longer than most, and perhaps his genius was entangled with whatever they were curing. James had been too long away from his practice to guess how this was, but he recalled similar baby/bathwater cases.
‘“So that’s why it glows in the dark”,’ James finished. As he’d expected, Marya laughed, but Porter only forced a smile, over and above his usual smirk of mystical bliss.
‘It’s an old joke,’ James apologized.
‘You are an old joke,’ Porter enunciated. ‘A headshrinker without no heads to shrink. What the hell do you do all day?’
‘What’s eating you?’ said Marya to the ex-writer. ‘What brought you up from the depths?’
James fetched another drink from the wall niche. Before bringing it to his lips, he said. ‘I think I need some new friends.’
As soon as they were gone, he regretted his boorishness. Yet somehow there seemed to be no reason for acting human any more. He was no longer a psychiatrist, and they were not his patients. Any little trauma he might have wreaked would be quickly repaired by their Machines. Even so, he’d have made an extra effort to sidestep the neuroses of his friends if he were not able to dial FRIENDS and get a new set.
Only a few years had passed since the Machines began seeing to the happiness, health and continuation of the human race, but he could barely remember life before Them. In the dusty mirror of his unused memory, there remained but a few clear spots. He recalled his work as a psychiatrist on the Therapeutic Environment tests.
He recalled the argument with Brody.
‘Sure, they work on a few test cases. But so far these gadgets haven’tdone anything a qualified psychiatrist couldn’t do,’ said James.
‘Agreed,’ said his superior. ‘but they haven’t made any mistakes, either. Doctor, these people are cured. Morever, they’re happy!’
Frank envy was written all over Bro Brody’s heavy face. James knew his superior was having trouble with his wife again.
‘But, Doctor,’ James began, ‘these people are not being taught to deal with their environment. Their environment is learning to deal with them. That isn’t medicine, it’s spoon-feeding!
‘When someone is depressed, he gets a dose of Ritalin, bouncy tunes on the Muzik, and some dear friend drops in on him unexpectedly. If he is manic or violent, he gets Thorazine, sweet music, melancholy stories on TV, and maybe a cool bath. If he’s bored, he gets excitement; if he’s frustrated, he gets something to break; if –’
Brady interrupted. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Let me ask you the sixty-four-dollar question: Could you do better?’
No one could do better. The vast complex of Therapeutic Environment Machines which grew up advanced Medicine a millennium in a year. The government took control, to ensure that anyone of however modest means could have at his disposal the top specialists in the country, with all the latest data and techniques. In effect, these specialists were on duty round-the-clock in each patient’s home, keeping him alive, healthy, and reasonably happy.
Nor were they limited to treatment. The Machines had extensions clawing through the jungles of the world, spying on witch-doctors and learning new medicines. Drug and dietary research became their domain, as did scientific farming and birth control. By 1985, when it became manifest that machines could and did run everything better, and that nearly everyone in the country wanted to be a patient, the U.S. government capitulated. Other nations followed suit.
By now, no one worked at all, so far as James knew. They had one and only one duty – to be happy.
And happy they were. One’s happiness was guaranteed, by every relay and transistor from those that ran one’s air-conditioner right up to those in the chief complex of computers called MEDCENTRAL in Washington – or was it the Hague, now? James had not read a newspaper since people had stopped killing each other, since the news had dwindled to
‘“So that’s why it glows in the dark”,’ James finished. As he’d expected, Marya laughed, but Porter only forced a smile, over and above his usual smirk of mystical bliss.
‘It’s an old joke,’ James apologized.
‘You are an old joke,’ Porter enunciated. ‘A headshrinker without no heads to shrink. What the hell do you do all day?’
‘What’s eating you?’ said Marya to the ex-writer. ‘What brought you up from the depths?’
James fetched another drink from the wall niche. Before bringing it to his lips, he said. ‘I think I need some new friends.’
As soon as they were gone, he regretted his boorishness. Yet somehow there seemed to be no reason for acting human any more. He was no longer a psychiatrist, and they were not his patients. Any little trauma he might have wreaked would be quickly repaired by their Machines. Even so, he’d have made an extra effort to sidestep the neuroses of his friends if he were not able to dial FRIENDS and get a new set.
Only a few years had passed since the Machines began seeing to the happiness, health and continuation of the human race, but he could barely remember life before Them. In the dusty mirror of his unused memory, there remained but a few clear spots. He recalled his work as a psychiatrist on the Therapeutic Environment tests.
He recalled the argument with Brody.
‘Sure, they work on a few test cases. But so far these gadgets haven’tdone anything a qualified psychiatrist couldn’t do,’ said James.
‘Agreed,’ said his superior. ‘but they haven’t made any mistakes, either. Doctor, these people are cured. Morever, they’re happy!’
Frank envy was written all over Bro Brody’s heavy face. James knew his superior was having trouble with his wife again.
‘But, Doctor,’ James began, ‘these people are not being taught to deal with their environment. Their environment is learning to deal with them. That isn’t medicine, it’s spoon-feeding!
‘When someone is depressed, he gets a dose of Ritalin, bouncy tunes on the Muzik, and some dear friend drops in on him unexpectedly. If he is manic or violent, he gets Thorazine, sweet music, melancholy stories on TV, and maybe a cool bath. If he’s bored, he gets excitement; if he’s frustrated, he gets something to break; if –’
Brady interrupted. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Let me ask you the sixty-four-dollar question: Could you do better?’
No one could do better. The vast complex of Therapeutic Environment Machines which grew up advanced Medicine a millennium in a year. The government took control, to ensure that anyone of however modest means could have at his disposal the top specialists in the country, with all the latest data and techniques. In effect, these specialists were on duty round-the-clock in each patient’s home, keeping him alive, healthy, and reasonably happy.
Nor were they limited to treatment. The Machines had extensions clawing through the jungles of the world, spying on witch-doctors and learning new medicines. Drug and dietary research became their domain, as did scientific farming and birth control. By 1985, when it became manifest that machines could and did run everything better, and that nearly everyone in the country wanted to be a patient, the U.S. government capitulated. Other nations followed suit.
By now, no one worked at all, so far as James knew. They had one and only one duty – to be happy.
And happy they were. One’s happiness was guaranteed, by every relay and transistor from those that ran one’s air-conditioner right up to those in the chief complex of computers called MEDCENTRAL in Washington – or was it the Hague, now? James had not read a newspaper since people had stopped killing each other, since the news had dwindled to
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