"Of course, in the twentieth century such a procedure was antisocial and illegal. Henson would be sent to prison for the rest of his life.
"But the chances are, he’d function perfectly thereafter. Having relieved his psychic tension by the commonsense method of direct action, he’d have no further difficulty in adjustment.
"Gradually the psychiatrists observed this phenomenon. They learned to distinguish between the psychopath and the perfectly normal human being who sought to relieve an intolerable situation. It was hard, because once a normal man was put in prison, he was subject to new tensions and stresses which caused fresh aberrations. But these aberrations stemmed from his confinement—not from the impulse which led him to kill." Again the Adjustor paused. "I hope I’m not making this too abstruse for you," he said. "Terms like ‘psychopath’ and ‘normal’ can’t have much meaning to a layman."
"I understand what you’re driving at," Henson told him. "Go ahead. I’ve always wondered how Adjustment evolved, anyway."
"I’ll make it brief from now on," the Adjustor promised. "The next crude step was something called the ‘psycho-drama.’ It was a simple technique in which an aberrated individual was encouraged to get up on a platform, before an audience, and act out his fantasies—including those involving aggression and violently antisocial impulses. This afforded great relief. Well, I won’t trouble you with the historical details about the establishment of Master Control, right after North America went under in the Blast. We got it, and the world started afresh, and one of the groups set up was Adjustment. All of physical medicine, all of what was then called sociology and psychiatry, came under the scope of this group. And from that point on we started to make real progress.
"Adjustors quickly learned that old-fashioned therapies must be discarded. Naming or classifying a mental disturbance didn’t necessarily overcome it. Talking about it, distracting attention from it, teaching the patient a theory about it, were not solutions. Nor was chopping out or shocking out part of his brain structure.
"More and more we came to rely on direct action as a cure, just as we do in physical medicine.
"Then, of course, robotics came along and gave us the final answer. And it is the answer, Henson—that’s the thought I’ve been trying to convey. Because we’re friends, I know you well enough to eliminate all the preliminaries. I don’t have to give you a battery of tests, check reactions, and go through the other formalities. But if I did, I’m sure I’d end up with the same answer—in your case, the mature solution is to murder your wife as quickly as possible. That will cure you."
"Thanks," said Henson. "I knew I could count on you."
"No trouble at all." The Adjustor stood up. He was a tall, handsome man with curly red hair, and he somewhat towered over Henson who was only six feet and a bit too thin.
"You’ll have papers to sign, of course," the Adjustor reminded him. "I’ll get everything ready by Friday morning. If you’ll step in then, you can do it in ten minutes."
"Fine." Henson smiled. "Then I think I’ll plan the murder for Friday evening, at home. I’ll get Lita to visit her mother in Saigon overnight. Best if she doesn’t know about this until afterwards."
"Thoughtful of you," the Adjustor agreed. "I’ll have her robot requisitioned for you from Inventory. Any special requirements?"
"I don’t believe so. It was made less than two years ago, and it’s almost a perfect match. Paid almost seven thousand for the job."
"That’s a lot of capital to destroy." The Adjustor sighed. "Still, it’s necessary. Will you want anything else—weapons, perhaps?"
"No." Henson stood in the doorway. "I think I’ll just strangle her."
"Very well, then. I’ll have the robot here and operating for you on Friday morning. And you’ll take your robot too."
"Mine? Why, might I ask?"
"Standard procedure. You see, we’ve learned something more about the mind—about what used to be called a ‘guilt complex.’ Sometimes a man isn’t freed by direct action alone. There may be a peculiar desire for punishment involved. In the old days many men who committed actual murders had this need to be caught and punished. Those who avoided capture frequently punished themselves. They developed odd psychosomatic reactions—some even committed suicide.
"In case you have any such impulses, your robot will be available to you. Punish it any way you like—destroy it, if necessary. That’s the sensible thing to do."
"Right. See you Friday morning, then. And many thanks." Henson started through the doorway. He looked back and grinned. "You know, just thinking about it makes me feel better already!"
Henson whizzed back to the Adjustor’s office on Friday morning. He was in rare good humor all the way. Anticipation was a wonderful thing. Everything was wonderful, for that matter.
Take robots, for example. The simple, uncomplicated mechanisms did all the work, all the drudgery. Their original development for military purposes during the twenty-first century was forgotten now, along with the concept of war which had inspired their creation. Now the automatons functioned as workers.
And for the well-to-do there were these personalized surrogates. What a convenience!
Henson remembered how he’d argued to convince Lita they should invest in a pair when they married. He’d used all of the sensible modern arguments. "You know as well as I do what having them will save us in terms of time and efficiency. We can send them to all the boring banquets and social functions. They can represent us at weddings and funerals, that sort of thing. After all, it’s being done everywhere nowadays. Nobody attends such affairs in person any more if they can afford not to. Why, you see them on the street everywhere. Remember Kirk, at our reception? Stayed four hours, life of the party and everybody was fooled—you didn’t know it was his robot until he told you."
And so forth, on and on. "Aren’t you sentimental at all darling? If I died wouldn’t you like to have my surrogate around to comfort you? I certainly would want yours to share the rest of my life."
Yes, he’d used all the practical arguments except the psychotherapeutic one—at that time it had never occurred to him. But perhaps it should have, when he heard her objections.
"I just don’t like the idea," Lita had persisted. "Oh it isn’t that I’m old-fashioned. But lying there in the forms having every detail of my body duplicated synthetically—ugh! And then they do that awful hypnotherapy or whatever it’s called for days to make them think. Oh I know they have no brains, it’s only a lot of chemicals and electricity, but they do duplicate your thought patterns and they react the same and they sound so real. I don’t want anyone or anything to know all my secrets—"
Yes that objection should have started him thinking. Lita had secrets even then.
But he’d been too busy to notice; he’d spent his efforts in battering down her objections. And finally she’d consented.
He remembered the days at the Institute—the tests they’d taken, the time spent in working with the anatomists, the cosmetic department, the sonic and visio adaptors, and then days of hypnotic transference.
Lita was right in a way; it hadn’t been pleasant. Even a modern man was bound to feel a certain atavistic fear when confronted for the first time with his completed surrogate. But the finished product was worth it. And after Henson had mastered instructions, learned how to manipulate the robot by virtue of the control-command, he had been almost paternally proud of the creation.
He’d wanted to take his surrogate home with him, but Lita positively drew the line at that.
"We’ll leave them both here in Inventory," she said. "If we need them we can always send for them. But I hope we never do."