It might also make therapeutic history.

No one was really qualified to try it, because no one hadever tried it before.

But Eileen Shallot was a rarity—no, a unique item—for it was likely she was the only person in the world whocombined the necessary technical background with theunique problem.

He drained his glass, refilled it, refilled hers.

He was still considering the problem as the "RECOORDINATE" light came on and the car pulled into acutoff and stood there. He switched off the buzzer andsat there for a long while, thinking.

It was not often that other persons heard him acknowledge his feelings regarding his skill. His colleagues considered him modest. Offhand, though, it might be notedthat he was aware that the day a better neuroparticipantbegan practicing would be the day that a troubled homosapien was to be treated by something but immeasurablyless than angels.

Two drinks remained. Then he tossed the emptied bottle into the backbin.

"You know something?" he finally said.

**What?"

*1t might be worth a try."

He swiveled about then and leaned forward to recoordinate, but she was there first. As he pressed the buttonsand the S-7 swung around, she kissed him. Below herdark glasses her cheeks were moist.

The suicide bothered him more than it should have, andMrs. Lambert had called the day before to cancel herappointment. So Render decided to spend the morningbeing pensive. Accordingly, he entered the office wearinga cigar and a frown.

"Did you see ... ?" asked Mrs. Hedges.

"Yes." He pitched his coat onto the table that stood inthe far corner of the room. He crossed to the window,stared down. "Yes," he repeated, "I was driving by withmy windows clear. They were still cleaning up when Ipassed."

"Did you know him?"

"I don't even know the name yet. How could I?"

"Priss Tully just called me—she's a receptionist forthat engineering outfit up on the eighty-sixth. She says itwas James Irizarry, an ad designer who had offices downthe hall from them— That's a long way to fall. He musthave been unconscious when he hit, huh? He bounced offthe building. If you open the window and lean out youcan see—off to the left there—where..."

"Never mind, Bennie. —Your friend have any ideawhy he did it?"

"Not really. His secretary came running up the hall,screaming. Seems she went in his office to see him aboutsome drawings, just as he was getting up over the sill.There was a note on his board. 'I've had everything Iwanted,' it said. 'Why wait around?' Sort of funny, huh?I don't mean funny... ."

"Yeah. —Know anything about his personal affairs?"

"Married. Coupla kids. Good professional rep. Lots ofbusiness. Sober as anybody. —He could afford an officein this building."

"Good Lordi" Render turned. "Have you got a casefile there or something?"

"You know," she shrugged her thick shoulders, *'I*vegot friends all over this hive. We always talk when thingsgo slow. Prissy's my sister-in-law, anyhow—

"You mean that if I dived through this window rightnow, my current biography would make the rounds in thenext five minutes?"

"Probably," she twisted her bright lips into a smile,"give or take a couple. But don't do it today, huh? —Youknow, it would be kind of anticlimactic, and it wouldn'tget the same coverage as a solus.

"Anyhow," she continued, "you're a mind-mixer. Youwouldn't do it."

"You're betting against statistics," he observed. "Themedical profession, along with attorneys, manages aboutthree times as many as most other work areas."

"Hey!" She looked worried. "Go 'way from my windowl

"I'd have to go to work for Doctor Hanson then," sheadded, "and he's a slob."

He moved to her desk.

"I never know when to take you seriously," she decided.

"I appreciate your concern," he nodded, "indeed I do.As a matter of fact, I have never been statistic-prone—Ishould have repercussed out of the neuropy game fouryears ago."

"You'd be a headline, though," she mused. "All thosereporters asking me about you ... Hey, why do they doit, huh?"

"Who?"

"Anybody."

"How should I know, Bennie? I'm only a humblepsyche-stirrer. If I could pinpoint a general underlyingcause—and then maybe figure a way to anticipate thetiling—why, it might even be better than my jumping, fornewscopy. But I can't do it, because there is no single.ample reason—I don't think."

"Oh."

"About thirty-five years ago it was the ninth leadingcause of death in the United States. Now it's number sixfor North and South America. I think it's seventh in Europe."

"And nobody will ever really know why Irizarrypimped?"

Reader swung a chair backward and seated himself.He knocked an ash into her petite and gleaming tray. Sheemptied it into the waste-chute, hastily, and coughed asignificant cough.

"Oh, one can always speculate," he said, "and one inmy profession will. The first thing to consider would bethe personality traits which might predispose a man toperiods of depression. People who keep their emotionsunder rigid control, people who are conscientious andrather compulsively concerned with small matters ..."He knocked another fleck of ash into her tray andwatched as she reached out to dump it, then quickly drewher hand back again. He grinned an evil grin. "In short,"he finished, "some of the characteristics of people inprofessions which require individual, rather than groupperformance—medicine, law, the arts."

She regarded him speculatively.

"Don't worry though," he chuckled, "I'm pleased ashell with life."

"You're kind of down in the mouth this morning."

"Pete called me. He broke his ankle yesterday in gymclass. They ought to supervise those things more closely.I'm thinking of changing his school."

"Again?"

"Maybe. I'll see. The headmaster is going to call methis afternoon. I don't like to keep shuffling him, but I dowant him to finish school in one piece.""A kid can't grow up without an accident or two. It's—statistics."

"Statistics aren't the same thing as destiny, Bennie.Everybody makes his own."

"Statistics or destiny?"

"Both, I guess."

"I think that if something's going to happen, it's goingto happen."

"I don't. I happen to think that the human will, backedby a sane mind can exercise some measure of control overevents. If I didn't think so, I wouldn't be in the racket I'min."

'The world's a machine—you know—cause, effect. Statistics do imply the prob—"

"The human mind is not a machine, and I do not knowcause and effect. Nobody does."

"You have a degree in chemistry, as I recall. You're ascientist. Doc."

"So I'm a Trotskyite deviationist," he smiled, stretching, "and you were once a ballet teacher." He got to hisfeet and picked up his coat.

"By the way. Miss DeVille called, left a message. Shesaid: 'How about St. Moritz?' "

"Too ritzy," he decided aloud. "It's going to be Davos."

Because the suicide bothered him more than it shouldhave. Render closed the door to his office and turned offthe windows and turned on the phonograph. He put onthe desk light only.

How has the quality of human life been changed, hewrote, since the beginnings of the industrial revolution?

He picked up the paper and reread the sentence. It wasthe topic he had been asked to discuss that coming Saturday. As was typical in such cases he did not know whatto say because he had too much to say, and only an hourto say it in.

He got up and began to pace the office, now filled withBeethoven's Eighth Symphony.

"The power to hurt," he said, snapping on a lapelmicrophone and activating his recorder, "has evolved in adirect relationship to technological advancement." Hisimaginary audience grew quiet. He smiled. "Man's potential for working simple mayhem has been multipliedby mass-production; his capacity for injuring the psychethrough personal contacts has expanded in an exact ratioto improved communication facilities. But these are allmatters of common knowledge, and are not the things Iwish to consider tonight Rather, I should like to discuss what I choose to call autopsychomimesis—the selfgenerated anxiety complexes which on first scrutinyappear quite similar to classic patterns, but which actuallyrepresent radical dispersions of psychic energy. They arepeculiar to our times... .**