Harry Collins 1998

: The Crowded Earth

It took them ten seconds to save Harry from falling, but it took him

over ten weeks to regain his balance.



In fact, well over two months had passed before he could fully realize

just what had happened, or where he was now. They must have noticed

something was wrong with him that morning at the office, because two

supervisors and an exec rushed in and caught him just as he was going

out of the window. And hen they had sent him away, sent him here.



"This is fine," he told Dr. Manschoff. "If I'd known how well they

treated you, I'd have gone couch-happy years ago."



Dr. Manschoff's plump face was impassive, but the little laugh-lines

deepened around the edges of his eyes. "Maybe that's why we take such

care not to publicize our recent advances in mental therapy," he said.

"Everybody would want to get into a treatment center, and then where

would we be?"



Harry nodded, staring past the doctor's shoulder, staring out of the

wide window at the broad expanse of rolling countryside beyond.



"I still don't understand, though," he murmured. "How can you possibly

manage to maintain an institution like this, with all the space and

the luxuries? The inmates seem to lead a better life than the adjusted

individuals outside. It's topsy-turvy."



"Perhaps." Dr. Manschoff's fingers formed a pudgy steeple. "But then,

so many things seem to be topsy-turvy nowadays, don't they? Wasn't it

the realization of this fact which precipitated your own recent

difficulties?"



"Almost precipitated me bodily out of that window," Harry admitted,

cheerfully. "And that's another thing. I was sent here, I suppose,

because I'd attempted suicide, gone into shock, temporary amnesia,

something like that."



"Something like that," the doctor echoed, contemplating his steeple.



"But you didn't give me any treatment," Harry continued. "Oh, I was

kept under sedation for a while, I realize that. And you and some of

the other staff-members talked to me. But mainly I just rested in a

nice big room and ate nice big meals."



"So?" The steeple's fleshy spire collapsed.



"So what I want to know is, when does the real treatment start? When

do I go into analysis, or chemotherapy, and all that?"



Dr. Manschoff shrugged. "Do you think you need those things now?"



Harry gazed out at the sunlight beyond the window, half-squinting and

half-frowning. "No, come to think of it, I don't believe I do. I feel

better now than I have in years."



His companion leaned back. "Meaning that for years you felt all wrong.

Because you were constricted, physically, psychically, and

emotionally. You were cramped, squeezed in a vise until the pressure

became intolerable. But now that pressure has been removed. As a

result you no longer suffer, and there is no need to seek escape in

death or denial of identity.



"This radical change of attitude has been brought about here in just a

little more than two months' time. And yet you're asking me when the

'real treatment' begins."



"I guess I've already had the real treatment then, haven't I?"



"That is correct. Prolonged analysis or drastic therapy is

unnecessary. We've merely given you what you seemed to need."



"I'm very grateful," Harry said. "But how can you afford to do it?"



Dr. Manschoff built another temple to an unknown god. He inspected the

architecture critically now as he spoke. "Because your problem is a

rarity," he said.



"Rarity? I'd have thought millions of people would be breaking down

every month. The Naturalists say--"



The doctor nodded wearily. "I know what they say. But let's dismiss

rumors and consider facts. Have you ever read any official report

stating that the number of cases of mental illness ran into the

millions?"



"No, I haven't."



"For that matter, do you happen to know of anyone who was ever sent

to a treatment center such as this?"



"Well, of course, everybody goes in to see the medics for regular

check-ups and this includes an interview with a psych. But if they're

in bad shape he just puts them on extra tranquilizers. I guess

sometimes he reviews their Vocational Apt tests and shifts them over

into different jobs in other areas."



Dr. Manschoff bowed his head in reverence above the steeple, as if

satisfied with the labors he had wrought. "That is roughly correct.

And I believe, if you search your memory, you won't recall even a

mention of a treatment center. This sort of place is virtually

extinct, nowadays. There are still some institutions for those

suffering from functional mental disorders--paresis, senile dementia,

congenital abnormalities. But regular check-ups and preventative

therapy take care of the great majority. We've ceased concentrating on

the result of mental illnesses and learned to attack the causes.



"It's the old yellow fever problem all over again, you see. Once upon

a time, physicians dealt exclusively with treatment of yellow fever

patients. Then they shifted their attention to the source of the

disease. They went after the mosquitoes, drained the swamps, and the

yellow fever problem vanished.



"That's been our approach in recent years. We've developed social

therapy, and so the need for individual therapy has diminished.



"What were the sources of the tensions producing mental disturbances?

