Bad Medicine | Page 2

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," Caswell said, with considerable dignity. "The New York Rapid Transit Corporation does not hire alcoholics."
"Oh," said the clerk, glancing distrustfully at Caswell's bloodshot eyes. "You seem a little nervous. Perhaps the portable Bendix Anxiety Reducer--"
"Anxiety's not my ticket, either. What have you got for homicidal mania?"
The clerk pursed his lips. "Schizophrenic or manic-depressive origins?"
"I don't know," Caswell admitted, somewhat taken aback.
"It really doesn't matter," the clerk told him. "Just a private theory of my own. From my experience in the store, redheads and blonds are prone to schizophrenia, while brunettes incline toward the manic-depressive."
"That's interesting. Have you worked here long?"
"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 into a well-stocked bar. Your friends, family, loved ones need never know--"
"Will it cure a homicidal urge?" Caswell asked. "A strong one?"
"Absolutely. Don't confuse this with the little ten amp neurosis models. This is a hefty, heavy-duty, twenty-five amp machine for a really deep-rooted major condition."
"That's what I've got," said Caswell, with pardonable pride.
"This baby'll jolt it out of you. Big, heavy-duty thrust bearings! Oversize 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," Caswell said, pulling out his billfold. "I'm in a hurry to use it. I want to kill my friend Magnessen, you know."
The clerk clucked sympathetically. "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 clerk smiled to himself and lighted a cigarette. His enjoyment was spoiled when the manager, a large man impressively equipped with pince-nez, marched out of his office.
"Haskins," the manager said, "I thought I asked you to rid yourself of that filthy habit."
"Yes, Mr. Follansby, sorry, sir," Haskins apologized, snubbing out the cigarette. "I'll use the display Denicotinizer at once. Made rather a good sale, Mr. Follansby. One of the big Rex Regenerators."
"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,