Bad Medicine - Robert Sheckley

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Bad medicine by Robert Sheckley.

On May 2nd, 2103, Elwood Castle walked rapidly down Broadway with a loaded revolver hidden in his coat pocket.

He didn't want to use the weapon, but feared he might anyhow.

This was a justifiable assumption, for Castle was a homicidal maniac.

It was a gentle misty spring day, and the air held the smell of rain and blossoming dogwood.

Castle gripped a revolver in his sweaty right hand, and tried to think of a single valid reason why he should not kill a man named Magnuson,

who the other day had commented on how well Castle looked.

What business was it of Magnuson's how he looked?

Damn busy bodies, always spoiling things for everybody.

Castle was a choleric little man, with fierce red eyes, bulldog jowls and ginger-red hair.

He was a sort you would expect to find, perched on a detergent box, or aiding to a crowd of launching businessmen,

and amused students shouting, ''Mars for the Martians, Venus for the Venusions!''

But, in truth, Castle was uninterested in the deplorable social conditions of extraterrestrials.

He was a jet bus conductor for the New York Rapid Transit Corporation.

He minded his own business, and he was quite mad.

Fortunately, he knew this at least part of the time, with at least half of his mind.

Perspiring freely, Castle continued down Broadway toward the 43rd Street branch of Home Therapy Appliance's Inc.

His friend Magnuson would be finishing work soon, returning to his little apartment less than a block from Castle's.

How easy it would be, how pleasant to just saunter in exchange a few words, and...

No!

Castle took a deep gulp of air, and reminded himself that he didn't really want to kill anyone.

It was not right to kill people.

The authorities would lock him up. His friends wouldn't understand. His mother would never have approved.

But these arguments seemed pallid, over intellectual and entirely without force.

The simple fact remained, he wanted to kill Magnuson.

Could so stronger desire be wrong, or even unhealthy?

Yes, it could.

With an agonised groan, Castle sprinted the last few steps into the Home Therapy Appliance's store.

Just being within such a place gave him an immediate sense of relief.

The lighting was discreet, the draperies were neutral.

The displays of glittering therapy machines were neither too bland nor obstruct us.

It was the kind of place where a man could happily lie down on the carpet in the shadow of the therapy machines,

securing the knowledge that helped for any sort of trouble was at hand.

A clock with fair hair and long supercellious nose glided up softly, but not too softly, and murmured, may one help?

Therapy said Castle.

Of course sir, the clock answered, smoothing his lapels and smiling winningly. That is what we are here for.

He gave Castle a searching look, performed an instant mental diagnosis, and tapped a gleaming white and copper machine.

Now this, the clock said, is the new alcoholic reliever, built by IBM and advertised in the leading magazines.

A handsome piece of furniture I think you will agree, and not out of place in any home.

It opens into a television set.

With a flick of his narrow wrist, the clock opened the alcoholic reliever, revealing a 52-inch screen.

I need Castle Big Out.

Therapy.

The clock finished for him, of course.

I just wanted to point out that this model need never cause embarrassment for yourself, your friends or loved ones.

Notice if you will, the recessed dial which controls the desired degree of drinking.

See? If you do not wish total abstinence, you can set it to heavy, moderate, social or light.

That is a new feature, unique in mechanotherapy.

I am not an alcoholic.

Castle said, with considerable dignity.

The New York Rapid Transit Corporation does not hire alcoholics.

Oh, said the clock, glancing distrustfully at Castle's bloodshot eyes.

You seem a little nervous.

Perhaps the portable Bendix Anxiety would use it.

Anxiety is not my ticket either.

What have you got for homicidal mania?

The clock, pierced his lips.

Skits of friendly core manic depressive origins.

Ah, but I do not know.

Castle admitted somewhat taken aback.

Ah, it really does not matter, the clock told him.

Just a private theory of my own.

From my experience in the store, redheads and lawns of prone to schizophrenia, while brunettes inclined toward the manic depressive.

That is interesting. Have you worked along?

A week.

Now then, here is just what you need sir.

