to you? The
experience is universal."
"Not for me," Caswell said, swallowing a yawn.
He had been undergoing mechanotherapy for close to four hours and it
struck him as futile. For a while, he had talked voluntarily about his
childhood, his mother and father, his older brother. But the
Regenerator had asked him to put aside those fantasies. The patient's
relationships to an imaginary parent or sibling, it explained, were
unworkable and of minor importance psychologically. The important thing
was the patient's feelings--both revealed and repressed--toward his
goricae.
"Aw, look," Caswell complained, "I don't even know what a goricae is."
"Of course you do. You just won't let yourself know."
"I don't know. Tell me."
"It would be better if you told me."
"How can I?" Caswell raged. "I don't know!"
"What do you imagine a goricae would be?"
"A forest fire," Caswell said. "A salt tablet. A jar of denatured
alcohol. A small screwdriver. Am I getting warm? A notebook. A revolver--"
"These associations are meaningful," the Regenerator assured him. "Your
attempt at randomness shows a clearly underlying pattern. Do you begin
to recognize it?"
"What in hell is a goricae?" Caswell roared.
"The tree that nourished you during infancy, and well into puberty, if
my theory about you is correct. Inadvertently, the goricae stifled your
necessary rejection of the feem desire. This in turn gave rise to your
present urge to dwark someone in a vlendish manner."
"No tree nourished me."
"You cannot recall the experience?"
"Of course not. It never happened."
"You are sure of that?"
"Positive."
"Not even the tiniest bit of doubt?"
"No! No goricae ever nourished me. Look, I can break off these sessions
at any time, right?"
"Of course," the Regenerator said. "But it would not be advisable at
this moment. You are expressing anger, resentment, fear. By your
rigidly summary rejection--"
"Nuts," said Caswell, and pulled off the headband.
-- -- -- -- --
The silence was wonderful. Caswell stood up, yawned, stretched and
massaged the back of his neck. He stood in front of the humming black
machine and gave it a long leer.
"You couldn't cure me of a common cold," he told it.
Stiffly he walked the length of the living room and returned to the
Regenerator.
"Lousy fake!" he shouted.
Caswell went into the kitchen and opened a bottle of beer. His revolver
was still on the table, gleaming dully.
Magnessen! You unspeakable treacherous filth! You fiend incarnate! You
inhuman, hideous monster! Someone must destroy you, Magnessen! Someone....
Someone? He himself would have to do it. Only he knew the bottomless
depths of Magnessen's depravity, his viciousness, his disgusting lust
for power.
Yes, it was his duty, Caswell thought. But strangely, the knowledge
brought him no pleasure.
After all, Magnessen was his friend.
He stood up, ready for action. He tucked the revolver into his
right-hand coat pocket and glanced at the kitchen clock. Nearly
six-thirty. Magnessen would be home now, gulping his dinner, grinning
over his plans.
This was the perfect time to take him.
Caswell strode to the door, opened it, started through, and stopped.
A thought had crossed his mind, a thought so tremendously involved, so
meaningful, so far-reaching in its implications that he was stirred to
his depths. Caswell tried desperately to shake off the knowledge it
brought. But the thought, permanently etched upon his memory, would not
depart.
Under the circumstances, he could do only one thing.
He returned to the living room, sat down on the couch and slipped on
the headband.