Bad Medicine | Page 7

second-floor door. They knocked.
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."
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.
Do you know a short, angry-looking, red-haired, red-eyed man?"
"Yes," Magnessen said slowly and warily.
Haskins let out a sigh of relief.
"Would you tell us his name and address?" asked Rath.
"I suppose you mean--hold it! What's he done?"
"Nothing."
"Then what you want him for?"
"There's no time for explanations," Rath said. "Believe me, it's in his own best interest,
too. What is his name?"
Magnessen studied Rath's ugly, honest face, trying to make up his mind.

Lieutenant Smith said, "Come on, talk, Magnessen, if you know what's good for you. We
want the name and we want it quick."
It was the wrong approach. Magnessen lighted a cigarette, blew smoke in Smith's
direction and inquired, "You got a warrant, buddy?"
"You bet I have," Smith said, striding forward. "I'll warrant you, wise guy."
"Stop it!" Rath ordered. "Lieutenant Smith, thank you for your assistance. I won't need
you any longer."
Smith left sulkily, taking his platoon with him.
Rath said, "I apologize for Smith's over-eagerness. You had better hear the problem."
Briefly but fully, he told the story of the customer and the Martian therapeutic machine.
When he was finished, Magnessen looked more suspicious than ever. "You say he wants
to kill me?"
"Definitely."
"That's a lie! I don't know what your game is, mister, but you'll never make me believe
that. Elwood's my best friend. We been best friends since we was kids. We been in
service together. Elwood would cut off his arm for me. And I'd do the same for him."
"Yes, yes," Rath said impatiently, "in a sane frame of mind, he would. But your friend
Elwood--is that his first name or last?"
"First," Magnessen said tauntingly.
"Your friend Elwood is psychotic."
"You don't know him. That guy loves me like a brother. Look, what's Elwood really done?
Defaulted on some payments or something? I can help out."
"You thickheaded imbecile!" Rath shouted. "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. His right
hand was thrust into his coat pocket. He seemed very calm.

"Are you Elwood Caswell?" Rath asked. "The Elwood Caswell who bought a
Regenerator early this afternoon at the Home Therapy Appliances Store?"
"Yes," said Caswell. "Won't you come in?"
Inside Caswell's small living room, they saw the Regenerator, glistening black and
chrome, standing near the couch. It was unplugged.
"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. "Especially for a man with your--ah--troubles."
He studied Caswell covertly. The man seemed fine, but appearances were frequently
deceiving, especially with psychotics. Caswell had been homicidal; there was no reason
why he should not still be.
And Rath began to wish he had not dismissed Smith and his policemen so summarily.
Sometimes an armed squad was a comforting thing to have around.
Caswell walked across the room to the therapeutic machine. One hand was still in his
jacket pocket; the other he laid affectionately upon the Regenerator.
"The poor thing tried its best," he said. "Of course, it couldn't cure what wasn't there." He
laughed. "But it came very near succeeding!"
-- -- -- -- --
Rath studied Caswell's face and said, in a trained, casual tone, "Glad there was no harm,
sir. The Company will, of course, reimburse you for your lost time and for your mental
anguish--"