When The Bough Breaks

"Silly of me to miss… the afternoon dose. Never forget."

I observed him with morbid fascination, watching the changes in his speech and behavior as the psychoactive chemicals took hold of his central nervous system, making note of the gradually increasing attention span, the diminishing non sequiturs, the restoration of adult conversational patterns. It was like peering into a microscope and watching a primitive organism mitose into something far more complex.

When the drug was still in its initial stage he said:

"I've done many… bad things. Gus had me do bad things. Very wrong for a… man of my stature. For someone of my breeding."

I let it pass.

Eventually he was lucid. Alert, seemingly undamaged.

"What is it, Thorazine?" I asked him.

"A variant. I've managed my own pharmacologic care for some time now. Tried a number of the phenothiazines Thorizine was good but it made me too drowsy. Couldn't have that while conducting physicals… Wouldn't want to drop a baby. No, nothing like that. Dreadful, drop an infant. This is a new agent, far superior to the others. Experimental. Sent to me by the manufacturer. Just write away for samples, use M.D. after the name, no need to justify or explain. They're more than happy to oblige… I have a healthy supply. Must take the afternoon dose, though, or everything gets confused - that's what happened, isn't it?"

"Yes. How long does it take to kick in?"

"In a man my size twenty to twenty - five minutes - remarkable, isn't it? Pop, down the hatch, wait, and the picture tube regains clarity. Life is so much more bearable. Things hurt so much less. Even now I feel it working, like muddy waters turning crystalline. Where were we?"

"We were talking about the nasty games McCaffrey's perverts play with little children."

"I'm not one of those," he said quickly.

"I know. But you helped those perverts molest hundreds of children, gave time and money to McCaffrey, set up Handler and Gutierrez and Hickle. You overdosed Melody Quinn to keep her mouth shut. Why?"

"It's all over, isn't it?" he asked, sounding relieved.

"Yes."

"They'll take away my license to practice medicine."

"Definitely. Don't you think that's best?"

"I suppose so," he said reluctantly. "I still feel there's plenty left in me, plenty of good work to be done."

"You'll have your chance," I reassured him, realizing that the pills were less than perfect. "They'll send you some place for the rest of your life where you'll experience little in the way of stress. No paperwork, no billing, none of the hassles of medical practice. No Gus McCaffrey telling you what to do, how to run your life. Just you - and you'll look and feel fine because they'll let you continue to take your pills - and help other people. People in need of help. You're a healer, you'll be able to help them."

"I'll be able to help," he repeated.

"Absolutely."

"One human being to another. Unencumbered."

"Yes."

"I have a good bedside manner. When I'm well. When I'm not well things gets confused and things hurt - even ideas hurt, thoughts can be painful. I'm not at my best, when that happens. But when I'm functioning well I can't be beat for helping people."

"I know that, Doctor. I know your reputation."

McCaffrey had spoken to me of an innate drive toward altruism. I knew whose buttons he'd been pushing with that one.

"I'm beholden to Gus," he said, "not due to any unusual sexual proclivity. That's his link with the others - with Stuart and Eddy. Since we'd been boys I'd known of their - strange ways. We all grew up in an isolated place, a strange place. We were cultivated, like orchids. Private lessons for this and that, having to look appropriate, act appropriately. Sometimes I wonder if that refined atmosphere didn't do us more harm than good. Look how we turned out, I, with my spells - I know there are labels for it these days, but I prefer to avoid them - Stuart and Eddy with their strange sexual habits.

"They started fooling with each other one summer, when we were nine or ten. Then with other children. Smaller children, much smaller. I didn't think much of it except to know that I wasn't interested in it. The way we were raised, right or wrong didn't seem as relevant as - appropriate and inappropriate. "That's not appropriate, Willie," Father would say. I imagine had Stuart or Eddy's fathers caught them with the little ones, that would have been their description of the entire affair: Inappropriate. Like using the wrong fork at dinner."

His description of coming of age on Brindamoor was strikingly like the one Van der Graaf had given me. At that moment he seemed akin to the fancy goldfish in the tank at Oomasa: beautiful, showy, cultivated by mutation and centuries of inbreeding, raised in a protected environment. But ultimately stunted and un adaptable to the realities of life.