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"I'm trying to save your life, and the life and sanity of your friend!" "But how do I know?" Magnessen pleaded. "You guys come busting in here " "You can trust me," Rath said. Magnessen studied Rath's face and nodded sourly. "His name's Elwood Caswell. He lives just down the block at number 341." The man who came to the door was short, with red hair and red-rimmed eyes.
He stood up, ready for action. He tucked the revolver into his right-hand coat pocket and glanced at the kitchen clock. Nearly six-thirty. Magnessen would be home now, gulping his dinner, grinning over his plans. This was the perfect time to take him. Caswell strode to the door, opened it, started through, and stopped.
He stood in front of the humming black machine 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 the Regenerator. "Lousy fake!" he shouted. Caswell went into the kitchen and opened a bottle of beer. His revolver was still on the table, gleaming dully. Magnessen! You unspeakable treacherous filth!
Perspiring freely, Caswell continued down Broadway toward the 43rd Street branch of Home Therapy Appliances, Inc. His friend Magnessen would be finishing work soon, returning to his little apartment less than a block from Caswell's. How easy it would be, how pleasant, to saunter in, exchange a few words and.... No!
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.
Caswell took a deep gulp of air and reminded himself that he didn't really want to kill anyone. It was not right to kill people. The authorities would lock him up, his friends wouldn't understand, his mother would never have approved. But these arguments seemed pallid, over-intellectual and entirely without force. The simple fact remained he wanted to kill Magnessen.
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, ruined by him and cast aside. What better reason could a man have to take his revolver and.... Caswell finally remembered that he did not have a sister. Now was really the time to begin therapy.
You fiend incarnate! You inhuman, hideous monster! Someone must destroy you, Magnessen! Someone.... Someone? He himself would have to do it. Only he knew the bottomless depths of Magnessen's depravity, his viciousness, his disgusting lust for power. Yes, it was his duty, Caswell thought. But strangely, the knowledge brought him no pleasure. After all, Magnessen was his friend.
"What is it?" "I just remembered the customer's friend's name. It was Magnessen." "Are you sure of that?" "Absolutely," Haskins said, with the first confidence he had shown in hours. "I've taken the liberty of looking him up in the telephone book, sir. There's only one Manhattan listing under that name." Rath glowered at him from under shaggy eyebrows.
The door opened and a stocky, crop-headed, shirt-sleeved man in his thirties stood before them. He turned slightly pale at the sight of so many uniforms, but held his ground. "What is this?" he demanded. "You Magnessen?" Lieutenant Smith barked. "Yeah. What's the beef? If it's about my hi-fi playing too loud, I can tell you that old hag downstairs " "May we come in?" Rath asked. "It's important."
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