THE DEMOLISHED MAN by Alfred Bester

THE DEMOLISHED MAN by Alfred Bester

Author:Alfred Bester [Bester, Alfred]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00


Sam @kins, E.M.D. 1, received Cr. 1,000 per hour of analysis. The public knew that Sam earned two million credits per year, but it did not know that Sam was efficiently killing himself with charity work. @kins was one of the burning lights of the Guild long-range education plan, and leader of the Environment Clique which believed that telepathic ability was not a congenital characteristic, but rather a latent quality of every living organism which could be developed by suitable training.

As a result, Sam’s desert house in the brilliant arid Mesa outside Venusburg was overrun by charity cases. He invited everyone in the low income brackets to trek their problems out to him, and while he was solving them, he was carefully attempting to foster telepathy in his patients. Sam’s reasoning was quite simple. If, say, peeping were a question of developing unused muscles, it might well be that the majority of people had been too lazy or lacked opportunity to do so. But when a man is caught up in the press of a crisis, he cannot afford to be lazy; and Sam was there to offer opportunity and training. So far, his results had been the discovery of 2% Latent Espers, which was under the average of the Guild Institute interviews. Sam remained undiscouraged.

Powell found him charging through the rock garden of his desert home vigorously destroying desert flowers under the impression that he was cultivating, and conducting simultaneous conversations with a score of depressed people who followed him about like puppies. The perpetual clouds of Venus radiated dazzling light. Sam’s bald head was burned pink. He was snorting and shouting at plants and patients alike.

“Damn it! Don’t you tell me that’s a Glow-wart. It’s a weed. Don’t I know a weed when I see it? Hand me the rake, Bernard.”

A small man in black handed him the rake and said: “My name is Walter, Dr. @kins.”

“And that’s your whole trouble,” @kins grunted, tearing out a clump of rubbery red. It changed colors in prismatic hysteria and emitted a plaintive wail which proved it was neither weed nor Glow-wart but the disconcerting Pussy-Willow of Venus.

@kins eyed it with disfavor, watching the collapsing air-bladders cry. Then he glared at the small man. “Semantic escape, Bernard. You live in terms of the label, not the object. It’s your escape from reality. What are you running away from, Bernard?”

“I was hoping you’d tell me, Dr. @kins,” Walter replied.

Powell stood quietly, enjoying the spectacle. It was like an illustration from a primitive Bible. Sam, an ill-tempered Messiah, glowering at his humble disciples. Around them the glittering silica stones of the rock-garden, crawling with the dry motley-colored Venus plants. Overhead, the blinding nacre glow; and in the background, as far as the eye could reach, the red, purple, and violet Bad-Lands of the planet.

@kins snorted at Walter/Bernard: “You remind me of the redhead. Where is that make-believe courtesan anyway?”

A pretty red-headed girl jostled through the crowd and smirked: “Here I am, Dr. @kins.”

“Well, don’t preen yourself, because I labelled you.



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