Captain Karp Moklin, Centran assistant psychologist at the local prison camp, nodded to the perspiring Earth psychotherapist who was his visitor.
"Yes, Dr. Garvin. As you say, such cases as these are for the specialist."
Garvin drew a shaky breath. "I certainly do feel privileged, Captain, to come and watch a Centran psychologist at work. I'm very anxious to meet Major Poffis. My own—ah—efforts certainly don't seem to have accomplished much."
In the cell behind him stood a large Centran soldier, his fur unbrushed and untrimmed, tail thrashing in triumph, a sneer on his face, and a chunk of Dr. Garvin's sport jacket in his hand.
"Of course," said Garvin, "really deep psychotherapy is a very slow process. This is why I am so anxious to see one of your own people, and observe his methods. Possibly if we could—ah—pool our resources it might be possible to considerably accelerate the course of treatment."
Moklin nodded. "Major Poffis himself has often complained that the work takes too long."
"Is the—ah—the incidence of relapses—" Gavin hesitated, then rephrased the question to fit the less developed Centran mentality. "I mean, do the patients have to come back very often for a second course of treatment?"
The Centran seemed startled at this idea. "No, of course not."
"The treatments are usually successful?"
"Oh, yes."
"Does the major also treat those suffering from—ah—battle fatigue—"
The Centran looked puzzled. "Everyone is fatigued in battle. No, the major's treatment is not meant for that. He handles mostly these uncontrollables, the ones with—"
"Severe neuroses?"
"With the—ah—with the violent—ah—" Moklin paused as if mentally searching for some word or phrase that he had memorized once with the intention of using it later for effect. He straightened, and said learnedly, "With the 'violent antisocial tendencies.' "
Garvin blinked. "This is Major Poffis' specialty, then?"
"Yes," said Captain Moklin. "He does a lot of this work."
"That is precisely what we find most difficult." Garvin glanced uneasily at the prisoner, who with coy gestures was now urging him to come closer to the bars. "We find," he coughed slightly, "that these are often the most obstinate cases. They are difficult to reach—to contact—to form any common—"
The captain glanced at the wall clock.
"Major Poffis can reach them. He will be here soon. He is always on time. Then you will see how he does it."
The prisoner methodically tore his piece of Garvin's jacket to shreds, and leered at Garvin through the bars.
The clang of an outer door and the sound of voices heralded the arrival of Major Poffis.
Dr. Garvin said anxiously, "Is the major, ah, quite high in your academic hierarchy? In civilian life, I mean."
The Centran captain looked blank. "He has a Qh.Q."
"Ah, I see. Of course. Well—I'm not really familiar with the niceties of Centran—ah—academic protocol. Shall I call him 'major,' or 'doctor'?"
The Centran looked blank. "He is a major."
Garvin had the sensation of coming up solidly against a blank wall. He nodded hastily, and barely stopped himself from saying, "Silly of me to ask." Such comments, he had found, were likely to cause the Centrans to agree. Instead, he prepared himself to greet the Centran academic.
From the man's record of cures, he was a veritable master psychologist. Some of Garvin's colleagues, of course, did not consider the record of cures really significant. For them what counted were the methods used and the theoretical justification of the methods. But Garvin personally found it a little embarrassing to do no better than unaided nature. From Major Poffis—in his mind he decided to call him Dr. Poffis—from Dr. Poffis he would learn the best of Centran practices, then combine it with the highest Earth theory, and perhaps thus create a universal treatment superior to any hitherto used.
A murmur just outside the door told of Dr. Poffis' approach.
Garvin prepared his smile and readied the comment, "I hope that a useful cross-fertilization of our mutual concepts may bear fruit in a more successful treatment, Doctor." Just where he would put this into the conversation Garvin wasn't sure, but he wanted it to be ready when the time came.
