It was not right to kill people. The authorities would lock him up, his friends wouldn't understand, his mother would never have approved. 

 But these arguments seemed pallid, over-intellectual and entirely without force. The simple fact remained--he wanted to kill Magnessen. 

 Could so strong a desire be wrong? Or even unhealthy? 

 Yes, it could! With an agonized groan, Caswell sprinted the last few steps into the Home Therapy Appliances Store. 

 Just being within such a place gave him an immediate sense of relief. The lighting was discreet, the draperies were neutral, the displays of glittering therapy machines were neither too bland nor obstreperous. It was the kind of place where a man could happily lie down on the carpet in the shadow of the therapy machines, secure in the knowledge that help for any sort of trouble was at hand. 

 A clerk with fair hair and a long, supercilious nose glided up softly, but not too softly, and murmured, "May one help?" 

 "Therapy!" said Caswell. 

 "Of course, sir," the clerk answered, smoothing his lapels and smiling winningly. "That is what we are here for." He gave Caswell a searching look, performed an instant mental diagnosis, and tapped a gleaming white-and-copper machine. 

 "Now this," the clerk said, "is the new Alcoholic Reliever, built by IBM and advertised in the leading magazines. A handsome piece of furniture, I think you will agree, and not out of place in any home. It opens into a television set." 

 With a flick of his narrow wrist, the clerk opened the Alcoholic Reliever, revealing a 52-inch screen. 

 "I need--" Caswell began. 

 "Therapy," the clerk finished for him. "Of course. I just wanted to point out that this model need never cause embarrassment for yourself, your friends or loved ones. Notice, if you will, the recessed dial which controls the desired degree of drinking. See? If you do not wish total abstinence, you can set it to heavy, moderate, social or light. That is a new feature, unique in mechanotherapy." 

 "I am not an alcoholic," Caswell said, with considerable dignity. "The New York Rapid Transit Corporation does not hire alcoholics." 

 "Oh," said the clerk, glancing distrustfully at Caswell's bloodshot 

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