There was a murmur of approval from the crowd that had quickly gathered. All eyes were turned expectantly to the short man, who locked his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels in the way Freud is said to have done while considering whether or not there was a death instinct. He said, ‘Don’t you think that pleas based upon the assumption of one’s own objectivity are somewhat disingenuous, to say the least?’
The crowd nodded. The tall man said easily, ‘Granted that all personal judgments are inherently biased. Still, judgment is the only instrument of discrimination at our disposal, and it is our work as living, developing creatures to make discriminations, from which value-judgments inevitably flow. This must be done despite the subjectivity paradox implied in making an ‘objective’ statement. That is why I say unequivocably that you were in the wrong, and no amount of reference to the observer observed dichotomy is going to change that.’
There was a murmur of approval from the crowd. Many of them were taking notes, and a small discussion group had formed at the curb.
The short man knew that he had made a tactical blunder, thereby permitting his opponent to deliver a long speech. He tried desperately to recapture initiative by taking the discussion to another level:
‘Don’t you ever find your own words a little suspect?’ he inquired, with an Iago-like smile. Have you always had this overwhelming drive to be in the right? How long have you been engineering situations in which the other is invariably at fault, thus postponing the moment of facing your primordial and irremedial guilt?’
The tall man, sensing victory, said, ‘My friend, that is mere psychologizing. You are disturbed by the ‘demonic’ aspect of your own behavior, I suppose, and are determined to justify it at any cost.’
‘So now you’re a mind reader?’ the short man shot back. This drew a murmur from the spectators.
The tall man neutralized this by saying, ‘I am not a mind reader, my friend, I merely make use of the plentiful subcues available to me as to the etiology of your behavior. I think it’s pretty obvious to all of us here.’
He got a brisk round of applause for that one.
‘But damn it,’ the short man said to the crowd, ‘can’t you see that he’s merely playing with words? The concrete evidence puts him in the wrong, no matter what the cost of that insight is to his sense of childlike omnipotence.’
The audience muttered their disapproval of that one, and a man whispered to Crompton, ‘They always trot out the ad hominem argument as a last resort, don’t they?’
The tall man closed in for the kill. ‘You wish me to be in the wrong, my poor friend? Very well, I am delighted to be in the wrong, if that will be of any assistance to your diseased and deflated psyche. But I would like to point out for your own good that symbolic victories will be of little comfort to you when a time of trial is upon you. No, my good fellow, face up to the real world out there, the pain and sorrow of it all, but yes, the joy, the unutterable bliss of our all-too-brief sojourn upon this green planet!’
There was a moment of hushed silence in which you could hear nothing but the soft hum of many cassette recorders. Then the short man shouted, ‘Go fuck yourself you fast-talking stupid bastard cunt.’
The tall man bowed ironically and the crowd went wild. The short man hastily tried to cover up by pretending that his fit of temper had been an intentional satire upon commonplace behavior. But no one was deceived except perhaps Crompton, who found the entire affair disturbing and bizarre.
When Crompton returned to his apartment, there was a suprex message waiting for him. He was to come to the Intersentient Therapeutics Center at 10:00 a.m. the following morning for his first therapy appointment.
39
The Intersentient Therapeutics Center was a vast collection of buildings of various sizes and shapes, all interconnected by a series of walkovers, flyaways, catwalks, ramps, and other types of architectural integument. The Center was in effect a single gigantic building covering an area of 115.3 square miles. It was one of the largest man-made structures in that sector of the galaxy, coming just after the 207-square-mile used-food center on Opiuchus V.
Crompton passed through the main gate with its famous motto overhead: ‘A Sound Mind in a Sound Body or Bust.’ A guard checked him for weapons, and a receptionist verified his appointment and took him to a large, pleasantly furnished office on the second floor. Here he was turned over to Dr. Chares, a small, plump, balding man with gold pince-nez.
‘Take a seat, Mr. Crompton,’ Chares said. ‘We just have to complete your paperwork, then you can begin treatment. Do you have any questions? Please feel free to ask anything you like: we are here to serve you.’