He put his hand affectionately on a squat black machine with chrome trim.

What's that?

That, sir, is the Rex Regenerator built by General Motors.

Isn't it handsome?

It can go with any decor and opens up until a well-stocked bar.

Your friends, family, loved ones need never know.

Will it cure a homicidal urge?

Castle asked. A strong one.

Absolutely. Don't confuse us with the little ten amp neurosis models.

This is a hefty heavy-duty 25 amp machine for a really deep-rooted major condition.

That's what I've got.

Said Caswell, with pardonable pride.

This baby all jolted out of you.

Big heavy-duty thrust bearings.

Oversized heat absorbers completely insulated.

Sensitivity range of over. I'll take it.

Caswell said, right now, I'll pay cash.

Fine, I'll just telephone storage.

And this one'll do.

He said, pulling out his billfold.

I'm in a hurry to use it. I want to kill my friend Magnuson, you know.

The clock clocked sympathetically.

Oh, you wouldn't want to do that.

Plus five percent sales tax.

Thank you, sir. Full instructions are inside.

Caswell thanked him, lifted the Regenerator in both arms, and hurried out.

After figuring his commission, the clock smiled to himself, and lighter to cigarette.

His enjoyment was spoiled when the manager, a large man, impressively equipped with

a pinch-nay, marched out of his office.

"'Haskins!' the manager said.

I thought I asked you to rid yourself of that filthy habit."

"'Yes, Mr. Volansby. Sorry, sir.'

Haskins apologized, snubbing out the cigarette.

I'll use the display de-nicatinizer at once.

Make rather a good sale, Mr. Volansby, one of the big Rex Regenerators."

"'Really?' said the manager, impressed.

"'It is, and often we, wait a minute, you didn't sell the floor model, did you?'

"'Why, why am I afraid I did, Mr. Volansby.'

The customer was in such a terrible hurry.

Was there any reason?'

Mr. Volansby gripped his prominent white thread in both hands, as though he wished to rip it off.

"'Haskins, I told you. I must have told you.

That display de-generator was a Martian model for giving mechanotherapy to Martians.'

"'Oh!' Haskins said. He thought for a moment.

"'Oh!'

Mr. Volansby stared at his clock 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 to alter 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. Oh, you say he was homicidal?'

"'I don't know what will happen. Quick, what is his address?'

"'Well, Mr. Volansby, 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!'

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A woodcastle returned to his apartment by taxi-copter.

He loved the regenerator into his living room, put it down near the couch and studied it thoughtfully.

The clerk was right, he said, after a while.

It does go with the room.

Aesthetically, the regenerator was a success.

Cassewell admired it for a few more moments than went into the kitchen and fixed himself a chicken sandwich.

Yate, slowly, staring fixedly at a point just above and to the left of his kitchen clock.

Damn you, Magnuson!

Don't you know good line-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 Cassewell realised, worriedly, that he didn't want to use the desire to kill Magnuson.

What would become of him if he lost that urge?

His life would lose all purpose, all coherence, all flavour and zest.

It would be quite dull, really.

Moreover, he had a great and genuine grievance against Magnuson.

One he didn't even like to think about.

Irene.

His poor sister, deborched by the subtle and insidious Magnuson, ruined by him and cast aside.

What better reason could a man have to take his revolver and...

Cassewell 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.

One, place the regenerator near a comfortable couch.

A comfortable couch can be purchased as an additional accessory from any General Motors dealer.

Two, plug in the machine.

Three, a fixed 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,

payment lending.

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 age you and becoming well and happy.

As soon as it is collected and processed enough data, your regenerator will begin treatment.

You make the sessions are 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.

Hmm, nothing hard about that.

Cassewell 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.

A abruptly he closed his mouth instead, pugnaciously at the black and chrome machine.

So you think you can make me sane, huh?

The regenerator didn't answer.

Oh, I'll go ahead and try.

He slipped the headband over his forehead, crossed his arms on his chest and leaned back.

Nothing happened.

Cassewell settled himself more comfortably on the couch.