Physical and financial insecurity, the threat of war, the aggressive

patterns of a competitive society, the unresolved Oedipus-situation

rooted in the old-style family relationship. These were the swamps

where the mosquitoes buzzed and bit. Most of the swamps have been

dredged, most of the insects exterminated.



"Today we're moving into a social situation where nobody goes hungry,

nobody is jobless or unprovided for, nobody needs to struggle for

status. Vocational Apt determines a man's rightful place and function

in society, and there's no longer the artificial distinction imposed

by race, color or creed. War is a thing of the past. Best of all, the

old-fashioned 'home-life,' with all of its unhealthy emotional ties,

is being replaced by sensible conditioning when a child reaches school

age. The umbilical cord is no longer a permanent leash, a strangler's

noose, or a silver-plated life-line stretching back to the womb."



Harry Collins nodded. "I suppose only the exceptional cases ever need

to go to a treatment center like this."



"Exactly."



"But what makes me one of the exceptions? Is it because of the way

the folks brought me up, in a small town, with all the old-fashioned

books and everything? Is that why I hated confinement and conformity

so much? Is it because of all the years I spent reading? And why--"



Dr. Manschoff stood up. "You tempt me," he said. "You tempt me

strongly. As you can see, I dearly love a lecture--and a captive

audience. But right now, the audience must not remain captive. I

prescribe an immediate dose of freedom."



* * * * *



"You mean I'm to leave here?"



"Is that what you want to do?"



"Frankly, no. Not if it means going back to my job."



"That hasn't been decided upon. We can discuss the problem later, and

perhaps we can go into the answers to those questions you just posed.

But at the moment, I'd suggest you stay with us, though without the

restraint of remaining in your room or in the wards. In other words, I

want you to start going outside again."



"Outside?"



"You'll find several square miles of open country just beyond the

doors here. You're at liberty to wander around and enjoy yourself.

Plenty of fresh air and sunshine--come and go as you wish. I've

already issued instructions which permit you to keep your own hours.

Meals will be available when you desire them."



"You're very kind."



"Nonsense. I'm prescribing what you need. And when the time comes,

we'll arrange to talk again. You know where to find me."



Dr. Manschoff dismantled his steeple and placed a half of the roof in

each trouser-pocket.



And Harry Collins went outdoors.



It was wonderful just to be free and alone--like returning to that

faraway childhood in Wheaton once again. Harry appreciated every

minute of it during the first week of his wandering.



But Harry wasn't a child any more, and after a week he began to wonder

instead of wander.



The grounds around the treatment center were more than spacious; they

seemed absolutely endless. No matter how far he walked during the

course of a day, Harry had never encountered any walls, fences or

artificial barriers; there was nothing to stay his progress but the

natural barriers of high, steeply-slanting precipices which seemed to

rim all sides of a vast valley. Apparently the center itself was set

in the middle of a large canyon--a canyon big enough to contain an

airstrip for helicopter landings. The single paved road leading from

the main buildings terminated at the airstrip, and Harry saw

helicopters arrive and depart from time to time; apparently they

brought in food and supplies.



As for the center itself, it consisted of four large structures, two

of which Harry was familiar with. The largest was made up of

apartments for individual patients, and staffed by nurses and

attendants. Harry's own room was here, on the second floor, and from

the beginning he'd been allowed to roam around the communal halls

below at will.



The second building was obviously administrative--Dr. Manschoff's

private office was situated therein, and presumably the other

staff-members operated out of here.



The other two buildings were apparently inaccessible; not guarded or

policed or even distinguished by signs prohibiting access, but merely

locked and unused. At least, Harry had found the doors locked

when--out of normal curiosity--he had ventured to approach them. Nor

had he ever seen anyone enter or leave the premises. Perhaps these

structures were unnecessary under the present circumstances, and had

been built for future accommodations.



Still, Harry couldn't help wondering.



And now, on this particular afternoon, he sat on the bank of the

little river which ran through the valley, feeling the mid-summer sun

beating down upon his forehead and staring down at the eddying current

with its ripples and reflections.



Ripples and reflections....



Dr. Manschoff had answered his questions well, yet new questions had

arisen.



Most people didn't go crazy any more, the doctor had explained, and so

there were very few treatment centers such as this.



Question: Why were there any at all?



A place like this cost a fortune to staff and maintain. In an age

where living-space and areable acreage was at such a premium, why

waste this vast and fertile expanse? And in a society more and more

openly committed to the policy of promoting the greatest good for the

greatest number, why bother about the fate of an admittedly

insignificant group of mentally disturbed patients?



