"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.
The Regenerator said, "Yes?"
"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.