He scratched his shoulder and put the headbander to more comfortable angle.

Still nothing. His thoughts began to wander.

Magnuson, you noisy overbearing oaf you disgusting!

Good afternoon, a voice murmured in his head.

I am your mechanotherapist.

Cassewell 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 pre-conscious with the intensive 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?

Cassewell asked, pleased.

Yes, the coefficient seemed...

I'm not sure.

The machine's robotic voice grew feeble, and pilot-like 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?

Ask Cassewell, feeling light-headed.

The machine snapped back.

It's pilot-like blazing.

Mechanotherapy today is an exact science, and admits no significant errors.

We will proceed with the word association test.

Fire away, said Cassewell.

House.

Home.

Dog.

Cat.

Fleeful.

Cassewell hesitated, trying to figure out the word.

It sounded vaguely Martian, but it might be Venusian, or even...

Fleeful, the regenerator repeated.

Marfouche, Cassewell replied, making up the word on the spur of the moment.

Loud.

Sweet.

Green.

Mother.

Funnagoyes.

Patamethonga.

Arides.

Nexophessmodrastica.

Cthenohelgonoptases.

Rigmaru Latacentric propatria.

Cassewell 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 patent fits, it always does.

What patent?

You have, the machine informed him.

A classic case of feme desire, complicated by strong dorkish intentions.

I do, I thought I was homicidal.

That term has no referent, the machine said severely.

Therefore I must reject it as an nonsense celebration.

Now consider these points.

The feme 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 environment for response.

I am not absolutely sure, I know what you are talking about.

Cassewell 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.

Alright, Cassewell said I will try.

Up to now he had been bathed in a warm globe superiority.

Everything the machine had said seemed mildly humorous.

As a matter of fact, he had felt capable of pointing out a few things wrong with the mechanotherapist.

Now that sense of well-being had evaporated, as it always did.

And Cassewell was alone, terribly alone and lost, a creature of his compulsions, in search

of little peace and contentment.

He would undergo anything to find them.

Certainly he reminded himself that he had no right to comment on the mechanotherapist.

These machines knew what they were doing and had been doing it for a long time.

He would cooperate, no matter how outlandish the treatment seemed from his lane's viewpoint.

But it was obvious, Cassewell thought, settling himself grimly on the couch,

that mechanotherapy was going to be far more difficult than he had imagined.

The search for the missing customer had been brief and useless.

He was nowhere to be found on the teaming New York streets,

and no one could remember seeing a red-haired red-eyed little man,

lugging a black therapeutic machine.

It was all too common aside.

In answer to an urgent telephone call, the police came immediately.

Four of them, led by a harassed young lieutenant of detectives named Smith.

Smith just had time to ask, say, why don't you people put tags on things,

when there was an interruption?

A man pushed his way past the policeman at the door.

He was tall and gnarled and ugly, and his eyes were deep-set and bleakly blue.

His clothes, 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 badge beneath.

I'm John Rath, General Motors Security Division.

Oh, sorry, sir. Lieutenant Smith said, saluting.

I didn't think you people would move in so fast.

Rath made a non-committal noise.

Have you checked for Prince 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 of the 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 the possibility of an industrial transfer.

Rath turned to fawns being haskins and transfixed them with a gaze as piercing

and as impersonal as a radar beam.

Let's have the full story.

He said, taking a notebook and pencil from a shapeless pocket.

He listened to the tale in ominous silence.

Finally, he closed his notebook, thrust it back into his pocket and said,

the therapeutic machines are a sacred trust to give a customer the wrong machine

is a betrayal of that trust, a violation of the public interest

and a defamation of the company's good reputation.

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

A Martian model, Rath continued,

should never have been on the floor in the first place.

I can explain that, fallence be said hastily.

We needed to demonstrate a model when I wrote to the company telling them,

this might, Rath broken inexorably, be considered a case of gross criminal negligence.

Both the manager and the clock exchanged horrified looks.

They were thinking of the General Motors' reformetry outside of Detroit

where company offenders passed their days in silent silence,

monotonously drawing microcircuits for pocket television sets.

