'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.'
'All right,' Caswell said. 'I'll try.'
Up to now, he had been bathed in a warm glow of superiority. Everything the machine said had 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 evaporated, as it always did, and Caswell was alone, terribly alone and lost, a creature of his compulsions, in search of a little peace and contentment.
He would undergo anything to find them. Sternly 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 layman's viewpoint.
But it was obvious, Caswell 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 teeming 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 a sight.
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 noncommittal noise. 'Have you checked for prints,
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 Follansby and 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 clerk.
'A Martian model,' Rath continued, 'should never have been on the floor in the first place.'
'I can explain that,' Follansby said hastily. 'We needed a demonstrator model and I wrote to the Company, telling them—'
'This might,' Rath broke in inexorably, 'be considered a case of gross criminal negligence.'
Both the manager and the clerk exchanged horrified looks. They were thinking of the General Motors Reformatory outside of Detroit, where Company offenders passed their days in sullen silence, monotonously drawing microcircuits for pocket television sets.
'However, that is out of my jurisdiction,' Rath said. He turned his baleful gaze full upon Haskins. 'You are certain that the customer never 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. People were useless as witnesses. Worse than useless, since they were frequently 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 of concentration.
Rath waited.
Mr. Follansby cleared his throat. 'I was just thinking, Mr. Rath. About that Martian machine. It won't treat a Terran homicidal case as homicidal, will it?'
'Of course not. Homicide is unknown on Mars.'