‘that’s very kind of you,’ Crompton said. ‘Would you tell me what is going to happen next?’
Dr. Chares smiled regretfully. ‘Afraid not. That sort of information would merely precondition your expectations, resulting in the vitiation of your progress and insight. You wouldn’t want that to happen, would you?’
‘Of course not,’ Crompton said. ‘But can you tell me how long the treatment usually takes?’
‘That of course depends entirely on you,’ Chares said. ‘Permit me to be blunt. Some exceptional subjects have broken through into health while sitting right there in that chair arranging for their treatment. With others – most of us, I’m afraid – it takes somewhat longer. Ripeness is all, and that’s what we’re working for here. Beyond that, I would be being less than frank with you if I did not admit that the dynamics of personal health and dynamic growth are still a dimly understood variable, or cluster of interrelated modalities of potential, as I prefer to think of them.’
‘I think I see what you mean,’ Crompton said. ‘Anyhow, you are pretty sure you can cure me, aren’t you?’
‘Our confidence transcends the personal,’ Chares replied with quiet dignity. ‘We here at Aion believe that all sentient creatures are endowed with Original Sanity, and that we are the unremitting instrumentalities in the bringing forth of that Sanity. We have never failed, except of course at those times when our anticipations have been frustrated by premature termination of the patient’s life processes. Can’t win them all, I guess. Is there anything else you’d like to know?’
‘I guess you’ve pretty well covered it,’ Crompton said.
‘Then read this release,’ Chares said. ‘It says that you are aware that the course of your therapy may result in death, dismemberment, irreversible insanity, imbecility, impotence, or other undesirable effects. We will take every precaution to avoid those outcomes, of course, but in the unhappy event that one of these eventualities does eventuate you agree to hold us blameless, and so forth. Just sign at the bottom.’
He gave Crompton a replica of a fountain pen. Crompton hesitated.
‘That sort of thing hardly ever happens,’ Chares said encouragingly. ‘But still, the essence of therapeutic methodology involves real situations with authentic outcomes, and when you play that game you sometimes get unexpected results.’
Crompton considered, turning the replica fountain pen in his fingers and thinking how little he liked this setup. His nature rebelled at the idea of putting himself into a situation both ominous and enigmatic, as Aion seemed to him now. He was aware that when they warn you at the door that you may lose all your marbles inside, you just might consider looking for a lower-stakes game.
But what alternative did he have? He could feel his other personality components stirring, cross and argumentative even in their drugged sleep. He was faced with Hobson’s choice – a crossword puzzle favorite, and an epitome of his current situation.
Then Loomis, his voice blurry, said, ‘Al? Whash this? Whash happening, Al?’
‘I’ll do it,’ Crompton said, and hastily scrawled his signature before he could change his mind.
‘That’s great,’ Dr. Chares said, folding the release and putting it in his breast pocket. ‘Welcome to the wonderful world of no-shit therapy, Mr. Crompton!’
Crompton
’s chair suddenly tilted backward, trapping Crompton in its lap. Then the chair began to descend through a just-opened hole in the floor.
Crompton called out, ‘Wait, I’m not ready yet!’
They never are,’ he heard Chares say from far above him.
40
Presently the armchair stopped moving. Crompton stood up and tested the floor beneath his feet. He found that he was in a narrow passageway, one side of which was blocked by the armchair. He began to walk in the other direction, groping through the darkness with one hand in contact with the wall.
Loomis woke up and asked, ‘What’s going on, Al? Where are we?’
‘That’s a little difficult to explain,’ Crompton said.
‘But what’s this all about?’
‘It’s a special therapy we’re doing. It’s going to make us into a single whole person.’
‘Walking down a pitch-black tunnel is your idea of therapy?’
‘No, no, this is just a preliminary.’
‘To what?’
‘I don’t know. They said it was best we didn’t know.’
‘Why did they say that?’
‘I’m not sure, I think it’s part of the treatment.’
