Bad Medicine | Page 6

--
The silence was wonderful. Caswell stood up, yawned, stretched and massaged the back
of his neck. 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! 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.
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.
A thought had crossed his mind, a thought so tremendously involved, so meaningful, so
far-reaching in its implications that he was stirred to his depths. Caswell tried desperately
to shake off the knowledge it brought. But the thought, permanently etched upon his
memory, would not depart.
Under the circumstances, he could do only one thing.
He returned to the living room, sat down on the couch and slipped on the headband.
The Regenerator said, "Yes?"
"It's the damnedest thing," Caswell said, "but do you know, I think I do remember my
goricae!"
-- -- -- -- --
John Rath contacted the New York Rapid Transit Corporation by televideo and was put
into immediate contact with Mr. Bemis, a plump, tanned man with watchful eyes.
"Alcoholism?" Mr. Bemis repeated, after the problem was explained. Unobtrusively, he
turned on his tape recorder. "Among our employees?" Pressing a button beneath his foot,
Bemis alerted Transit Security, Publicity, Intercompany Relations, and the
Psychoanalysis Division. This done, he looked earnestly at Rath. "Not a chance of it, my
dear sir. Just between us, why does General Motors really want to know?"
Rath smiled bitterly. He should have anticipated this. NYRT and GM had had their
differences in the past. Officially, there was cooperation between the two giant

corporations. But for all practical purposes--
"The question is in terms of the Public Interest," Rath said.
"Oh, certainly," Mr. Bemis replied, with a subtle smile. Glancing at his tattle board, he
noticed that several company executives had tapped in on his line. This might mean a
promotion, if handled properly.
"The Public Interest of GM," Mr. Bemis added with polite nastiness. "The insinuation is,
I suppose, that drunken conductors are operating our jetbuses and helis?"
"Of course not. I was searching for a single alcoholic predilection, an individual
latency--"
"There's no possibility of it. We at Rapid Transit do not hire people with even the merest
tendency in that direction. And may I suggest, sir, that you clean your own house before
making implications about others?"
And with that, Mr. Bemis broke the connection.
No one was going to put anything over on him.
"Dead end," Rath said heavily. He turned and shouted, "Smith! Did you find any prints?"
Lieutenant Smith, his coat off and sleeves rolled up, bounded over. "Nothing usable, sir."
Rath's thin lips tightened. It had been close to seven hours since the customer had taken
the Martian machine. There was no telling what harm had been done by now. The
customer would be justified in bringing suit against the Company. Not that the money
mattered much; it was the bad publicity that was to be avoided at all costs.
"Beg pardon, sir," Haskins said.
Rath ignored him. What next? Rapid Transit was not going to cooperate. Would the
Armed Services make their records available for scansion by somatotype and
pigmentation?
"Sir," Haskins said again.
"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. "Haskins, I hope you are not wrong
about this. I sincerely hope that."
"I do too, sir," Haskins admitted, feeling his knees begin to shake.
"Because if you are," Rath said, "I will ... Never mind. Let's go!"
-- -- -- -- --
By police escort, they arrived at the address in fifteen minutes. It was an ancient
brownstone and Magnessen's name was on a