Not that Harry resented his situation; in fact, it was almost too good

to be true.



Question: Was it too good to be true?



Why, come to realize it, he'd seen less than a dozen other patients

during his entire stay here! All of them were male, and all of

them--apparently--were recovering from a condition somewhat similar to

his own. At least, he'd recognized the same reticence and diffidence

when it came to exchanging more than a perfunctory greeting in an

encounter in an outer corridor. At the time, he'd accepted their

unwillingness to communicate; welcomed and understood it because of

his condition. And that in itself wasn't what he questioned now.



But why were there so few patients beside himself? Why were they all

males? And why weren't they roaming the countryside now the way he

was?



So many staff-members and so few patients. So much room and luxury and

freedom, and so little use of it. So little apparent purpose to it

all.



Question: Was there a hidden purpose?



Harry stared down into the ripples and reflections, and the sun was

suddenly intolerably hot, its glare on the water suddenly blinding and

bewildering. He saw his face mirrored on the water's surface, and it

was not the familiar countenance he knew--the features were bloated,

distorted, shimmering and wavering.



Maybe it was starting all over again. Maybe he was getting another one

of those headaches. Maybe he was going to lose control again.



* * * * *



Yes, and maybe he was just imagining things. Sitting here in all this

heat wasn't a good idea.



Why not take a swim?



That seemed reasonable enough. In fact, it seemed like a delightful

distraction. Harry rose and stripped. He entered the water

awkwardly--one didn't dive, not after twenty years of abstinence from

the outdoor life--but he found that he could swim, after a fashion.

The water was cooling, soothing. A few minutes of immersion and Harry

found himself forgetting his speculations. The uneasy feeling had

vanished. Now, when he stared down into the water, he saw his own face

reflected, looking just the way it should. And when he stared up--



He saw her standing there, on the bank.



She was tall, slim, and blonde. Very tall, very slim, and very blonde.



She was also very desirable.



Up until a moment ago, Harry had considered swimming a delightful

distraction. But now--



"How's the water?" she called.



"Fine."



She nodded, smiling down at him.



"Aren't you coming in?" he asked.



"No."



"Then what are you doing here?"



"I was looking for you, Harry."



"You know my name?"



She nodded again. "Dr. Manschoff told me."



"You mean, he sent you here to find me?"



"That's right."



"But I don't understand. If you're not going swimming, then why--I

mean--"



Her smile broadened. "It's just part of the therapy, Harry."



"Part of the therapy?"



"That's right. Part." She giggled. "Don't you think you'd like to

come out of the water now and see what the rest of it might be?"



Harry thought so.



* * * * *



With mounting enthusiasm, he eagerly embraced his treatment and

entered into a state of active cooperation.



It was some time before he ventured to comment on the situation.

"Manschoff is a damned good diagnostician," he murmured. Then he sat

up. "Are you a patient here?"



She shook her head. "Don't ask questions, Harry. Can't you be

satisfied with things as they are?"



"You're just what the doctor ordered, all right." He gazed down at

her. "But don't you even have a name?"



"You can call me Sue."



"Thank you."



He bent to kiss her but she avoided him and rose to her feet. "Got to

go now."



"So soon?"



She nodded and moved towards the bushes above the bank.



"But when will I see you again?"



"Coming swimming tomorrow?"



"Yes."



"Maybe I can get away for more occupational therapy then."



She stooped behind the bushes, and Harry saw a flash of white.



"You are a nurse, aren't you," he muttered. "On the staff, I

suppose. I should have known."



"All right, so I am. What's that got to do with it?"



"And I suppose you were telling the truth when you said Manschoff sent

you here. This is just part of my therapy, isn't it?"



She nodded briefly as she slipped into her uniform. "Does that bother

you, Harry?"



He bit his lip. When he spoke, his voice was low. "Yes, damn it, it

does. I mean, I got the idea--at least, I was hoping--that this wasn't

just a matter of carrying out an assignment on your part."



She looked up at him gravely. "Who said anything about an assignment,

darling?" she murmured. "I volunteered."



And then she was gone.



Then she was gone, and then she came back that night in Harry's

dreams, and then she was at the river the next day and it was better

than the dreams, better than the day before.



Sue told him she had been watching him for weeks now. And she had gone

to Manschoff and suggested it, and she was very glad. And they had to

meet here, out in the open, so as not to complicate the situation or

disturb any of the other patients.



