"God!" said Jill, and looked at Render. "What have you been teaching your son?"
"Everything I can," he replied, "as fast as I can."
"Why?"
"I don't want him to be stepped on someday by something
the size of a skyscraper, all stuffed full of facts and modem physics."
"It is not in good taste to speak of people as though they were absent," said Peter.
"True," said Render, "but good taste is not always in good taste."
"You make it sound as though someone owes somebody an apology," he noted.
"That is a matter which the individual must decide for himself, or it is without value."
"In that case," he observed, "I've just decided that I don't owe anybody an apology. If anybody owes me one though, I'll accept it like a gentleman, and in good taste."
Render stood, stared down at his son.
"Peter—" he began.
"May I have some more punch?" asked Jill. "It's quite good, and mine is all gone."
Render reached for the cup.
"I'll get it," said Peter.
He took the cup and stirred the punch with its crystal ladle. Then he rose to his feet, leaning one elbow on the back of his chair.
"Peter!"
He slipped.
The cup and its contents fell into Jill's lap. The contents ran in strawberry tracery through the white fur of her coat. The cup rolled to the sofa, coming to rest in the center of a widening stain.
Peter cried and seized his ankle, sitting down on the floor.
The guest-buzzer sounded.
Render mentioned a long medical term, in Latin. He stooped then and took his son's foot in one hand, his ankle in the other.
"Does this hurt?"
"Yes!"
"This?"
"Yes! It hurts all over!"
"How about this?"
"Along the side... There!"
Render helped him to his feet, held him balanced on his sound foot, reached for his crutches.
"Come on. Along with me. Dr. Heydell has a hobby-lab in his apartment, downstairs. That fast-cast is coming off. I want to X-ray the foot again."
"No! It's not—"
"What about my coat?" said Jill.
The buzzer sounded again.
"Damn everything!" announced Render, and he pushed the call-dot.
"Yes! Who is it?"
There came a sound of breathing.
Then, "Uh, it's me, boss. Did I pick a bad time?"
"Bennie! No, listen—I didn't mean to snap at you, but all hell's just broken loose. Come on up. By the time you get here things will be normal and unhectic again."
"... Okay, if you're sure it's all right, that is. I just wanted to stop in for a minute. I'm on my way to somewhere else."
"Sure thing. Here's the door."
He tapped the other circle.
"You stay here and let her in, Jill. Well be back in a few minutes."
"What about my coat? And the sofa... ?"
"All in good time. Don't worry. C'mon, Pete."
He guided him out into the hall, where they entered an elevator and directed it to the sixth floor. On the way down, their elevator sighed past Bennie's, on its way up.
The door clicked. Before it could open though, Render pressed the "Hold" button.
"Peter," he said, "why are you acting like a snotty adolescent?"
Peter wiped his eyes.
"Hell, I'm pre-puberty," he said, "and as for being snotty..."
He blew his nose.
Render's hand began to rise, fell back again.
He sighed.
"We'll discuss it later."
He released the "Hold" button and the door slid open.
Dr. Heydell's suite was located at the end of the corridor. A large wreathe of evergreen and pine cones hung upon the door, encircling its brass knocker.
Render raised the knocker and let it fall.
From within, there came the faint sounds of Christmas music. After a moment, there was a footfall on the other side, and the door opened.
Dr. Heydell stood before them, looking up from behind thick glasses.
"Well, carolers," he announced in a deep voice. "Come in, Charles, and ...."
"My son, Peter," said Render.
"Glad to meet you, Peter," said Heydell. "Come in and join the party."
He drew the door all the way open and stepped aside.
They entered into a blast of Christmas, and Render explained, "We had a little accident upstairs. Peter's ankle was broken a short time ago, and he fell on it again just now. I'd like to use your X-ray to check it out."
"Surely," said the small doctor. "Come this way. Sorry to hear about it."
He led them through his living room, about which seven or eight people were variously situated.
"Merry Christmas!"
"Hi there, Charlie!"
"Merry Christmas, Doc!"
"How's the brain-cleaning business?"
Render raised one hand automatically, nodded in four different directions.
"This is Charles Render. He's in neuroparticipation," Heydell explained to the rest, "and this is his son, Peter. We'll be back in a few minutes. Need my lab."
They passed out of the room, moved two steps into a vestibule. Heydell opened the insulated door to his insulated laboratory. The laboratory had cost him considerable time
and expense. It had required the consent of the local building authorities, it had had to subscribe to more than full hospital shielding standards, and it had required the agreement of the apartment management, which in turn had been predicated upon the written consent of all the other tenants. Some of the latter had required economic suasion, Render understood.
They entered the laboratory, and Heydell set his apparatus in operation. He took the necessary pictures and ran them through the speed-dry, speed-develop process.
"Good," he announced, as he studied them. "No more damage, and the fracture is healing nicely."
Render smiled. He noticed that his hands had been shaking.
Heydell slapped him on the shoulder.
"So come on out and try our punch."
"Thanks, Heydell. I believe I will." He always called him by his last name, since they were both Charlies.
They shut down the equipment and left the lab.
Back in the living room, Render shook a few hands and sat down on the sofa with Peter.
He sipped his punch, and one of the men he had only just met, a Dr. Minton, began talking to him.
"So you're a Shaper, eh?"
"That's right."
"I've always wondered about that area. We had a bull-session going back at the hospital, just the other week..."
"Oh?"
"Our resident psychiatrist mentioned that neuropy treatments are no more nor less successful than ordinary therapeutic courses."
"I'd hardly consider him in a position to judge—especially if it's Mike Mismire you're talking about, and I think you are.
Dr. Minton spread his hands, palms upward.
"He said he's been collecting figures."
"The change rendered the patient in a neuropy session is a qualitative one. I don't know what he means by 'success-
ful.' The results are successful if you eliminate the patient's problem. There are various ways of doing it—as many as there are therapists—but neuropy is qualitatively superior to something like psychoanalysis because it produces measurable, organic changes. It operates directly upon the nervous system, beneath a patina of real and simulated afferent impulses. It induces desired states of self-awareness and adjusts the neurological foundation to support them. Psychoanalysis and allied areas are purely functional. The problem is less likely to recur if it is adjusted by neuropy."
"Then why don't you use it to cure psychotics?"
"It has been done, a couple times. But it is normally too risky an undertaking. Remember, 'participation' is the key word. Two nervous systems, two minds are involved. It can turn into a reverse-therapy session—anti-neuropy—if the pattern of aberrance is too strong for the operator to control. His state of self-awareness is then altered, his neurological underpinnings are readjusted. He becomes psychotic himself, suffering actual organic brain damage."