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There was a moment of absolute insight, during which I was able to evaluate and discard my homicidal intentions toward poor Magnessen." 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 Follansby and Haskins. "Get that machine out of here. I'll have a few things to say to you at the store."
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?"
By Martian standards, the customer is a very sick man, a psychotic no matter what is wrong with him." Follansby removed his pince-nez and polished them rapidly. "What will the 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 what will happen once treatment begins, I don't know.
"Have you used it?" Rath asked anxiously. "Yes." Follansby 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.
Magnessen seemed about to refuse, so Rath pushed past him, followed by Smith, Follansby, Haskins, and a small army of policemen. Magnessen turned to face them, bewildered, defiant and more than a little awed. "Mr. Magnessen," 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.
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.
"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.
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.
Old Branscomb is goin' home tea-ed up reg'lar, and Al Leavitt and Pud Follansby and a half a dozen others are settin' there all times of night, playin' cards and makin' a reg'lar ha'nt of it. If Ferd ain't shet up it will be said" the constable looked into the snapping eyes of the first selectman and halted apprehensively.
"He may effect a cure of his nonexistent 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. Follansby groaned and leaned against a Bell Psychosomatica.
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