eyes. "You seem a little nervous. Perhaps the portable Bendix Anxiety Reducer--" 

 "Anxiety's not my ticket, either. What have you got for homicidal mania?" 

 The clerk pursed his lips. "Schizophrenic or manic-depressive origins?" 

 "I don't know," Caswell admitted, somewhat taken aback. 

 "It really doesn't matter," the clerk told him. "Just a private theory of my own. From my experience in the store, redheads and blonds are prone to schizophrenia, while brunettes incline toward the manic-depressive." 

 "That's interesting. Have you worked here long?" 

 "A week. Now then, here is just what you need, sir." He put his hand affectionately on a squat black machine with chrome trim. 

 "What's that?" 

 "That, sir, is the Rex Regenerator, built by General Motors. Isn't it handsome? It can go with any decor and opens up into a well-stocked bar. Your friends, family, loved ones need never know--" 

 "Will it cure a homicidal urge?" Caswell asked. "A strong one?" 

 "Absolutely. Don't confuse this with the little ten amp neurosis models. This is a hefty, heavy-duty, twenty-five amp machine for a really deep-rooted major condition." 

 "That's what I've got," said Caswell, with pardonable pride. 

 "This baby'll jolt it out of you. Big, heavy-duty thrust bearings! Oversize heat absorbers! Completely insulated! Sensitivity range of over--" 

 "I'll take it," Caswell said. "Right now. I'll pay cash." 

 "Fine! I'll just telephone Storage and--" 

 "This one'll do," Caswell said, pulling out his billfold. "I'm in a hurry to use it. I want to kill my friend Magnessen, you know." 

 The clerk clucked sympathetically. "You wouldn't want to do that ... Plus five percent sales tax. Thank you, sir. Full instructions are inside." 

 Caswell thanked him, lifted the Regenerator in both arms and hurried out. 

 After figuring his commission, the clerk smiled to himself and lighted a cigarette. His enjoyment was spoiled when the manager, a large man impressively equipped with pince-nez, marched out of his 

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