Loomis throught about that for a while. Then he said, ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Well, I don’t either,’ Crompton said. ‘But that’s what they told me.’
‘I see,’ Loomis said. ‘Well, isn’t that just great? This is really a nice situation you’ve gotten us into. You think you’re so intelligent, don’t you? Let me tell you something, Al, you’re not smart, you’re stupid.’
‘Try to be calm,’ Crompton said. ‘We are at a very famous and successful place. They know what they’re doing.’
‘It just doesn’t look kosher to me,’ Loomis said. ‘Can’t we just check out of this place and try to sort things out on our own?’
‘I think it’s a little too late for that,’ Crompton said. ‘And anyhow –’
Light, coming from no apparent source, suddenly flooded the corridor. Just ahead, the passageway widened into a large room.
Crompton entered, and saw that he was in a surgical theater. There were tiers of seats, shadowed in gloom. In the center of the room was an elaborate operating table. There were several men standing around the table wearing white coats, rubber gloves, and gauze masks. There was a man lying on the table, his face hidden under a washcloth. In the background, a radio was playing one of last year’s top Terran ten, ‘Tushy Sounds,’ by Spike Dactyl and the Rump Parliament.
This looks like it could get unplesasant,’ Loomis remarked. ‘I think I’ll simply follow my nature and cop out of the action at this point by taking refuge in a meditation on my genitals, a spiritual practice I have been following since childhood.’
Stack woke up and said, ‘What’s going on?’
Crompton said, ‘Quite a lot, but this is hardly the moment for a recapitulation.’
‘I can fill you in,’ Loomis said.
‘Please do it very quietly,’ Crompton said. ‘I’ve got to cope with this situation.’ He turned to the doctors. ‘What is going on here?’
The eldest of the doctors had a long, forked gray beard and an authoritarian manner which he wore with argyle socks, perhaps as an oxymoron of ambiguous intent. He said, ‘You’re late. I trust you are ready to begin now?’
‘Begin what?’ Crompton said. ‘I am not a doctor. I don’t know what to do.’
‘It is precisely because you are not a doctor that you have been chosen!’ said a short, red-haired doctor from the rear of the group. ‘We are relying, you see, on your spontaneity and élan.’
‘Do have a go,’ another doctor said.
Despite Crompton’s protests they dressed him in a surgical gown, slipped rubber gloves over his hands, and tied a gauze mask over his face. Crompton was beginning to feel dizzy and dreamlike. Strange thoughts passed through his mind: Quondam substitutions? Perelmanesque gambit inapropos just now. The intricacy of forgetfulness! And then the peanut butter.
Someone slapped a scalpel into his hand. Crompton said, ‘If I were to react to this on a reality level, it would be frightening.’ He unmasked the patient, and beheld a fat-faced man with a mole on his left cheek.
‘Gaze well upon him,’ the fork-bearded doctor said. ‘Gloat upon your handiwork. Because you and you alone brought him to this as sure as God made little green apples.’
Crompton was about to remonstrate, but stopped because just then a pretty red-haired girl clad only in a violet dirndl came into the operating theater and asked, ‘Is Doctor Groper ready for me yet?’
‘No,’ one of the doctors hissed. He was nondescript except for his voice, which was soft and viscid and hinted at greasy iniquities.
The girl nodded and turned to Crompton. ‘Wanna see something?’
Crompton was too dumbfounded to respond. But Loomis, who always kept a weather eye open for opportunities like this, broke off explaining the situation to Stack and took over and said, ‘By all means, my dear, show me something.’
The girl reached into a tiny purse which she wore pinned to the waist of her dirndl and took out a pair of silver scissors.
‘I never go anywhere without them,’ she said.
‘Never at all? How fascinating,’ Loomis said. ‘Why don’t we take a walk and you can tell me all about it. I wonder if one can get a drink in this place?’
‘Now you must excuse me,’ the girl said. ‘I’ve got to put my toidy to bed.’ She exited.