However, this is out of my jurisdiction.

Rath said, he turned his bailful gaze upon hastkins.

You are certain that the customer never mentioned his name?

No sir, I mean yes sir, I'm sure.

Hastkins replied rattly.

Did he mention any names at all?

Hastkins plunged his face into his hands.

He looked up and said eagerly, yes, he wanted to kill someone, a friend of his.

Who? Rath asked with terrible patience.

The friend's name was, let me think, Magneton?

Yes, that was it, Magneton.

Oh, was it Morrison?

Oh dear.

Mr. Rath's own face registered a rather corrugated disgust.

People were useless as witnesses.

Worse than useless since they were frequently misleading.

For reliability, give him a robot every time.

Didn't you mention anything significant?

Let me think, hastkins said, his face twisting into a fit of concentration.

Rath waited.

Mr. Phones be cleared as throat.

I was just thinking, Mr. Rath, about that Martian machine.

It won't treat a turn homicidal cases, homicidal, will it?

Of course not, homicidal is unknown on Mars.

Yes, but what will it do?

Might it not reject the entire cases unsuitable?

Then the customer would merely return the regenerator with a complaint and we would...

Mr. Rath shook his head.

The Rex regenerator must treat if he finds evidence of psychosis.

By Martian standards, the customer is a very sick man, a psychotic, no matter what is wrong with him.

Phones be removed his pincenay and polish them rapidly.

What will the machine do then?

It will treat him for the Martian illness most analogous to his case.

Femed his eye, I should imagine, with various complications.

As for what will happen once treatment begins, I don't know.

I doubt whether anyone knows since it has never happened before.

No offhand, I would say there are two major alternatives.

The patient may reject the therapy out of hand, in which case he is left with his homicidal

condition unabated, or he may accept the Martian therapy and reach a cure.

Mr. Phones be faced brightened.

Ah, a cure is possible?

You don't understand, Rath said.

He may affect a cure of his non-existent Martian psychosis, but to cure something that is not

there is, in effect, to erect a gratuitous, delusional system.

You might say that the machine would work in reverse, producing psychosis instead of removing it.

Mr. Phones be groaned and leaned against a bell-psychosomaticer.

The result, Rath summed up, would be to convince the customer that he was Martian, a same Martian naturally.

Askins suddenly shouted, I remember, I remember now.

He said he worked for the New York Rapid Transit Corporation, I remember distinctly.

Now that's a break.

Rath said, reaching for the telephone.

Askins wiped his perspiring face in relief.

And I just remembered something else that should make it easier still.

What?

The customer said he had been an alcoholic at one time.

I'm sure of it, because he was interested at first in the IBM alcoholic reliever, until I talked him out of it.

He had red hair, you know, and I've had a theory for some time about redheadedness and alcoholism.

It seems.

Excellent.

Rath said alcoholism will be on his records.

It narrows the search considerably.

If you dialed the NYRT Corporation, the expression on his crack-like face was almost pleasant.

It was good for a change to find that a human could retain some significant facts.

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But surely you remember your Gorokai, the regenerator was saying.

No.

Casual answered wearily.

Tell me then about your juvenile experiences with the Thoreshtrian fleet.

Never had any.

Hmm.

Blockage.

Much of the machine.

Resentment.

Repression.

Are you sure you don't remember your Gorokai and what it meant to you?

The experience is universal.

Not for me.

Casual 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 towards his Gorokai.

Oh look, Casual complained, I don't even know what a Gorokai 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?

Casual raged, I don't know.

What do you imagine a Gorokai would be?

A forest fire.

Casual said, assault 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 recognise it?

What in hell is the Gorokai?

Casual roared.

The tree that nourished you during infancy and well into puberty, if my theory about you is correct.

Inadvertently the Gorokai stifled to a necessary rejection of the theme desire.

This in turn gave rise to your presentage to walk someone in a vlandish 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 Gorokai 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 Casual and pulled off the headband.

The silence was wonderful.

Casual 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 lear.