The door latch clicked, and Garvin extended his right hand. He was on the alert to approach the tall distinguished Centran who would come in, who would perhaps be impressively silver-furred, with a slightly wry smile, or perhaps with a look of blazing incandescent genius demanding the instant submission of lesser intellects, and—
The door opened. A Centran major of above average height, broadly built, with muscles up both sides of his neck under the fur, walked in and growled, "All right, Moklin, what's on the sheet for today?"
Captain Moklin bawled, "Attention!"
The prisoner raised his right hand to his forehead, as if in salute. Then he lowered the thumb and forefinger to the sides of his nose and blew out hard. In case the idea didn't get across, he spat through the bars onto the major's tunic.
The major showed no sign of noticing anything unusual. "At ease. What do we have today, Moklin?"
"This is the first one, sir, in the cell right here."
The major nodded, started to speak, then frowned at Garvin. Garvin had his phrases all set, and now heard himself say stupidly, "How do you do? I am Dr. Garvin from Rolling Hills Rest and Recuperation Center. I—er—had hoped that a—ah—a useful cross-fertilization of our—ah—mutual—"
Major Poffis took a closer look at Garvin.
Garvin paused, groping around for some way to give a more conventional ending to this opening gambit.
Poffis glanced at the captain. "Is this a patient?"
"No, sir. This is the Earth psychologist from Mental Institution 16."
Garvin cleared his throat, and said gently but firmly, "We find it more appropriate to designate it 'Rolling Hills Rest and—' "
Poffis looked him over coldly. "What the devil's the matter with them out there?"
Garvin looked blank. "What?"
Poffis said shortly, "Why don't they get their thumb out of their mouth and give us some action? I sent half-a-dozen cases of combat nerves in six months ago, and so far we've gotten just one back. The boy was worthless. What the devil do you do to your patients?"
He turned to Captain Moklin. "I notice this fellow has a chunk out of his jacket. Has he been administering treatment in my absence?"
"Not actually, sir. He just walked over and tried to reason with the patient, that's all."
Poffis looked mollified. "That shouldn't do much harm." He glanced at the cell. "Now, then, this fellow hasn't been in combat yet, has he?"
"No, sir. He isn't out of training yet."
"You're sure we've got the right records? This isn't a damned administrative bungle like that last mess?"
"No, sir," said Moklin grimly. "I checked that myself, sir. This is the right man, all right."
"What's the recommendation?"
"Court recommended death. Patient's commanding officer pleaded for leniency."
The patient laughed out loud, as if witnessing a peculiarly silly scene in a play.
Major Poffis looked the patient over appraisingly, then glanced at Moklin. "On what grounds did his commanding officer plead for leniency?"
"He thought the fellow could be made into a good soldier, sir. With the proper treatment."
Poffis scowled. "Yes, there's that again. What's on the sheet, Moklin. How many of these cases have we got for today?"
Moklin looked apologetic. "Three more for this morning, sir. Now, about this prisoner—"
Poffis stared at him. "And this afternoon?"
"Sir?"
"How many this afternoon?"
"We've got—that is—" Moklin swallowed. "Sir, there are six of them."
Poffis's brows came together.
"That's too many. Put some of them over till tomorrow."
"Well, sir, tomorrow—"
Poffis snarled, "It takes time to get a cure started. I'll handle three this morning, and three this afternoon. From there, it's routine. But I'm taking six new ones a day and that's that."
"Sir, at that rate, they'll pile up from here all the way back to Training, and the colonel will—"
Poffis's eyes glinted.
"I know how many new patients I can handle in a day, Moklin. If the colonel wants me to take on eight a day, ten a day, twelve a day, then I am going to end up on the other side of these bars, and the colonel can see how that works out. Let them pile up. That's better than sending back fake cures. There's a cause to this mess somewhere. The sooner that dawns on them, the quicker they'll slap the clokal detonak on this whole region, and burn out the pus. Now let's have the keys to the cell so I can get started."
Moklin dazedly handed over the keys to the cell.