So Harry naturally asked her about the other patients, and the whole

general setup, and she said Dr. Manschoff would answer all those

questions in due time. But right now, with only an hour or so to

spare, was he going to spend it all asking for information? Matters

were accordingly adjusted to their mutual satisfaction, and it was on

that basis that they continued their almost daily meetings for some

time.



The next few months were perhaps the happiest Harry had ever known.

The whole interval took on a dreamlike quality--idealized,

romanticized, yet basically sensual. There is probably such a dream

buried deep within the psyche of every man, Harry reflected, but to

few is it ever given to realize its reality. His early questioning

attitude gave way to a mood of mere acceptance and enjoyment. This was

the primitive drama, the very essence of the male-female relationship;

Adam and Eve in the Garden. Why waste time seeking the Tree of

Knowledge?



And it wasn't until summer passed that Harry even thought about the

Serpent.



One afternoon, as he sat waiting for Sue on the river bank, he heard a

sudden movement in the brush behind him.



"Darling?" he called, eagerly.



"Please, you don't know me that well." The deep masculine voice

carried overtones of amusement.



Flushing, Harry turned to confront the intruder. He was a short,

stocky, middle-aged man whose bristling gray crewcut almost matched

the neutral shades of his gray orderly's uniform.



"Expecting someone else, were you?" the man muttered. "Well, I'll get

out of your way."



"That's not necessary. I was really just daydreaming, I guess. I don't

know what made me think--" Harry felt his flush deepen, and he lowered

his eyes and his voice as he tried to improvise some excuse.



"You're a lousy liar," the man said, stepping forward and seating

himself on the bank next to Harry. "But it doesn't really matter. I

don't think your girl friend is going to show up today, anyway."



"What do you mean? What do you know about--"



"I mean just what I said," the man told him. "And I know everything I

need to know, about you and about her and about the situation in

general. That's why I'm here, Collins."



He paused, watching the play of emotions in Harry's eyes.



"I know what you're thinking right now," the gray-haired man

continued. "At first you wondered how I knew your name. Then you

realized that if I was on the staff in the wards I'd naturally be able

to identify the patients. Now it occurs to you that you've never seen

me in the wards, so you're speculating as to whether or not I'm

working out of the administration offices with that psychiatric no

good Manschoff. But if I were, I wouldn't be calling him names, would

I? Which means you're really getting confused, aren't you, Collins?

Good!"



* * * * *



The man chuckled, but there was neither mockery, malice, nor genuine

mirth in the sound. And his eyes were sober, intent.



"Who are you?" Harry asked. "What are you doing here?"



"The name is Ritchie, Arnold Ritchie. At least, that's the name they

know me by around here, and you can call me that. As to what I'm

doing, it's a long story. Let's just say that right now I'm here to

give you a little advanced therapy."



"Then Manschoff did send you?"



The chuckle came again, and Ritchie shook his head. "He did not. And

if he even suspected I was here, there'd be hell to pay."



"Then what do you want with me?"



"It isn't a question of what I want. It's a question of what you

need. Which is, like I said, advanced therapy. The sort that dear old

kindly permissive Father-Image Manschoff doesn't intend you to get."



Harry stood up. "What's this all about?"



Ritchie rose with him, smiling for the first time. "I'm glad you asked

that question, Collins. It's about time you did, you know. Everything

has been so carefully planned to keep you from asking it. But you

were beginning to wonder just a bit anyway, weren't you?"



"I don't see what you're driving at."



"You don't see what anyone is driving at, Collins. You've been blinded

by a spectacular display of kindness, misdirected by self-indulgence.

I told you I knew everything I needed to know about you, and I do. Now

I'm going to ask you to remember these things for yourself; the things

you've avoided considering all this while.



"I'm going to ask you to remember that you're twenty-eight years old,

and that for almost seven years you were an agency man and a good one.

You worked hard, you did a conscientious job, you stayed in line,

obeyed the rules, never rebelled. Am I correct in my summary of the

situation?"



"Yes, I guess so."



"So what was your reward for all this unceasing effort and eternal

conformity? A one-room apartment and a one-week vacation, once a year.

Count your blessings, Collins. Am I right?"



"Right."



"Then what happened? Finally you flipped, didn't you? Tried to take a

header out of the window. You chucked your job, chucked your

responsibilities, chucked your future and attempted to chuck yourself

away. Am I still right?"



"Yes."



"Good enough. And now we come to the interesting part of the story.