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.

Casual went into the kitchen and opened a bottle of beer.

His revolver was still on the table, gleaming dullly.

Magnuson, you unspeakable treacherous filth, you fiending can't it.

You inhuman hideous monster.

Someone must destroy you.

Magnuson, someone.

Someone?

He himself would have to do it.

Only he knew the bottom of the steps of Magnuson's depravity, his viciousness, his disgusting

lust for power.

Yes, it was his duty, Casual thought.

But strangely, the knowledge brought him no pleasure.

After all, Magnuson was his friend.

He stood up, ready for action.

He tapped the revolver into his right-hand coat pocket and glanced at the kitchen clock.

Nearly 630.

Magnuson would be home now, gulping his dinner, grinning over his plans.

This was the perfect time to take him.

Casual 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 deaths.

Casual 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, Casual said, but do you know?

I think I do remember my gothic eye.

John Rath contacted the New York Rapid Transit Corporation by Televideo, and was put into

a media 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 tattoo 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 jet buses 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 nearest 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.

Dad and Rath said heavily.

He turned and shouted, Smith, did you find any prints?

He turned and Smith, his coat off and sleeve rolled up, bound it over.

Nothing usable, sir.

Rath's in 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.

Askin said.

Rath ignored him.

What next?

Rapid transit will not go into corporate.

Would the armed services make their records available for scantying by some utter tyken

pigmentation?

Sir.

Askin said again, what is it?

I just remember the customer's friend's name.

It was Magnuson.

Are you sure of that?

Absolutely.

Askin 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 man hat and listing under that name.

Rath glowed at him from under Shaggy eyebrows.

Askins, I hope you are not wrong about this.

I sincerely hope that.

I do too, sir.

Askins 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 15 minutes.

It was an ancient brownstone building, and Magnuson'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.

What is this?

He demanded.

You Magnuson?

Lieutenant Smith barked.

Yeah?

What's the beef?

If it's about my high-five playing too loud, I can tell you that that old hag downstairs,

may we come in?

Rath asked.

It's important.

Magnuson seemed about to refuse, so Rath pushed past him, followed by Smith, Fawnsby,

Askins, and a small army of policemen.

Magnuson turned to face them, bewildered, defined, and more than a little odd.

Mr. Magnuson, Rath said in the pleasantest voice he could muster.

I hope you'll forgive the intrusion.

Let me assure you it is in the public interest as well as your own.

Do you know a short, angry-looking, red-haired, red-eyed man?

Yes.

Magnuson said slowly and wearily.

Askins let out a sigh of relief.

Would you tell us his name and address?

Ask, Rath.

I suppose you mean, hold it.

What's he done?

Nothing.

Then what do you want him for?

There's no time for explanations.

Rath said, believe me, it's in his own best interest, too, what's his name?

Magnuson studied Rath's ugly, honest face, trying to make up his mind.

Lieutenant Smith said, come on, talk, Magnuson, if you know what's good for you.

We want the name, and we want it quick.

It was the wrong approach.

Magnuson lighted a cigarette.

Blue smoke in Smith's direction, and inquired, you got a warrant, buddy.

You bet I have?

Smith said, striding forward, I'll warrant you wise guy.

Stop it!

Rath ordered.

Lieutenant Smith, thank you for your assistance, I won't need you any longer.

Smith left, silkely, taking his platoon with him.

Rath said, I apologise for Smith's over-eagerness.

You had better hear the problem.

Briefly but fully, he told the story of the customer and the Martian therapeutic machine.

When he was finished, Magnuson looked more suspicious than ever.

You say he wants to kill me?

Definitely.

That's a lie.

I don't know what your game is, mister, but you'll never make me believe that.

Elwood's my best friend.

We've been best friends since we were kids.

We've been in service together.

Elwood would cut off his arm for me, and I did the same for him.

Yes, yes, Rath said impatiently.

In a sane frame of mind, he would, but your friend Elwood, is that his first name

or last?

First, Magnuson said, tauntingly.

Your friend Elwood is psychotic.

