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that....

  Caswell realized worriedly that he didn't want to lose the desire tokill Magnessen. What would become of him if he lost that urge? His lifewould lose all purpose, all coherence, all flavor and zest. It would bequite dull, really.

  Moreover, he had a great and genuine grievance against Magnessen, onehe didn't like to think about.

  Irene!

  His poor sister, debauched by the subtle and insidious Magnessen,ruined by him and cast aside. What better reason could a man have totake his revolver and....

  Caswell finally remembered that he did not have a sister.

  Now was really the time to begin therapy.

  He went into the living room and found the operating instructionstucked into a ventilation louver of the machine. He opened them andread:

  To Operate All Rex Model Regenerators:

  1. Place the Regenerator near a comfortable couch. (A comfortable couchcan be purchased as an additional accessory from any General Motorsdealer.)

  2. Plug in the machine.

  3. Affix the adjustable contact-band to the forehead.

  And that's all! Your Regenerator will do the rest! There will be nolanguage bar or dialect problem, since the Regenerator communicates byDirect Sense Contact (Patent Pending). All you must do is cooperate.

  Try not to feel any embarrassment or shame. Everyone has problems andmany are worse than yours! Your Regenerator has no interest in yourmorals or ethical standards, so don't feel it is 'judging' you. Itdesires only to aid you in becoming well and happy.

  As soon as it has collected and processed enough data, your Regeneratorwill begin treatment. You make the sessions as short or as long as youlike. You are the boss! And of course you can end a session at any time.

  That's all there is to it! Simple, isn't it? Now plug in your GeneralMotors Regenerator and GET SANE!

  -- -- -- -- --

  "Nothing hard about that," Caswell said to himself. He pushed theRegenerator closer to the couch and plugged it in. He lifted theheadband, started to slip it on, stopped.

  "I feel so silly!" he giggled.

  Abruptly he closed his mouth and stared pugnaciously at theblack-and-chrome machine.

  "So you think you can make me sane, huh?"

  The Regenerator didn't answer.

  "Oh, well, go ahead and try." He slipped the headband over hisforehead, crossed his arms on his chest and leaned back.

  Nothing happened. Caswell settled himself more comfortably on thecouch. He scratched his shoulder and put the headband at a morecomfortable angle. Still nothing. His thoughts began to wander.

  Magnessen! You noisy, overbearing oaf, you disgusting--

  "Good afternoon," a voice murmured in his head. "I am yourmechanotherapist."

  Caswell twitched guiltily. "Hello. I was just--you know, just sort of--"

  "Of course," the machine said soothingly. "Don't we all? I am nowscanning the material in your preconscious with the intent ofsynthesis, diagnosis, prognosis, and treatment. I find...."

  "Yes?"

  "Just one moment." The Regenerator was silent for several minutes.Then, hesitantly, it said, "This is beyond doubt a most unusual case."

  "Really?" Caswell asked, pleased.

  "Yes. The coefficients seem--I'm not sure...." The machine's roboticvoice grew feeble. The pilot light began to flicker and fade.

  "Hey, what's the matter?"

  "Confusion," said the machine. "Of course," it went on in a strongervoice, "the unusual nature of the symptoms need not prove entirelybaffling to a competent therapeutic machine. A symptom, no matter howbizarre, is no more than a signpost, an indication of inner difficulty.And all symptoms can be related to the broad mainstream of proventheory. Since the theory is effective, the symptoms must relate. Wewill proceed on that assumption."

  "Are you sure you know what you're doing?" asked Caswell, feelinglightheaded.

  The machine snapped back, its pilot light blazing. "Mechanotherapytoday is an exact science and admits no significant errors. We willproceed with a word-association test."

  "Fire away," said Caswell.

  "House?"

  "Home."

  "Dog?"

  "Cat."

  "Fleefl?"

  Caswell hesitated, trying to figure out the word. It sounded vaguelyMartian, but it might be Venusian or even--

  "Fleefl?" the Regenerator repeated.

