Bad Medicine

  Bad Medicine

  by Robert Sheckley

  On May 2, 2103, Elwood Caswell walked rapidly down Broadway with aloaded revolver hidden in his coat pocket. He didn't want to use theweapon, but feared he might anyhow. This was a justifiable assumption,for Caswell was a homicidal maniac.

  It was a gentle, misty spring day and the air held the smell of rainand blossoming-dogwood. Caswell gripped the revolver in his sweatyright hand and tried to think of a single valid reason why he shouldnot kill a man named Magnessen, who, the other day, had commented onhow well Caswell looked.

  What business was it of Magnessen's how he looked? Damned busybodies,always spoiling things for everybody....

  Caswell was a choleric little man with fierce red eyes, bulldog jowlsand ginger-red hair. He was the sort you would expect to find perchedon a detergent box, orating to a crowd of lunching businessmen andamused students, shouting, "Mars for the Martians, Venus for theVenusians!"

  But in truth, Caswell was uninterested in the deplorable socialconditions of extraterrestrials. He was a jetbus conductor for the NewYork Rapid Transit Corporation. He minded his own business. And he wasquite mad.

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

  -- -- -- -- --

  Perspiring freely, Caswell continued down Broadway toward the 43rdStreet branch of Home Therapy Appliances, Inc. His friend Magnessenwould be finishing work soon, returning to his little apartment lessthan a block from Caswell's. How easy it would be, how pleasant, tosaunter in, exchange a few words and....

  No! Caswell took a deep gulp of air and reminded himself that he didn'treally want to kill anyone. It was not right to kill people. Theauthorities would lock him up, his friends wouldn't understand, hismother would never have approved.

  But these arguments seemed pallid, over-intellectual and entirelywithout force. The simple fact remained--he wanted to kill Magnessen.

  Could so strong a desire be wrong? Or even unhealthy?

  Yes, it could! With an agonized groan, Caswell sprinted the last fewsteps into the Home Therapy Appliances Store.

  Just being within such a place gave him an immediate sense of relief.The lighting was discreet, the draperies were neutral, the displays ofglittering therapy machines were neither too bland nor obstreperous. Itwas the kind of place where a man could happily lie down on the carpetin the shadow of the therapy machines, secure in the knowledge thathelp for any sort of trouble was at hand.

  A clerk with fair hair and a long, supercilious nose glided up softly,but not too softly, and murmured, "May one help?"

  "Therapy!" said Caswell.

  "Of course, sir," the clerk answered, smoothing his lapels and smilingwinningly. "That is what we are here for." He gave Caswell a searchinglook, performed an instant mental diagnosis, and tapped a gleamingwhite-and-copper machine.

  "Now this," the clerk said, "is the new Alcoholic Reliever, built byIBM and advertised in the leading magazines. A handsome piece offurniture, I think you will agree, and not out of place in any home. Itopens into a television set."

  With a flick of his narrow wrist, the clerk opened the AlcoholicReliever, revealing a 52-inch screen.

  "I need--" Caswell began.

  "Therapy," the clerk finished for him. "Of course. I just wanted topoint out that this model need never cause embarrassment for yourself,your friends or loved ones. Notice, if you will, the recessed dialwhich controls the desired degree of drinking. See? If you do not wishtotal 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. "TheNew York Rapid Transit Corporation does not hire alcoholics."

  "Oh," said the clerk, glancing distrustfully at Caswell's bloodshoteyes. "You seem a little nervous. Perhaps the portable Bendix AnxietyReducer--"

  "Anxiety's not my ticket, either. What have you got for homicidalmania?"

  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 theoryof my own. From my experience in the store, redheads and blonds areprone to schizophrenia, while brunettes incline toward themanic-depressive."

  "That's interesting. Have you worked here long?"

  "A week. Now then, here is just what you need, sir." He put his handaffectionately on a squat black machine with chrome trim.

  "What's that?"

  "That, sir, is the Rex Regenerator, built by General Motors. Isn't ithandsome? It can go with any decor and opens up into a well-stockedbar. 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 neurosismodels. This is a hefty, heavy-duty, twenty-five amp machine for areally 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 ahurry to use it. I want to kill my friend Magnessen, you know."

  The clerk clucked sympathetically. "You wouldn't want to do that ... Plusfive percent sales tax. Thank you, sir. Full instructions are inside."

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

  After figuring his commission, the clerk smiled to himself and lighteda cigarette. His enjoyment was spoiled when the manager, a large manimpressively equipped with pince-nez, marched out of his office.

  "Haskins," the manager said, "I thought I asked you to rid yourself ofthat filthy habit."

  "Yes, Mr. Follansby, sorry, sir," Haskins apologized, snubbing out thecigarette. "I'll use the display Denicotinizer at once. Made rather agood 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 aterrible hurry. Was there any reason--"

  Mr. Follansby gripped his prominent white forehead in both hands, asthough he wished to rip it off. "Haskins, I told you. I must have toldyou! That display Regenerator was a Martian model. For givingmechanotherapy 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 machinewon't discriminate. I should think it would treat a homicidal tendencyeven 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 theRegenerator 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'tknow 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! Callthe 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 theRegenerator into his living room, put it down near the couch andstudied it thoughtfully.


  "That clerk was right," he said after a while. "It does go with theroom."

  Esthetically, the Regenerator was a success.

  Caswell admired it for a few more moments, then went into the kitchenand fixed himself a chicken sandwich. He ate slowly, staring fixedly ata point just above and to the left of his kitchen clock.

  Damn you, Magnessen! Dirty no-good lying shifty-eyed enemy of allthat's decent and clean in the world....

  Taking the revolver from his pocket, he laid it on the table. With astiffened forefinger, he poked it into different positions.

  It was time to begin therapy.

  Except