You don't know him, that guy loves me like a brother.

Look, what's Elwood really done?

Defaulted on some payments or something?

I can help out.

You thick-headed imbecile, Rath shouted.

I'm trying to save your life and the life and sanity of your friend.

But how do I know?

Magnuson pleaded, you guys combusting in here.

You can trust me, Rath said.

Magnuson studied Rath's face and nodded sadly.

His name's Elwood Caswell.

He lives just down the block at number three-four-one.

The man who came to the door was short, with red hair and red room dyes.

His right hand was thrust into his coat pocket.

He seemed very calm.

Are you Elwood Caswell?

Rath asked.

The Elwood Caswell who bought a regenerator earlier this afternoon at the home therapy

appliances store.

Yes, said Caswell, won't you come in?

Inside Caswell's small living room, they saw the regenerator, disining black and chrome,

standing near the couch.

It was unplugged.

Have you used it?

Rath asked anxiously.

Yes.

Fonds be stepped forward.

Mr. Caswell, I don't know how to explain this, but we made a terrible mistake.

The regenerator you took was a Martian model for giving therapy to Martians.

I know, said Caswell, you do?

Of course, it became pretty obvious after a while.

It was a dangerous situation.

Rath said, especially for a man with your, uh, troubles.

He studied Caswell covertly.

The man seemed fine, but appearances were frequently deceiving, especially with psychotics.

Caswell had been homicidal.

There was no reason why he should not still be.

And Rath began to wish he had not dismissed Smith and his policemen so summarily, sometimes

an unsquat was comforting thing to have around.

Caswell walked across the room to the therapeutic machine.

One hand was still in his jacket pocket, the other he laid affectionately upon the regenerator.

The poor thing tried its best.

He said, of course, it couldn't cure, wasn't there.

He laughed, but it came very near succeeding.

Rath studied Caswell's face and said in a trained casual tone.

Glad there was no harm, sir.

The company will, of course, reimburse you for your lost time and for your mental anguish.

Naturally, Caswell said, and we will substitute a proper term regenerator at once.

That won't be necessary.

It won't?

No.

Caswell's voice was decisive.

The machine's attempt at therapy forced me into a complete self-appraisal.

There was a moment of absolute insight during which I was able to evaluate and discard

my homicidal intentions towards poor Magnuson.

Rath nodded dubiously.

You feel no such urge now.

Not in the slightest.

Rath frowned deeply, started to say something and stopped.

He turned to Follensby and Haskins.

Get that machine out of here.

I'll have a few things to say to you at the store.

The manager in the clock lifted the regenerator and laughed.

Rath took a deep breath.

Mr. Caswell, I would strongly advise that you accept a new regenerator from the company

gratis, unless secure is affected in a proper, mechanotherapeutic manner, there is always

a danger of a setback.

No danger with me, Caswell said, airily, but with deep conviction.

Thank you for your consideration, sir, and good night.

Rath shrugged and walked to the door.

Wait! Caswell called.

Rath turned.

Caswell had taken his hand out of his pocket.

In it was a revolver.

Rath felt sweat trickle down his arms.

He calculated the distance between himself and Caswell.

But it was too far.

Here! Caswell said extending the revolver, but first.

I won't need this any longer.

Rath managed to keep his face expressionless as he accepted the revolver and stuck it into

a shapeless pocket.

Good night, Caswell said.

He closed the door behind Rath and bolted it.

At last he was alone.

Caswell walked into the kitchen.

He opened a bottle of beer, took a deep swallow, sat down at the kitchen table.

He stared fixately at a point just above and to the left of the clock.

He had to form his plans now, there was no time to lose.

Magnuson, that in human monster who cut down the Caswell Gorokai, Magnuson, the man who

even now was secretly planning to infect New York with their apparent theme desire,

old Magnuson, I wish you a long, long life filled with the torture I can inflict on you,

and to start with.

Caswell smiled to himself as he planned exactly how he would walk Magnuson in a vlandish

manner.

End of Bad Medicine by Robert Sheckley.

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