  "Marfoosh," Caswell replied, making up the word on the spur of themoment.

  "Loud?"

  "Sweet."

  "Green?"

  "Mother."

  "Thanagoyes?"

  "Patamathonga."

  "Arrides?"

  "Nexothesmodrastica."

  "Chtheesnohelgnopteces?"

  "Rigamaroo latasentricpropatria!" Caswell shot back. It was acollection of sounds he was particularly proud of. The average manwould not have been able to pronounce them.

  "Hmm," said the Regenerator. "The pattern fits. It always does."

  "What pattern?"

  "You have," the machine informed him, "a classic case of feem desire,complicated by strong dwarkish intentions."

  "I do? I thought I was homicidal."

  "That term has no referent," the machine said severely. "Therefore Imust reject it as nonsense syllabification. Now consider these points:The feem desire is perfectly normal. Never forget that. But it isusually replaced at an early age by the hovendish revulsion.Individuals lacking in this basic environmental response--"

  "I'm not absolutely sure I know what you're talking about," Caswellconfessed.

  "Please, sir! We must establish one thing at once. You are the patient.I am the mechanotherapist. You have brought your troubles to me fortreatment. But you cannot expect help unless you cooperate."

  "All right," Caswell said. "I'll try."

  Up to now, he had been bathed in a warm glow of superiority. Everythingthe machine said had seemed mildly humorous. As a matter of fact, hehad felt capable of pointing out a few things wrong with themechanotherapist.

  Now that sense of well-being evaporated, as it always did, and Caswellwas alone, terribly alone and lost, a creature of his compulsions, insearch of a little peace and contentment.

  He would undergo anything to find them. Sternly he reminded himselfthat he had no right to comment on the mechanotherapist. These machinesknew what they were doing and had been doing it for a long time. Hewould cooperate, no matter how outlandish the treatment seemed from hislayman's viewpoint.

  But it was obvious, Caswell thought, settling himself grimly on thecouch, that mechanotherapy was going to be far more difficult than hehad imagined.

  -- -- -- -- --

  The search for the missing customer had been brief and useless. He wasnowhere to be found on the teeming New York streets and no one couldremember seeing a red-haired, red-eyed little man lugging a blacktherapeutic machine.

  It was all too common a sight.

  In answer to an urgent telephone call, the police came immediately,four of them, led by a harassed young lieutenant of detectives namedSmith.

  Smith just had time to ask, "Say, why don't you people put tags onthings?" when there was an interruption.

  A man pushed his way past the policeman at the door. He was tall andgnarled and ugly, and his eyes were deep-set and bleakly blue. Hisclothes, unpressed and uncaring, hung on him like corrugated iron.

  "What do you want?" Lieutenant Smith asked.

  The ugly man flipped back his lapel, showing a small silver badgebeneath. "I'm John Rath, General Motors Security Division."

  "Oh ... Sorry, sir," Lieutenant Smith said, saluting. "I didn't think youpeople would move in so fast."

  Rath made a noncommittal noise. "Have you checked for prints,Lieutenant? The customer might have touched some other therapy machine."

  "I'll get right on it, sir," Smith said. It wasn't often that one ofthe operatives from GM, GE, or IBM came down to take a personal hand.If a local cop showed he was really clicking, there just might be thepossibility of an Indu
strial Transfer....

  Rath turned to Follansby and Haskins, and transfixed them with a gazeas piercing and as impersonal as a radar beam. "Let's have the fullstory," he said, taking a notebook and pencil from a shapeless pocket.

  He listened to the tale in ominous silence. Finally he closed hisnotebook, thrust it back into his pocket and said, "The therapeuticmachines are a sacred trust. To give a customer the wrong machine is abetrayal of that trust, a violation of the Public Interest, and adefamation of the Company's good reputation."

  The manager nodded in agreement, glaring at his unhappy clerk.

  "A Martian model," Rath continued, "should never have been on the floorin the