"... 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."

"It would seem that there'd be some way to cut down on that feedback," said Minton.

"Not yet," Render explained, "there isn't—not without sacrificing some of the operator's effectiveness. They're work­ing on the problem right now in Vienna, but so far the answer seems far away."

"If you find one you can probably go into the more sig­nificant areas of mental distress," said Minton.

Render drank his punch. He did not like the stress that the man had laid upon the word 'significant.'

"In the meantime," said Render, after a moment, "we treat what we can treat in the best way we know, and neuropy is certainly the best means known."

"There are those who say that you don't really cure neuroses, but cater to them—that you satisfy patients by giving them little worlds all their own to be neurotic in— vacations from reality, places where they're second in com­mand to God."

"That is not the case," said Render. "The things which oc-

cur in those little worlds are not necessarily things which please them. They are not near to command at all; the Shaper—or, as you say, God—is. It is a learning experience. You learn by pleasure and you learn by pain. Generally, in these cases, it is more painful than it is pleasurable." He lit a cigarette, accepted another cup of punch.

"So I do not consider the criticism a valid one," he fin­ished.

"... And it is quite expensive," said Minton.

Render shrugged.

"Did you ever price an Omnichannel Neural Transmission and Receiver outfit?"

"No."

"Do it sometime," said Render.

He listened to a Christmas carol, put out his cigarette, and stood.

"Thanks a lot, Heydell," he said. "I've got to be going now."

"What's the hurry?" asked Heydell. "Stay awhile."

"Like to," said Render, "but there are people upstairs I have to get back to."

"Oh? Many?"

"A couple."

"Bring them down. I was about to set up a buffet, and there's more than enough. I'll feed them and ply them with drinks."

"Well—" said Render.

"Fine!" said Heydell. "Why not just call them from here?"

So he did.

"Peter's ankle is all right," he said.

"Great. Now what about my coat?" asked Jill.

"Forget it for now. I'll take care of it later."

"I tried some lukewarm water, but it's still pinkish..."

"Put it back in the box, and don't fool around with it any more! I said I'd take care of it."