Seven years of being a good little boy got you nothing but the promise

of present and future frustration. Seven seconds of madness, of

attempted self-destruction, brought you here. And as a reward for

bucking the system, the system itself has provided you with a life of

luxury and leisure--full permission to come and go as you please, live

in spacious ease, indulge in the gratification of every appetite, free

of responsibility or restraint. Is that true?"



"I suppose so."



"All right. Now, let me ask you the question you asked me. What's it

all about?"



Ritchie put his hand on Harry's shoulder. "Tell me that, Collins. Why

do you suppose you've received such treatment? As long as you stayed

in line, nobody gave a damn for your comfort or welfare. Then, when

you committed the cardinal sin of our present-day society--when you

rebelled--everything was handed to you on a silver platter. Does that

make sense?"



"But it's therapy. Dr. Manschoff said--"



"Look, Collins. Millions of people flip every year. Millions more

attempt suicide. How many of them end up in a place like this?"



"They don't, though. That's just Naturalist propaganda. Dr. Manschoff

said--"



"Dr. Manschoff said! I know what he said, all right. And you

believed him, because you wanted to believe him. You wanted the

reassurance he could offer you--the feeling of being unique and

important. So you didn't ask him any questions, you didn't ask any

questions of yourself. Such as why anybody would consider an

insignificant little agency man, without friends, family or

connections, worth the trouble of rehabilitating at all, let alone

amidst such elaborate and expensive surroundings. Why, men like you

are a dime a dozen these days--Vocational Apt can push a few buttons

and come up with half a million replacements to take over your job.

You aren't important to society, Collins. You aren't important to

anyone at all, besides yourself. And yet you got the red-carpet

treatment. It's about time somebody yanked that carpet out from under

you. What's it all about?"



Harry blinked. "Look here, I don't see why this is any of your

business. Besides, to tell the truth, I'm expecting--"



"I know who you're expecting, but I've already told you she won't be

here. Because she's expecting."



"What--?"



"It's high time you learned the facts of life, Collins. Yes, the

well-known facts of life--the ones about the birds and the bees, and

barefoot boys and blondes, too. Your little friend Sue is going to

have a souvenir."



"I don't believe it! I'm going to ask Dr. Manschoff."



"Sure you are. You'll ask Manschoff and he'll deny it. And so you'll

tell him about me. You'll say you met somebody in the woods

today--either a lunatic or a Naturalist spy who infiltrated here under

false pretenses. And Manschoff will reassure you. He'll reassure you

just long enough to get his hands on me. Then he'll take care of both

of us."



"Are you insinuating--"



"Hell, no! I'm telling you!" Ritchie put his hand down suddenly, and

his voice calmed. "Ever wonder about those other two big buildings on

the premises here, Collins? Well, I can tell you about one of them,

because that's where I work. You might call it an experimental

laboratory if you like. Sometime later on I'll describe it to you. But

right now it's the other building that's important; the building with

the big chimney. That's a kind of an incinerator, Collins--a place

where the mistakes go up in smoke, at night, when there's nobody to

see. A place where you and I will go up in smoke, if you're fool

enough to tell Manschoff about this."



"You're lying."



"I wish to God I was, for both our sakes! But I can prove what I'm

saying. You can prove it, for yourself."



"How?"



"Pretend this meeting never occurred. Pretend that you just spent the

afternoon here, waiting for a girl who never showed up. Then do

exactly what you would do under those circumstances. Go in to see Dr.

Manschoff and ask him where Sue is, tell him you were worried because

she'd promised to meet you and then didn't appear.



"I can tell you right now what he'll tell you. He'll say that Sue has

been transferred to another treatment center, that she knew about it

for several weeks but didn't want to upset you with the news of her

departure. So she decided to just slip away. And Manschoff will tell

you not to be unhappy. It just so happens that he knows of another

nurse who has had her eye on you--a very pretty little brunette named

Myrna. In fact, if you go down to the river tomorrow, you'll find her

waiting for you there."



"What if I refuse?"



Ritchie shrugged. "Why should you refuse? It's all fun and games,

isn't it? Up to now you haven't asked any questions about what was

going on, and it would look very strange if you started at this late

date. I strongly advise you to cooperate. If not, everything is likely

to--quite literally--go up in smoke."



Harry Collins frowned. "All right, suppose I do what you say, and

Manschoff gives me the answers you predict. This still doesn't prove

that he'd be lying or that you're telling me the truth."



"Wouldn't it indicate as much, though?"



"Perhaps. But on the other hand, it could merely mean that you know

Sue has been transferred, and that Dr. Manschoff intends to turn me

over to a substitute. It doesn't necessarily imply anything sinister."



