"It's the damnedest thing," Caswell said, "but do you know, I think I
do remember my goricae!"
-- -- -- -- --
John Rath contacted the New York Rapid Transit Corporation by televideo
and was put into immediate contact with Mr. Bemis, a plump, tanned man
with watchful eyes.
"Alcoholism?" Mr. Bemis repeated, after the problem was explained.
Unobtrusively, he turned on his tape recorder. "Among our employees?"
Pressing a button beneath his foot, Bemis alerted Transit Security,
Publicity, Intercompany Relations, and the Psychoanalysis Division.
This done, he looked earnestly at Rath. "Not a chance of it, my dear
sir. Just between us, why does General Motors really want to know?"
Rath smiled bitterly. He should have anticipated this. NYRT and GM had
had their differences in the past. Officially, there was cooperation
between the two giant corporations. But for all practical purposes--
"The question is in terms of the Public Interest," Rath said.
"Oh, certainly," Mr. Bemis replied, with a subtle smile. Glancing at
his tattle board, he noticed that several company executives had tapped
in on his line. This might mean a promotion, if handled properly.
"The Public Interest of GM," Mr. Bemis added with polite nastiness.
"The insinuation is, I suppose, that drunken conductors are operating
our jetbuses and helis?"
"Of course not. I was searching for a single alcoholic predilection, an
individual latency--"
"There's no possibility of it. We at Rapid Transit do not hire people
with even the merest tendency in that direction. And may I suggest,
sir, that you clean your own house before making implications about
others?"
And with that, Mr. Bemis broke the connection.
No one was going to put anything over on him.
"Dead end," Rath said heavily. He turned and shouted, "Smith! Did you
find any prints?"
Lieutenant Smith, his coat off and sleeves rolled up, bounded over.
"Nothing usable, sir."
Rath's thin lips tightened. It had been close to seven hours since the
customer had taken the Martian machine. There was no telling what harm
had been done by now. The customer would be justified in bringing suit
against the Company. Not that the money mattered much; it was the bad
publicity that was to be avoided at all costs.
"Beg pardon, sir," Haskins said.
Rath ignored him. What next? Rapid Transit was not going to cooperate.
Would the Armed Services make their records available for scansion by
somatotype and pigmentation?
"Sir," Haskins said again.
"What is it?"
"I just remembered the customer's friend's name. It was Magnessen."
"Are you sure of that?"
"Absolutely," Haskins said, with the first confidence he had shown in
hours. "I've taken the liberty of looking him up in the telephone book,
sir. There's only one Manhattan listing under that name."
Rath glowered at him from under shaggy eyebrows. "Haskins, I hope you
are not wrong about this. I sincerely hope that."
"I do too, sir," Haskins admitted, feeling his knees begin to shake.
"Because if you are," Rath said, "I will ... Never mind. Let's go!"
-- -- -- -- --
By police escort, they arrived at the address in fifteen minutes. It
was an ancient brownstone and Magnessen's name was on a second-floor
door. They knocked.
The door opened and a stocky, crop-headed, shirt-sleeved man in his
thirties stood before them. He turned slightly pale at the sight of so
many uniforms, but held his ground.
"What is this?" he demanded.
"You Magnessen?" Lieutenant Smith barked.
"Yeah. What's the beef? If it's about my hi-fi playing too loud, I can
tell you that old hag downstairs--"
"May we come in?" Rath asked. "It's important."
Magnessen seemed about to refuse, so Rath pushed past him, followed by
Smith, Follansby, Haskins, and a small army of policemen. Magnessen
turned to face them, bewildered, defiant and more than a little awed.
"Mr. Magnessen," Rath said, in the pleasantest voice he could muster,
"I hope you'll forgive the intrusion. Let me assure you, it is in the
Public Interest, as well as your own. Do you know a short,
angry-looking, red-haired, red-eyed man?"
"Yes," Magnessen said slowly and warily.
Haskins let out a sigh of relief.
"Would you tell us his name and address?" asked Rath.
