Surgeon General Mors stood beside a pigsty and argued patiently with a peasant who so far had stubbornly refused to permit the reinoculation of either his family or his cows. The dumpy little man in the badly fitting uniform said earnestly:
“It is a matter of living together, what learned men call symbiosis. We defended our country with the other inoculations. Now we must defend all mankind with these! We do not want our people to be feared or hated. We want visitors from other nations to come and live among us in peace and safety, to have no fears about doing business with us. If other nations are afraid of us, we will suffer for it!”
The peasant made fitful objections. Victory over the invaders, and the terms imposed upon them, had made him proud. But Surgeon General Mors’ patient arguments were gradually wearing him down.
“Ah, but they made war on us. That was different! We do not want any more wars. When you and your family and your cows have been inoculated, we will be that much further along toward the understanding that nations which are at peace can live together,” said Surgeon General Mors earnestly. “Nations which are at war only die together.”
The Strange Case of John Kingman
IT STARTED WHEN Dr. Braden took the trouble to look up John Kingman’s case-history card. Meadeville Mental Hospital had a beautifully elaborate system of card indexes, because psychiatric research is stressed there. It is the oldest mental institution in the country, having been known as “New Bedlam” when it was founded some years before the Republic of the United States of America. The card index system was unbelievably perfect. But young Dr. Braden found John Kingman’s card remarkably lacking in the usual data.
“Kingman, John,” said the card. “White, male, 5′8″, brown-black hair. Note: physical anomaly. Patient has six fingers on each hand, extra digits containing apparently normal bones and being wholly functional. Age …” This was blank. “Race …” This, too, was blank. “Birthplace ...” Considering the other blanks, it was natural for this to be vacant, also. “Diagnosis: advanced typical paranoia with pronounced delusions of grandeur apparently unassociated with usual conviction of persecution.” There was a comment here, too. “Patient apparently understands English very slightly if at all. Does not speak.” Then three more spaces. “Nearest relative …” It was blank. “Case history …” It was blank. Then, “Date of admission …” and it was blank.
The card was notably defective, for the index card of a patient at Meadeville Mental. A patient’s age and race could be unknown if he’d simply been picked up in the street somewhere and never adequately identified. In such an event it was reasonable that his nearest relative and birthplace should be unknown, too. But there should have been some sort of case history, at least of the events leading to his committal to the institution. And certainly, positively, absolutely, the date of his admission should be on the card!
Young Dr. Braden was annoyed. This was at the time when the Jantzen euphoric-shock treatment was first introduced, and young Dr. Braden believed in it. It made sense. He was anxious to attempt it at Meadeville—of course on a patient with no other possible hope of improvement. He handed the card to the clerk in the records department and asked for further data on the case.
Two hours later he smoked comfortably on a very foul pipe, stretched out on grassy sward by the Administration Building. There was a beautifully blue sky overhead, and the shadows of the live oaks reached out in an odd long pattern on the lawn. Young Dr. Braden read meditatively in the American Journal of Psychiatry. The article was “Reaction of Ten Paranoid Cases to Euphoric Shock.” John Kingman sat in regal dignity on the steps nearby. He wore the nondescript garments of an indigent patient—not supplied with clothing by relatives. He gazed into the distance, to all appearances thinking consciously godlike thoughts and being infinitely superior to mere ordinary humans. He was of an indeterminate age which might be forty or might be sixty or might be anywhere in between. His six-fingered hands lay in studied gracefulness in his lap. He deliberately ignored all of mankind and mankind’s doings.
Dr. Braden finished the article. He sucked thoughtfully on the burned-out pipe. Without seeming to do so, he regarded John Kingman again. Mental cases have unpredictable reactions, but as with children and will animals, much can be done if care is taken not to startle them. Presently young Dr. Braden said meditatively:
“John, I think something can be done for you.”
The regal figure turned its eyes. They looked at the younger man. They were aloofly amused at the impertinence of a mere human being addressing John Kingman, who was so much greater than a mere human being that he was not even annoyed at human impertinence. Then John Kingman looked away again.
“I imagine,” said Braden, as meditatively as before, “that you’re pretty bored. I’m going to see if something can’t be done about it. In fact—”
Someone came across the grass toward him. It was the clerk of the records department. He looked very unhappy. He had the card Dr. Braden had turned in with a request for more complete information. Braden waited.
“Er . . doctor,” said the clerk miserably, “there’s something wrong! Something terribly wrong! About the records, I mean.”
The aloofness of John Kingman had multiplied with the coming of a second, low, human being into his ken. He gazed into the distance in divine indifference to such creatures.
“Well?” said Braden.
“There’s no record of his admission!” said the clerk. “Every year there’s a complete roster of the patients, you know. I thought I’d just glance back, find out what year his name first appeared, and look in the committal papers for that year. But I went back twenty years, and John Kingman is mentioned every year!”
“Look back thirty, then,” said Braden.
“I … I did!” said the clerk painfully. “He was a patient here thirty years ago!”
“Forty?” asked Braden.
The clerk gulped.
“Dr. Braden,” he said desperately, “I even went to the dead files, where records going back to 1850 are kept. And … doctor, he was a patient then!”
Braden got up from the grass and brushed himself off automatically.
“Nonsense!” he said. “That’s ninety-eight years ago!”
The clerk looked crushed. “I know, doctor. There’s something terribly wrong! I’ve never had my records questioned before. I’ve been here twenty years—”
“I’ll come with you and look for myself,” said Dr. Braden. “Send an attendant to come here and take him back to his ward.”
“Y-yes, doctor,” said the clerk, gulping again. “At… at once.”
He went away at a fast pace between a shuffle and a run. Dr. Braden scowled impatiently.
Then he saw John Kingman looking at him again, and John Kingman was amused. Tolerantly, loftily amused. Amused with a patronizing condescension that would have been infuriating to anyone but a physician trained to regard behavior as symptomatic rather than personal.
“It’s absurd,” grunted Braden, matter-of-factly treating the patient—as a good psychiatrist does—like a perfectly normal human being. “You haven’t been here for ninety-eight years!”
One of the six-fingered hands stirred. While John Kingman regarded Braden with infinitely superior scorn, six fingers made a gesture as of writing. Then the hand reached out.