"In other words, you're insisting on a clincher, is that it?"



"Yes."



"All right." Ritchie sighed heavily. "You asked for it." He reached

into the left-hand upper pocket of the gray uniform and brought out a

small, stiff square of glossy paper.



"What's that?" Harry asked. He reached for the paper, but Ritchie drew

his hand back.



"Look at it over my shoulder," he said. "I don't want any

fingerprints. Hell of a risky business just smuggling it out of the

files--no telling how well they check up on this material."



* * * * *



Harry circled behind the smaller man. He squinted down. "Hard to

read."



"Sure. It's a photostat. I made it myself, this morning; that's my

department. Read carefully now. You'll see it's a transcript of the

lab report. Susan Pulver, that's her name, isn't it? After due

examination and upon completion of preliminary tests, hereby found to

be in the second month of pregnancy. Putative father, Harry

Collins--that's you, see your name? And here's the rest of the

record."



"Yes, let me see it. What's all this about inoculation series? And who

is this Dr. Leffingwell?" Harry bent closer, but Ritchie closed his

hand around the photostat and pocketed it again.



"Never mind that, now. I'll tell you later. The important thing is, do

you believe me?"



"I believe Sue is pregnant, yes."



"That's enough. Enough for you to do what I've asked you to. Go to

Manschoff and make inquiries. See what he tells you. Don't make a

scene, and for God's sake don't mention my name. Just confirm my story

for yourself. Then I'll give you further details."



"But when will I see you?"



"Tomorrow afternoon, if you like. Right here."



"You said he'd be sending another girl--"



Ritchie nodded. "So I did. And so he'll say. I suggest you beg to be

excused for the moment. Tell him it will take a while for you to get

over the shock of losing Sue this way."



"I won't be lying," Harry murmured.



"I know. And I'm sorry. Believe me, I am." Ritchie sighed again. "But

you'll just have to trust me from now on."



"Trust you? When you haven't even explained what this is all about?"



"You've had your shock-therapy for today. Come back for another

treatment tomorrow."



And then Ritchie was gone, the gray uniform melting away into the gray

shadows of the shrubbery above the bank.



A short time later, Harry made his own way back to the center in the

gathering twilight. The dusk was gray, too. Everything seemed gray

now.



So was Harry Collins' face, when he emerged from his interview with

Dr. Manschoff that evening. And it was still pallid the next afternoon

when he came down to the river bank and waited for Ritchie to

reappear.



The little man emerged from the bushes. He stared at Harry's drawn

countenance and nodded slowly.



"I was right, eh?" he muttered.



"It looks that way. But I can't understand what's going on. If this

isn't just a treatment center, if they're not really interested in my

welfare, then what am I doing here?"



"You're taking part in an experiment. This, my friend, is a

laboratory. And you are a nice, healthy guinea pig."



"But that doesn't make sense. I haven't been experimented on. They've

let me do as I please."



"Exactly. And what do guinea pigs excel at? Breeding."



"You mean this whole thing was rigged up just so that Sue and I

would--?"



"Please, let's not be so egocentric, shall we? After all, you're not

the only male patient in this place. There are a dozen others

wandering around loose. Some of them have their favorite caves, others

have discovered little bypaths, but all of them seem to have located

ideal trysting-places. Whereupon, of course, the volunteer nurses have

located them."



"Are you telling me the same situation exists with each of the

others?"



"Isn't it fairly obvious? You've shown no inclination to become

friendly with the rest of the patients here, and none of them have

made any overtures to you. That's because everyone has his own little

secret, his own private arrangement. And so all of you go around

fooling everybody else, and all of you are being fooled. I'll give

credit to Manschoff and his staff on that point--he's certainly

mastered the principles of practical psychology."



"But you talked about breeding. With our present overpopulation

problem, why in the world do they deliberately encourage the birth of

more children?"



"Very well put. 'Why in the world' indeed! In order to answer that,

you'd better take a good look at the world."



Arnold Ritchie seated himself on the grass, pulled out a pipe, and

then replaced it hastily. "Better not smoke," he murmured. "Be awkward

if we attracted any attention and were found together."



* * * * *



Harry stared at him. "You are a Naturalist, aren't you?"



"I'm a reporter, by profession."



"Which network?"



"No network. Newzines. There are still a few in print, you know."



"I know. But I can't afford them."



