Bad Medicine

by Robert Sheckley

first place."

  "I can explain that," Follansby said hastily. "We needed a demonstratormodel and I wrote to the Company, telling them--"

  "This might," Rath broke in inexorably, "be considered a case of grosscriminal negligence."

  Both the manager and the clerk exchanged horrified looks. They werethinking of the General Motors Reformatory outside of Detroit, whereCompany offenders passed their days in sullen silence, monotonouslydrawing microcircuits for pocket television sets.

  "However, that is out of my jurisdiction," Rath said. He turned hisbaleful gaze full upon Haskins. "You are certain that the customernever mentioned his name?"

  "No, sir. I mean yes, I'm sure," Haskins replied rattledly.

  "Did he mention any names at all?"

  Haskins 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! That was it! Magneton!Or was it Morrison? Oh, dear...."

  Mr. Rath's iron face registered a rather corrugated disgust. Peoplewere useless as witnesses. Worse than useless, since they werefrequently misleading. For reliability, give him a robot every time.

  "Didn't he mention anything significant?"

  "Let me think!" Haskins said, his face twisting into a fit ofconcentration.

  Rath waited.

  Mr. Follansby cleared his throat. "I was just thinking, Mr. Rath. Aboutthat Martian machine. It won't treat a Terran homicidal case ashomicidal, will it?"

  "Of course not. Homicide is unknown on Mars."

  "Yes. But what will it do? Might it not reject the entire case asunsuitable? Then the customer would merely return the Regenerator witha complaint and we would--"

  Mr. Rath shook his head. "The Rex Regenerator must treat if it findsevidence of psychosis. By Martian standards, the customer is a verysick man, a psychotic--no matter what is wrong with him."

  Follansby removed his pince-nez and polished them rapidly. "What willthe machine do, then?"

  "It will treat him for the Martian illness most analogous to his case.Feem desire, I should imagine, with various complications. As for whatwill happen once treatment begins, I don't know. I doubt whether anyoneknows, since it has never happened before. Offhand, I would say thereare two major alternatives: the patient may reject the therapy out ofhand, in which case he is left with his homicidal mania unabated. Or hemay accept the Martian therapy and reach a cure."

  Mr. Follansby's face brightened. "Ah! A cure is possible!"

  "You don't understand," Rath said. "He may effect a cure of hisnonexistent Martian psychosis. But to cure something that is not thereis, in effect, to erect a gratuitous delusional system. You might saythat the machine would work in reverse, producing psychosis instead ofremoving it."

  Mr. Follansby groaned and leaned against a Bell Psychosomatica.

  "The result," Rath summed up, "would be to convince the customer thathe was a Martian. A sane Martian, naturally."

  Haskins suddenly shouted, "I remember! I remember now! He said heworked for the New York Rapid Transit Corporation! I rememberdistinctly!"

  "That's a break," Rath said, reaching for the telephone.

  Haskins wiped his perspiring face in relief. "And I just rememberedsomething else that should make it easier still."

  "What?"

  "The customer said he had been an alcoholic at one time. I'm sure ofit, 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 atheory for some time about red-headedness and alcoholism. It seems--"

  "Excellent," Rath said. "Alcoholism will be on his records. It narrowsthe search considerably."

  As he dialed the NYRT Corporation, the expression on his craglike facewas almost pleasant.

  It was good, for a change, to find that a human could retain somesignificant facts.

  -- -- -- -- --

  "But surely you remember your goricae?" the Regenerator was saying.

  "No," Caswell answered wearily.

  "Tell me, then, about your juvenile experiences with the thorastrianfleep."

  "Never had any."

  "Hmm. Blockage," muttered the machine. "Resentment. Repression. Are yousure you don't remember your goricae and what it meant to you? Theexperience is universal."

  "Not for me," Caswell said, swallowing a yawn.

  He had been undergoing mechanotherapy for close to four hours and itstruck him as futile. For a while, he had talked voluntarily about hischildhood, his mother and father, his older brother. But theRegenerator had asked him to put aside those fantasies. The patient'srelationships to an imaginary parent or sibling, it explained, wereunworkable and of minor importance psychologically. The important thingwas the patient's feelings--both revealed and repressed--toward hisgoricae.

  "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 denaturedalcohol. A small screwdriver. Am I getting warm? A notebook. A revolver--"

  "These associations are meaningful," the Regenerator assured him. "Yourattempt at randomness shows a clearly underlying pattern. Do you beginto recognize it?"

  "What in hell is a goricae?" Caswell roared.

  "The tree that nourished you during infancy, and well into puberty, ifmy theory about you is correct. Inadvertently, the goricae stifled yournecessary rejection of the feem desire. This in turn gave rise to yourpresent 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 sessionsat any time, right?"

  "Of course," the Regenerator said. "But it would not be advisable atthis moment. You are expressing anger, resentment, fear. By yourrigidly summary rejection--"

  "Nuts," said Caswell, and pulled off the headband.

  -- -- -- -- --

  The silence was wonderful. Caswell stood up, yawned, stretched andmassaged the back of his neck. He stood in front of the humming blackmachine 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 theRegenerator.

  "Lousy fake!" he shouted.

  Caswell went into the kitchen and opened a bottle of beer. His revolverwas still on the table, gleaming dully.

  Magnessen! You unspeakable treacherous filth! You fiend incarnate! Youinhuman, hideous monster! Someone must destroy you, Magnessen! Someone....

  Someone? He himself would have to do it. Only he knew the bottomlessdepths of Magnessen's depravity, his viciousness, his disgusting lustfor power.

  Yes, it was his duty, Caswell thought. But strangely, the knowledgebrought him no pleasure.

  After all, Magnessen was his friend.

  He stood up, ready for action. He tucked the revolver into hisright-hand coat pocket and glanced at the kitchen clock. Nearlysix-thirty. Magnessen would be home now, gulping his dinner, grinningover 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, someaningful, so far-reaching in its implications that he was stirred tohis depths. Caswell tried desperately to shake off the knowledge itbrought. But the thought, permanently etched upon his memory, would notdepart.

  Under the circumstances, he could do
only one thing.

  He returned to the living room, sat down on the couch and slipped onthe headband.

  The Regenerator said, "Yes?"

  "It's the damnedest thing," Caswell said, "but do you know, I think Ido remember my goricae!"

  -- -- -- -- --

  John Rath contacted the New York Rapid Transit Corporation by televideoand was put into immediate contact with Mr. Bemis, a plump, tanned manwith 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