Copyright (C) 2003 by Robert Sheckley.
Bad Medicine
by Robert Sheckley
On May 2, 2103, Elwood Caswell walked rapidly down Broadway with aloaded revolver hidden in his coat pocket. He didn't want to use theweapon, but feared he might anyhow. This was a justifiable assumption,for Caswell was a homicidal maniac.
It was a gentle, misty spring day and the air held the smell of rainand blossoming-dogwood. Caswell gripped the revolver in his sweatyright hand and tried to think of a single valid reason why he shouldnot kill a man named Magnessen, who, the other day, had commented onhow well Caswell looked.
What business was it of Magnessen's how he looked? Damned busybodies,always spoiling things for everybody....
Caswell was a choleric little man with fierce red eyes, bulldog jowlsand ginger-red hair. He was the sort you would expect to find perchedon a detergent box, orating to a crowd of lunching businessmen andamused students, shouting, "Mars for the Martians, Venus for theVenusians!"
But in truth, Caswell was uninterested in the deplorable socialconditions of extraterrestrials. He was a jetbus conductor for the NewYork Rapid Transit Corporation. He minded his own business. And he wasquite mad.
Fortunately, he knew this at least part of the time, with at least halfof his mind.
Perspiring freely, Caswell continued down Broadway toward the 43rdStreet branch of Home Therapy Appliances, Inc. His friend Magnessenwould be finishing work soon, returning to his little apartment lessthan a block from Caswell's. How easy it would be, how pleasant, tosaunter in, exchange a few words and....
No! Caswell took a deep gulp of air and reminded himself that he didn'treally want to kill anyone. It was not right to kill people. Theauthorities would lock him up, his friends wouldn't understand, hismother would never have approved.
But these arguments seemed pallid, over-intellectual and entirelywithout 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 fewsteps 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 ofglittering therapy machines were neither too bland nor obstreperous. Itwas the kind of place where a man could happily lie down on the carpetin the shadow of the therapy machines, secure in the knowledge thathelp 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 smilingwinningly. "That is what we are here for." He gave Caswell a searchinglook, performed an instant mental diagnosis, and tapped a gleamingwhite-and-copper machine.
"Now this," the clerk said, "is the new Alcoholic Reliever, built byIBM and advertised in the leading magazines. A handsome piece offurniture, I think you will agree, and not out of place in any home. Itopens into a television set."
With a flick of his narrow wrist, the clerk opened the AlcoholicReliever, revealing a 52-inch screen.
"I need--" Caswell began.
"Therapy," the clerk finished for him. "Of course. I just wanted topoint out that this model need never cause embarrassment for yourself,your f