"There aren't many left who can, or who even feel the need of reading

them. Nevertheless, mavericks like myself still cling to the ancient

and honorable practices of the Fourth Estate. One of which is

ferreting out the inside story, the news behind the news."



"Then you're not working for the Naturalists."



"Of course I am. I'm working for them and for everybody else who has

an interest in learning the truth." Ritchie paused. "By the way, you

keep using that term as if it were some kind of dirty word. Just what

does it mean? What is a Naturalist, in your book?"



"Why, a radical thinker, of course. An opponent of government

policies, of progress. One who believes we're running out of living

space, using up the last of our natural resources."



"What do you suppose motivates Naturalists, really?"



"Well, they can't stand the pressures of daily living, or the

prospects of a future when we'll be still more hemmed in."



Ritchie nodded. "Any more than you could, a few months ago, when you

tried to commit suicide. Wouldn't you say that you were thinking

like a Naturalist then?"



Harry grimaced. "I suppose so."



"Don't feel ashamed. You saw the situation clearly, just as the

so-called Naturalists do. And just as the government does. Only the

government can't dare admit it--hence the secrecy behind this

project."



"A hush-hush government plan to stimulate further breeding? I still

don't see--"



"Look at the world," Ritchie repeated. "Look at it realistically.

What's the situation at present? Population close to six billion, and

rising fast. There was a leveling-off period in the Sixties, and then

it started to climb again. No wars, no disease to cut it down. The

development of synthetic foods, the use of algae and fungi, rules out

famine as a limiting factor. Increased harnessing of atomic power has

done away with widespread poverty, so there's no economic deterrent to

propagation. Neither church nor state dares set up a legal

prohibition. So here we are, at the millennium. In place of

international tension we've substituted internal tension. In place of

thermonuclear explosion, we have a population explosion."



"You make it look pretty grim."



"I'm just talking about today. What happens ten years from now, when

we hit a population-level of ten billion? What happens when we reach

twenty billion, fifty billion, a hundred? Don't talk to me about more

substitutes, more synthetics, new ways of conserving top-soil. There

just isn't going to be room for everyone!"



"Then what's the answer?"



"That's what the government wants to know. Believe me, they've done a

lot of searching; most of it sub rosa. And then along came this man

Leffingwell, with his solution. That's just what it is, of

course--an endocrinological solution, for direct injection."



"Leffingwell? The Dr. Leffingwell whose name was on that photostat?

What's he got to do with all this?"



"He's boss of this project," Ritchie said. "He's the one who persuaded

them to set up a breeding-center. You're his guinea pig."



"But why all the secrecy?"



"That's what I wanted to know. That's why I scurried around, pulled

strings to get a lab technician's job here. It wasn't easy, believe

me. The whole deal is being kept strictly under wraps until

Leffingwell's experiments prove out. They realized right away that it

would be fatal to use volunteers for the experiments--they'd be bound

to talk, there'd be leaks. And of course, they anticipated some

awkward results at first, until the technique is refined and

perfected. Well, they were right on that score. I've seen some of

their failures." Ritchie shuddered. "Any volunteer--any military man,

government employee or even a so-called dedicated scientist who broke

away would spread enough rumors about what was going on to kill the

entire project. That's why they decided to use mental patients for

subjects. God knows, they had millions to choose from, but they were

very particular. You're a rare specimen, Collins."



"How so?"



"Because you happen to fit all their specifications. You're young, in

good physical condition. Unlike ninety percent of the population, you

don't even wear contact lenses, do you? And your aberration was

temporary, easily removed by removing you from the tension-sources

which created it. You have no family ties, no close friends, to

question your absence. That's why you were chosen--one of the two

hundred."



"Two hundred? But there's only a dozen others here now."



"A dozen males, yes. You're forgetting the females. Must be about

fifty or sixty in the other building."



"But if you're talking about someone like Sue, she's a nurse--"



Ritchie shook his head. "That's what she was told to say. Actually,

she's a patient, too. They're all patients. Twelve men and sixty

women, at the moment. Originally, about thirty men and a hundred and

seventy women."



"What happened to the others?"



"I told you there were some failures. Many of the women died in

childbirth. Some of them survived, but found out about the

results--and the results, up until now, haven't been perfect. A few of

the men found out, too. Well, they have only one method of dealing

with failures here. They dispose of them. I told you about that

chimney, didn't I?"



"You mean they killed the offspring, killed those who found out about

them?"



Ritchie shrugged.



"But what are they actually doing? Who is this Dr. Leffingwell?

What's it all about?"



"I think I can answer those questions for you."



