He Who Shapes (6 page)

"Which is . . . ?"

"Emotion. This thing means far too much to you. When the

therapist is in-phase with a patient he is narco-electrically

removed from most of his own bodily sensations. "This is

necessarybecause his mind must be completely absorbed by

the task at hand. It is also necessary that his emotions undergo

a similar suspension. This, of course, is impossible in the one

sense that a person always emotes to some degree. But the

therapist's emotions are sublimated into a generalized feeling of

exhilarationor, as in my own case, into an artistic reverie. With

you, however, the 'seeing' would be too much. You would be

in constant danger of losing control of the dream."

"I disagree with you."

"Of course you do. But the fact remains that you would be

dealing, and dealing constantly, with the abnormal. The power

of a neurosis is unimaginable to ninety-nine point etcetera

percent of the population, because we can never adequately

judge the intensity of our ownlet alone those of others, when

we only see them from the outside. That is why no

neuroparticipant will ever undertake to treat a full-blown

psychotic. The few' pioneers in that area are all themselves in

therapy today. It would be like diving into a maelstrom. If the

therapist loses the upper hand in an intense session he becomes

the Shaped rather than the Shaper. The synapses respond like a

fission reaction when nervous impulses are artificially aug-

mented. The transference effect is almost instantaneous.

"I did an awful lot of skiing five years ago. This is because I

was a claustrophobe. I had to run and it took me six months to

beat the thingall because of one tiny lapse that occurred in a

measureless fraction of an instant. I had to refer the patient to

another therapist. And this was only a minor repercussion.If

you were to go ga-ga over the scenery, girl, you could wind up

in a rest home for life."

She finished her drink and Render refilled the glass. The

night raced by. They had left the city far behind them, and the

road was open and clear. The darkness eased more and more of

itself between the falling flakes. The Spinner picked up speed.

"All right," she admitted, "maybe you're right. Still, though,

I think you can help me."

"How?" he asked.

"Accustom me to seeing, so that the images will lose their

novelty, the emotions wear off. Accept me as a patient and rid

me of my sight-anxiety. Then what you have said so far will

cease to apply. I will be able to undertake the training then,

and give my full attention to therapy. I'll be able to sublimate

the sight-pleasure into something else."

Render wondered.

Perhaps it could be done. It would be a difficult undertaking,

though.

It might also make therapeutic history.

No one was really qualified to try it, because no one had ever

tried it before.

But Eileen Shallot was a rarityno, a unique itemfor it was

likely she was the only person in the world who combined the

necessary technical background with the unique problem.

He drained his glass, refilled it, refilled hers.

He was still considering the problem as the "RE-COOR-

DINATE" light came on and the car pulled into a cutoff and

stood there. He switched off the buzzer and sat there for a long

while, thinking.

It was not often that other persons heard him acknowledge

his feelings regarding his skill. His colleagues considered him

modest. Offhand, though, it might be noted that he was aware

that the day a better neuroparticipant began practicing would

be the day that a troubled homo sapiens was to be treated by

something but immeasurably less than angels.

Two drinks remained. Then he tossed the emptied bottle into

the backbin.

"You know something?" he finally said.

"What?"

"It might be worth a try."

He swiveled about then and leaned forward to re-coordinate,

but she was there first. As he pressed the buttons and the S-7

swung around, she kissed him. Below her dark glasses her

cheeks were moist.

II

The suicide bothered him more than it should have, and Mrs.

Lambert had called the day before to cancel her appointment.

So Render decided to spend the morning being pensive.

Accordingly, he entered the office wearing a cigar and a frown.

"Did you see . . .?" asked Mrs. Hedges.

"Yes." He pitched his coat onto the table that stood in the far

corner of the room. He crossed to the window, stared down.

"Yes," he repeated, "I was driving by with my windows clear.

They were still cleaning up when I passed."

"Did you know him?"

"I don't even know the name yet. How could I?"

"Priss Tully just called meshe's a receptionist for that

engineering outfit up on the eighty-sixth. She says it was James

Irizarry, an ad designer who had offices down the hall from

them.That's a long way to fall. He must have been

unconscious when be hit, hub? He bounced off the building. If

you open the window and lean out you can seeoff to the left

there where . . ."

"Never mind, BennieYour friend have any idea why he did

it?"

"Not really. His secretary came running up the hall,

screaming. Seems she went in his office to see him about some

drawings, just as he was getting up over the sill. There was a

note on his board. I've had everything I wanted,' it said. 'Why

wait around?' Sort of funny, hub? I don't mean funny . . ."

"Yeah.Know anything about his personal affairs?"

"Married. Coupla kids. Good professional rep. Lots of

business. Sober as anybody.He could afford an office in this

building."

"Good Lord!" Render turned. "Have you got a case file

there or something?"

"You know," she shrugged her thick shoulders, "I've got

friends all over this hive. We always talk when things go slow.

Prissy's my sister-in-law anyhow"

"You mean that if I dived through this window right now,

my current biography would make the rounds in the next five

minutes?"

"Probably," she twisted her bright lips into a smile, "give or

take a couple. But don't do it today, hub?You know, it would

be kind of anticlimactic, and it wouldn't get the same coverage

as a solus.

"Anyhow," she continued, "you're a mind-mixer. You

wouldn't do it."

"You're betting against statistics," he observed. "The medical

profession, along with attorneys, manages about three times as

many as most other work areas."

"Hey!" She looked worried. "Go 'way from my window!

"I'd have to go to work for Doctor Hanson then," she added,

"and he's a slob."

He moved to her desk.

"I never know when to take you seriously," she decided.

"I appreciate your concern," he nodded, "indeed I do. As a

matter of fact, I have never been statistic-prone1 should have

repercussed out of the neuropy game four years ago."

"You'd be a headline, though," she mused. "All those

reporters asking me about you . . . Hey, why do they do it,

hub?"

"Who?"

"Anybody."

. "How should I know, Bennie? I'm only a humble

psychestirrer.
 
If
 
I
 
could
 
pinpoint
 
a
 
general
 
underlying

causeand then maybe figure a way to anticipate the

thingwhy, it might even be better than my jumping, for

newscopy. But I can't do it, because there is no single, simple

reason1 don't think."

"Oh."

"About thirty-five years ago it was the ninth leading cause of

death in the United States. Now it's number six for North and

South America. I think it's seventh in Europe."

 
"And nobody will ever really know why Irizarry jumped?"

Render swung a chair backwards and seated himself. He

knocked an ash into her petite and gloaming tray. She emptied

it
 
into
 
the
 
waste-chute,
 
hastily,
 
and
 
coughed
 
a
 
significant

cough.

"Oh, one can always speculate," he said, "and one in my

profession will. The first thing to consider would be the

personality traits which might predispose a man to periods of

depression.
 
People who keep their emotions under rigid

control, people who are conscientious and rather compulsively

concerned with small matters . . ." He knocked another fleck of

ash into her tray and watched as she reached out to dump it,

then quickly drew her hand back again. He grinned an evil

grin. "In short," he finished, "some of the characteristics of

people in professions which require individual, rather than

group performancemedicine, law, the arts."

She regarded him speculatively.

"Don't worry though," he chuckled, "I'm pleased as hell with

life."

"You're kind of down in the mouth this morning."

"Pete called me. He broke his ankle yesterday in gym class.

They ought to supervise those things more closely. I'm thinking

of changing his school."

"Again?"