"I suppose you mean--hold it! What's he done?"
"Nothing."
"Then what you want him for?"
"There's no time for explanations," Rath said. "Believe me, it's in his
own best interest, too. What is his name?"
Magnessen studied Rath's ugly, honest face, trying to make up his mind.
Lieutenant Smith said, "Come on, talk, Magnessen, if you know what's
good for you. We want the name and we want it quick."
It was the wrong approach. Magnessen lighted a cigarette, blew smoke in
Smith's direction and inquired, "You got a warrant, buddy?"
"You bet I have," Smith said, striding forward. "I'll warrant you, wise
guy."
"Stop it!" Rath ordered. "Lieutenant Smith, thank you for your
assistance. I won't need you any longer."
Smith left sulkily, taking his platoon with him.
Rath said, "I apologize for Smith's over-eagerness. You had better hear
the problem." Briefly but fully, he told the story of the customer and
the Martian therapeutic machine.
When he was finished, Magnessen looked more suspicious than ever. "You
say he wants to kill me?"
"Definitely."
"That's a lie! I don't know what your game is, mister, but you'll never
make me believe that. Elwood's my best friend. We been best friends
since we was kids. We been in service together. Elwood would cut off
his arm for me. And I'd do the same for him."
"Yes, yes," Rath said impatiently, "in a sane frame of mind, he would.
But your friend Elwood--is that his first name or last?"
"First," Magnessen said tauntingly.
"Your friend Elwood is psychotic."
"You don't know him. That guy loves me like a brother. Look, what's
Elwood really done? Defaulted on some payments or something? I can help
out."
"You thickheaded imbecile!" Rath shouted. "I'm trying to save your
life, and the life and sanity of your friend!"
"But how do I know?" Magnessen pleaded. "You guys come busting in here--"
"You can trust me," Rath said.
Magnessen studied Rath's face and nodded sourly. "His name's Elwood
Caswell. He lives just down the block at number 341."
-- -- -- -- --
The man who came to the door was short, with red hair and red-rimmed
eyes. His right hand was thrust into his coat pocket. He seemed very
calm.
"Are you Elwood Caswell?" Rath asked. "The Elwood Caswell who bought a
Regenerator early this afternoon at the Home Therapy Appliances Store?"
"Yes," said Caswell. "Won't you come in?"
Inside Caswell's small living room, they saw the Regenerator,
glistening black and chrome, standing near the couch. It was unplugged.
"Have you used it?" Rath asked anxiously.
"Yes."
Follansby stepped forward. "Mr. Caswell, I don't know how to explain
this, but we made a terrible mistake. The Regenerator you took was a
Martian model--for giving therapy to Martians."
"I know," said Caswell.
"You do?"
"Of course. It became pretty obvious after a while."
"It was a dangerous situation," Rath said. "Especially for a man with
your--ah--troubles." He studied Caswell covertly. The man seemed fine, but
appearances were frequently deceiving, especially with psychotics.
Caswell had been homicidal; there was no reason why he should not still
be.
And Rath began to wish he had not dismissed Smith and his policemen so
summarily. Sometimes an armed squad was a comforting thing to have
around.
Caswell walked across the room to the therapeutic machine. One hand was
still in his jacket pocket; the other he laid affectionately upon the
Regenerator.
"The poor thing tried its best," he said. "Of course, it couldn't cure
what wasn't there." He laughed. "But it came very near succeeding!"
-- -- -- -- --
Rath studied Caswell's face and said, in a trained, casual tone, "Glad
there was no harm, sir. The Company will, of course, reimburse you for
your lost time and for your mental anguish--"
"Naturally," Caswell said.
"--and we will substitute a proper Terran Regenerator at once."
"That won't be necessary."
"It won't?"
"No." Caswell's voice was decisive. "The machine's attempt at therapy
forced me into a compete self-appraisal. There was a moment of absolute
insight, during which I was able to evaluate and discard my homicidal
intentions toward poor Magnessen."