Harry wheeled at the sound of the familiar voice.



Dr. Manschoff beamed down at him from the top of the river bank.

"Don't be alarmed," he said. "I wasn't following you with any intent

to eavesdrop. I was merely concerned about him." His eyes flickered as

he directed his gaze past Harry's shoulder, and Harry turned again to

look at Arnold Ritchie.



* * * * *



The little man was no longer standing and he was no longer alone. Two

attendants now supported him, one on either side, and Ritchie himself

sagged against their grip with eyes closed. A hypodermic needle in one

attendant's hand indicated the reason for Ritchie's sudden collapse.



"Merely a heavy sedative," Dr. Manschoff murmured. "We came prepared,

in expectation of just such an emergency." He nodded at his

companions. "Better take him back now," he said. "I'll look in on him

this evening, when he comes out of it."



"Sorry about all this," Manschoff continued, sitting down next to

Harry as the orderlies lifted Ritchie's inert form and carried him up

the slanting slope. "It's entirely my fault. I misjudged my

patient--never should have permitted him such a degree of freedom.

Obviously, he's not ready for it yet. I do hope he didn't upset you in

any way."



"No. He seemed quite"--Harry hesitated, then went on

hastily--"logical."



"Indeed he is." Dr. Manschoff smiled. "Paranoid delusions, as they

used to call them, can often be rationalized most convincingly. And

from what little I heard, he was doing an excellent job, wasn't he?"



"Well--"



"I know." A slight sigh erased the smile. "Leffingwell and I are mad

scientists, conducting biological experiments on human guinea pigs.

We've assembled patients for breeding purposes and the government is

secretly subsidizing us. Also, we incinerate our victims--again, with

full governmental permission. All very logical, isn't it?"



"I didn't mean that," Harry told him. "It's just that he said Sue was

pregnant and he was hinting things."



"Said?" Manschoff stood up. "Hinted? I'm surprised he didn't go

further than that. Just today, we discovered he'd been using the

office facilities--he had a sort of probationary position, as you may

have guessed, helping out the staff in administration--to provide

tangible proof of his artistic creations. He was writing out 'official

reports' and then photostating them. Apparently he intended to

circulate the results as 'evidence' to support his delusions. Look,

here's a sample."



Dr. Manschoff passed a square of glossy paper to Harry, who scanned it

quickly. It was another laboratory report similar to the one Ritchie

had shown him, but containing a different set of names.



"No telling how long this sort of thing has been going on," Manschoff

said. "He may have made dozens. Naturally, the moment we discovered

it, we realized prompt action was necessary. He'll need special

attention."



"But what's wrong with him?"



"It's a long story. He was a reporter at one time--he may have told

you that. The death of his wife precipitated a severe trauma and

brought him to our attention. Actually, I'm not at liberty to say any

more regarding his case; you understand, I'm sure."



"Then you're telling me that everything he had to say was a product of

his imagination?"



"No, don't misunderstand. It would be more correct to state that he

merely distorted reality. For example, there is a Dr. Leffingwell on

the staff here; he is a diagnostician and has nothing to do with

psychotherapy per se. And he has charge of the hospital ward in Unit

Three, the third building you may have noticed behind Administration.

That's where the nurses maintain residence, of course. Incidentally,

when any nurses take on a--special assignment, as it were, such as

yours, Leffingwell does examine and treat them. There's a new oral

contraception technique he's evolved which may be quite efficacious.

But I'd hardly call it an example of sinister experimentation under

the circumstances, would you?"



Harry shook his head. "About Ritchie, though," he said. "What will

happen to him?"



"I can't offer any prognosis. In view of my recent error in judgment

concerning him, it's hard to say how he'll respond to further

treatment. But rest assured that I'll do my best for his case. Chances

are you'll be seeing him again before very long."



Dr. Manschoff glanced at his watch. "Shall we go back now?" he

suggested. "Supper will be served soon."



The two men toiled up the bank.



Harry discovered that the doctor was right about supper. It was being

served as he returned to his room. But the predictions concerning

Ritchie didn't work out quite as well.



It was after supper--indeed, quite some hours afterwards, while Harry

sat at his window and stared sleeplessly out into the night--that he

noted the thick, greasy spirals of black smoke rising suddenly from

the chimney of the Third Unit building. And the sight may have

prepared him for the failure of Dr. Manschoff's prophecy regarding his

disturbed patient.



Harry never asked any questions, and no explanations were ever

forthcoming.



But from that evening onward, nobody ever saw Arnold Ritchie again.