"How can I?" Caswell raged. "I don't know!" 

 "What do you imagine a goricae would be?" 

 "A forest fire," Caswell said. "A salt tablet. A jar of denatured alcohol. A small screwdriver. Am I getting warm? A notebook. A revolver--" 

 "These associations are meaningful," the Regenerator assured him. "Your attempt at randomness shows a clearly underlying pattern. Do you begin to recognize it?" 

 "What in hell is a goricae?" Caswell roared. 

 "The tree that nourished you during infancy, and well into puberty, if my theory about you is correct. Inadvertently, the goricae stifled your necessary rejection of the feem desire. This in turn gave rise to your present urge to dwark someone in a vlendish manner." 

 "No tree nourished me." 

 "You cannot recall the experience?" 

 "Of course not. It never happened." 

 "You are sure of that?" 

 "Positive." 

 "Not even the tiniest bit of doubt?" 

 "No! No goricae ever nourished me. Look, I can break off these sessions at any time, right?" 

 "Of course," the Regenerator said. "But it would not be advisable at this moment. You are expressing anger, resentment, fear. By your rigidly summary rejection--" 

 "Nuts," said Caswell, and pulled off the headband. 

 

 

 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. 

 Prev. P 13/20 next