"It's my Destiny." Price quickly added, "And yours, too, of course."
Infield nodded. Price was a demagogue, young, handsome, dynamic,
likable, impassioned with his cause, and convinced that it was his
divine destiny. He was a psychopathic egotist and a dangerous man.
Doubly dangerous to Infield because, even though he was one of the few
people who still read books from the old days of therapy to recognize
Price for what he was, he nevertheless still liked the young man
for the intelligence behind the egotism and the courage behind the
fanaticism.
"How are we going to deal with the Incompletes?" Infield asked.
Price started to glance around the cafe, then half-shrugged, almost
visibly thinking that he shouldn't run that routine into the ground.
"We'll Cure them whether they want to be Cured or not--for their own
good."
Infield felt cold inside. After a time, he found that the roaring was
not just in his head. It was thundering outside. He was getting sick.
Price was the type of man who could spread his ideas throughout the
ranks of the Cured--if indeed the plot was not already universal,
imposed upon many ill minds.
* * * * *
He could picture an entirely Cured world and he didn't like the view.
Every Cure cut down on the mental and physical abilities of the patient
as it was, whether Morgan and the others admitted it or not. But if
everyone had a crutch to lean on for one phobia, he would develop
secondary symptoms.
People would start needing two Cures--perhaps a foetic gyro and a
safety belt--then another and another. There would always be a crutch
to lean on for one thing and then room enough to develop something
else--until everyone would be loaded down with too many Cures to
operate.
A Cure was a last resort, dope for a malignancy case, euthanasia for
the hopeless. Enforced Cures would be a curse for the individual and
the race.
But Infield let himself relax. How could anyone force a mechanical
relief for neurotic or psychopathic symptoms on someone who didn't
want or need it?
"Perhaps you don't see how it could be done," Price said. "I'll
explain."
Reggie's heavy hand sat a straight bourbon down before Price and
another before Infield. Price stared at the drink almost without
comprehension of how it came to be. He started to sweat.
"George, drink it."
The voice belonged to a young woman, a blonde girl with pink skin
and suave, draped clothes. In this den of the Cured, Infield thought
half-humorously, it was surprising to see a Normal--an "Incomplete."
But then he noticed something about the baby she carried. The Cure had
been very simple. It wasn't even a mechanized half-human robot, just a
rag doll. She sat down at the table.
"George," she said, "drink it. One drink won't raise your alcohol index
to the danger point. You've got to get over this fear of even the sight
or smell of liquor."
The girl turned to Infield. "You're one of us, but you're new, so you
don't know about George. Maybe you can help if you do. It's all silly.
He's not an alcoholic. He didn't need to put that Cure on his head.
It's just an excuse for not drinking. All of this is just because a
while back something happened to the baby here--" she adjusted the
doll's blanket--"when he was drinking. Just drinking, not drunk.
"I don't remember what happened to the baby--it wasn't important.
But George has been brooding about it ever since. I guess he thinks
something else bad will happen because of liquor. That's silly. Why
don't you tell him it's silly?"
"Maybe it is," Infield said softly. "You could take the shock if he
downed that drink and the shock might do you good."
* * * * *
Price laughed shortly. "I feel like doing something very melodramatic,
like throwing my drink--and yours--across the room, but I haven't got
the guts to touch those glasses. Do it for me, will you? Cauterizing
the bite might do me good if I'd been bitten by a rabid dog, but I
don't have the nerve to do it."
Before Infield could move, Reggie came and set both drinks on a little
circular tray. He moved away. "I knew it. That's all he did, just look
at the drink. Makes me laugh."
Price wiped the sweat off his palms. Infield sat and thought. Mrs.
Price cooed to the rag doll, unmindful of either of them now.
"You were explaining," the psychiatrist said. "You were going to tell
me how you were going to Cure the Incompletes."
"I said _we_ were going to do it. Actually _you_ will play a greater
part than I, _Doctor_ Infield."
The psychiatrist sat rigidly.
"You didn't think you could give me your right name in front of your
own office building and that I wouldn't recognize you? I know some
psychiatrists are sensitive about wearing Cures themselves, but it is a
mark of honor of the completely sane man. You should be proud of your
Cure and eager to Cure others. _Very_ eager."
"Just what do you mean?" He already suspected Price's meaning.
Price leaned forward. "There is one phobia that is so wide-spread, a
Cure is not even thought of--hypochondria. Hundreds of people come to
your office for a Cure and you turn them away. Suppose you and the
other Cured psychiatrists give _everybody_ who comes to you a Cure?"
Infield gestured vaguely. "A psychiatrist wouldn't hand out Cures
unless they were absolutely necessary."
"You'll feel differently after you've been Cured for a while yourself.
Other psychiatrists have."
Before Infield could speak, a stubble-faced, barrel-chested man moved
past their table. He wore a safety belt. It was the man Price had
called Davies, the one who had fastened one of his safety lines to
Infield in the street.
Davies went to the bar in the back. "Gimme a bottle," he demanded of a
vacant-eyed Reggie. He came back toward them, carrying the bottle in
one hand, brushing off rain drops with the other. He stopped beside
Price and glared. Price leaned back. The chair creaked. Mrs. Price kept
cooing to the doll.
"You made me fall," Davies accused.