“Really?” said the manager, impressed. “It isn’t often we—wait a minute! You didn’t sell the floor model, did you?”
“Why—why, I’m afraid I did, Mr. Follansby. The customer was in such a terrible hurry. Was there any reason—”
Mr. Follansby gripped his prominent white forehead in both hands, as though he wished to rip it off. “Haskins, I told you. I must have told you! That display Regenerator was a Martian model. For giving mechanotherapy to Martians.”
“Oh,” Haskins said. He thought for a moment. “Oh.”
Mr. Follansby stared at his clerk in grim silence.
“But does it really matter?” Haskins asked quickly. “Surely the machine won’t discriminate. I should think it would treat a homicidal tendency even if the patient were not a Martian.”
“The Martian race has never had the slightest tendency toward homicide. A Martian Regenerator doesn’t even process the concept. Of course the Regenerator will treat him. It has to. But what will it treat?”
“Oh,” said Haskins.
“That poor devil must be stopped before—you say he was homicidal? I don’t know what will happen! Quick, what is his address?”
“Well, Mr. Follansby, he was in such a terrible hurry—”
The manager gave him a long, unbelieving look. “Get the police! Call the General Motors Security Division! Find him!”
Haskins raced for the door.
“Wait!” yelled the manager, struggling into a raincoat. “I’m coming, too.”
* * * *
Elwood Caswell returned to his apartment by taxicopter. He lugged the Regenerator into his living room, put it down near the couch and studied it thoughtfully.
“That clerk was right,” he said after a while. “It does go with the room.”
Esthetically, the Regenerator was a success.
Caswell admired it for a few more moments, then went into the kitchen and fixed himself a chicken sandwich. He ate slowly, staring fixedly at a point just above and to the left of his kitchen clock.
Damn you, Magnessen! Dirty no-good lying shifty-eyed enemy of all that’s decent and clean in the world.…
Taking the revolver from his pocket, he laid it on the table. With a stiffened forefinger, he poked it into different positions.
It was time to begin therapy.
Except that.…
Caswell realized worriedly that he didn’t want to lose the desire to kill Magnessen. What would become of him if he lost that urge? His life would lose all purpose, all coherence, all flavor and zest. It would be quite dull, really.
Moreover, he had a great and genuine grievance against Magnessen, one he 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 to take 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 instructions tucked into a ventilation louver of the machine. He opened them and read:
To Operate All Rex Model Regenerators:
1. Place the Regenerator near a comfortable couch. (A comfortable couch can be purchased as an additional accessory from any General Motors dealer.)
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 no language bar or dialect problem, since the Regenerator communicates by Direct Sense Contact (Patent Pending). All you must do is cooperate.
Try not to feel any embarrassment or shame. Everyone has problems and many are worse than yours! Your Regenerator has no interest in your morals or ethical standards, so don’t feel it is ‘judging’ you. It desires only to aid you in becoming well and happy.
As soon as it has collected and processed enough data, your Regenerator will begin treatment. You make the sessions as short or as long as you like. 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 General Motors Regenerator and GET SANE!
* * * *
“Nothing hard about that,” Caswell said to himself. He pushed the Regenerator closer to the couch and plugged it in. He lifted the headband, started to slip it on, stopped.
“I feel so silly!” he giggled.
Abruptly he closed his mouth and stared pugnaciously at the black-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 his forehead, crossed his arms on his chest and leaned back.
Nothing happened. Caswell settled himself more comfortably on the couch. He scratched his shoulder and put the headband at a more comfortable 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 your mechanotherapist.”
Caswell twitched guiltily. “Hello. I was just—you know, just sort of—”
“Of course,” the machine said soothingly. “Don’t we all? I am now scanning the material in your preconscious with the intent of synthesis, 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 robotic voice 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 stronger voice, “the unusual nature of the symptoms need not prove entirely baffling to a competent therapeutic machine. A symptom, no matter how bizarre, is no more than a signpost, an indication of inner difficulty. And all symptoms can be related to the broad mainstream of proven theory. Since the theory is effective, the symptoms must relate. We will proceed on that assumption.”
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” asked Caswell, feeling lightheaded.
The machine snapped back, its pilot light blazing. “Mechanotherapy today is an exact science and admits no significant errors. We will proceed with a word-association test.”
“Fire away,” said Caswell.
“House?”
“Home.”
“Dog?”
“Cat.”
“Fleefl?”
Caswell hesitated, trying to figure out the word. It sounded vaguely Martian, but it might be Venusian or even—
“Fleefl?” the Regenerator repeated.
“Marfoosh,” Caswell replied, making up the word on the spur of the moment.
“Loud?”
“Sweet.”
“Green?”
“Mother.”
“Thanagoyes?”
“Patamathonga.”
“Arrides?”
“Nexothesmodrastica.”
“Chtheesnohelgnopteces?”
“Rigamaroo latasentricpropatria!” Caswell shot back. It was a collection of sounds he was particularly proud of. The average man would 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 I must reject it as nonsense syllabification. Now consider these points: The feem desire is perfectly normal. Never forget that. But it is usually 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,” Caswell confessed.
“Please, sir! We must establish one thing at once. You are the patient. I am the mechanotherapist. You have brought your troubles to me for treatment. But you cannot expect help unless you cooperate.”