‘Charming,’ Loomis murmured, and would have followed her if Crompton had not wrestled back control.
‘May we get back to business?’ Crompton said icily. He turned to the doctors. ‘I assume that all of this serves some sort of therapeutic purpose? I am the patient around here, am I not?’
‘Well, that calls for a bit of explanation,’ the fork-bearded doctor said, reaching under his mask to scratch what became visible as a harelip.
‘I thought you weren’t allowed to explain things,’ Crompton said.
‘You misunderstood. We are permitted to explain anything, as long as we don’t tell the truth.’
‘But don’t think that simplifies anything for you,’ said the resident in psychosurgery, who had just come into the room at that moment with his clipboard. ‘Even our lies contain valuable hints for you to figure out.’
‘Sometimes a lie and the truth are the same thing,’ the fork-bearded doctor said. ‘Anyhow, it’s all part of the insight game.’
‘Do get on with the operating,’ the resident said, ‘so we can get away for some lunch.’
Crompton looked down at the man on the operating table. He had never seen him before. Various thoughts entered his mind. His left knee had been bothering him lately, and he was irked by the vague sense of having forgotten something trivial but amusing. He could hear Loomis and Stack whispering together. It was maddening: that they should make noise in his mind just when he had to operate! He looked at the scalpel in his hand. A wave of doubt came over him. He tried to remember where he had attended medical school. Instantly he had a picture of the New Jersey Turnpike at the Cheesquake Bay exit. How strange the mind was!
He studied a patch of shiny skin between the patient’s eyebrows. Almost absentmindedly he raised the scalpel and cut deeply.
Instantly he heard the deep whine of a symbol transformer in the basement, and the scalpel in his hand changed into a long-stemmed rose.
Crompton suffered then a momentary syncope. When he had recovered, the patient, doctors, operating theater, indeed, the whole construct, had faded.
Now he was standing in a formal garden on a high cliff that overlooked a wrinkled blue sky.
41
Once it must have been a beautiful garden, with its formal walks and meanders. But now it was sadly overgrown. The purple verbena was still doing nicely, and the notch-eared kalanchoes looked eminently prosperous; but dandelions were now blooming everywhere, and a barrel cactus had taken up residence n
ear the gazebo. The grounds were covered with dog turds, tin cans, newspapers, and rusted camping equipment.
Crompton noticed that he was holding a long-handled rake in one hand, a shovel in the other. He knew what he had to do. Humming to himself, he raked debris into neat piles, picked up funk and crap, and even found time to prune a few rosebushes. He felt good doing this.
But then he noticed that a black and evil-smelling blight had sprung up behind him. There were patches of rot wherever he had stopped.
The sky darkened, a bitter wind whipped through the garden, and black clouds scudded by overhead. A heavy rain commenced to fall, transforming the garden into an instant bog. And, as if that weren’t enough, deafening thunderclaps shook the garden, and forked bolts of lightning lit up the livid sky.
A holocaust of black flies swept in, followed by a procession of long-snouted Peruvian weevils with their tiny tan parasites. These in turn were followed by vultures and iguanas, and the ground beneath Crompton’s feet commenced to tremble, to crack, to heave in vast sluggish ripples.
A fissure opened in the ground, and in its depths Crompton could see the sulfurous glow of hellfires.
‘Now really,’ Crompton said, ‘what is this all about?’
There was a moment of uncanny silence. Then a great voice that seemed to come simultaneously from all parts of the sky called out. ‘Daniel Stack! This is the hour of your reckoning!’
‘But wait a minute,’ Crompton said, ‘I’m not Stack, I’m Crompton.’
‘So where’s Stack?’ the voice bellowed.
‘He’s here, but this is my therapy, not his!’
‘I don’t know nothing about that,’ the vast voice retorted. ‘I got an order to deliver an hour of reckoning to Daniel Stack. Do you want to accept it for him?’
‘No, no,’ Crompton said. ‘I’ve got my own problems. Just a moment, I’ll get him.’
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