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                           Name Your Symptom

                             By JIM HARMON

                         Illustrated by WEISS

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                   Galaxy Science Fiction May 1956.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]




                 Anybody who shunned a Cure needed his
               head examined--assuming he had one left!


Henry Infield placed the insulated circlet on his head gently. The
gleaming rod extended above his head about a foot, the wires from it
leading down into his collar, along his spine and finally out his pants
leg to a short metallic strap that dragged on the floor.

Clyde Morgan regarded his partner. "Suppose--just suppose--you _were_
serious about this, why not just the shoes?"

Infield turned his soft blue eyes to the black and tan oxfords with the
very thick rubber soles. "They might get soaked through."

Morgan took his foot off the chair behind the desk and sat down.
"Suppose they were soaked through and you were standing on a metal
plate--steps or a manhole cover--what good would your lightning rod do
you then?"

Infield shrugged slightly. "I suppose a man must take some chances."

Morgan said, "You can't do it, Henry. You're crossing the line. The
people we treat are on one side of the line and we're on the other. If
you cross that line, you won't be able to treat people again."

The small man looked out the large window, blinking myopically at the
brassy sunlight. "That's just it, Clyde. There is a line between us,
a wall. How can we really understand the people who come to us, if we
hide on our side of the wall?"

Morgan shook his thick head, ruffling his thinning red hair. "I dunno,
Henry, but staying on our side is a pretty good way to keep sane and
that's quite an accomplishment these days."

Infield whirled and stalked to the desk. "That's the answer! The whole
world is going mad and we are just sitting back watching it hike
along. Do you know that what we are doing is really the most primitive
medicine in the world? We are treating the symptoms and not the
disease. One cannibal walking another with sleeping sickness doesn't
cure anything. Eventually the savage dies--just as all those sick
savages out in the street will die unless we can cure the disease, not
only the indications."

       *       *       *       *       *

Morgan shifted his ponderous weight uneasily. "Now, Henry, it's no good
to talk like that. We psychiatrists can't turn back the clock. There
just aren't enough of us or enough time to give that old-fashioned
_therapy_ to all the sick people."

Infield leaned on the desk and glared. "I called myself a psychiatrist
once. But now I know we're semi-mechanics, semi-engineers,
semi-inventors, semi lots of other things, but certainly not even
semi-psychiatrists. A psychiatrist wouldn't give a foetic gyro to a man
with claustrophobia."

His mind went back to the first gyro ball he had ever issued; the
remembrance of his pride in the thing sickened him. Floating before
him in memory was the vertical hoop and the horizontal hoop, both of
shining steel-impervium alloy. Transfixed in the twin circles was the
face of the patient, slack with smiles and sweat. But his memory was
exaggerating the human element. The gyro actually passed over a man's
shoulder, through his legs, under his arms. Any time he felt the
walls creeping in to crush him, he could withdraw his head and limbs
into the circle and feel safe. Steel-impervium alloy could resist even
a nuclear explosion. The foetic gyro ball was worn day and night, for
life.

The sickness overcame him. He sat down on Morgan's desk. "That's just
one thing, the gyro ball. There are so many others, so many."

Morgan smiled. "You know, Henry, not all of our Cures are so--so--not
all are like that. Those Cures for mother complexes aren't even
obvious. If anybody does see that button in a patient's ear, it looks
like a hearing aid. Yet for a nominal sum, the patient is equipped to
hear the soothing recorded voice of his mother saying, 'It's all right,
everything's all right, Mommy loves you, it's all right....'"

"But _is_ everything all right?" Infield asked intensely. "Suppose
the patient is driving over one hundred on an icy road. He thinks
about slowing down, but there's the voice in his ear. Or suppose he's
walking down a railroad track and hears a train whistle--if he can hear
anything over that verbal pablum gushing in his ear."

Morgan's face stiffened. "You know as well as I do that those voices
are nearly subsonic. They don't cut a sense efficiency more than 23
per cent."

"At first, Clyde--only at first. But what about the severe case where
we have to burn a three-dimensional smiling mother-image on the eyes of
the patient with radiation? With that image over everything he sees and
with that insidious voice drumming in his head night and day, do you
mean to say that man's senses will only be impaired 23 per cent? Why,
he'll turn violently schizophrenic sooner or later--and you know it.
The only cure we have for that is still a strait jacket, a padded cell
or one of those inhuman lobotomies."

Morgan shrugged helplessly. "You're an idealist."

"You're damned right!" Infield slammed the door behind him.

       *       *       *       *       *

The cool air of the street was a relief. Infield stepped into the main
stream of human traffic and tried to adjust to the second change in the
air. People didn't bathe very often these days.

He walked along, buffeted by the crowd, carried along in this
direction, shoved back in that direction. Most people in the crowd
seemed to be Normals, but you couldn't tell. Many "Cures" were not
readily apparent.

A young man with black glasses and a radar headset (a photophobe) was
unable to keep from being pushed against Infield. He sounded out the
lightning rod, his face changing when he realized it must be some kind
of Cure. "Pardon me," he said warmly.

"Quite all right."

It was the first time in years that anyone had apologized to Infield
for anything. He had been one of those condemned Normals, more to be
scorned than pitied. Perhaps he could really get to understand these
people, now that he had taken down the wall.

Suddenly something else was pushing against Infield, forcing the
air from his lungs. He stared down at the magnetic suction dart
clinging leechlike to his chest. Model Acrophobe 101-X, he catalogued
immediately. Description: safety belt. But his emotions didn't behave
so well. He was thoroughly terrified, heart racing, sweat glands
pumping. The impervium cable undulated vulgarly. _Some primitive fear
of snake symbols?_ his mind wondered while panic crushed him.

"Uncouple that cable!" the shout rang out. It was not his own.

A clean-cut young man with mouse-colored hair was moving toward the
stubble-chinned, heavy-shouldered man quivering in the center of a web
of impervium cables stuck secure to the walls and windows of buildings
facing the street, the sidewalk, a mailbox, the lamp post and Infield.

Mouse-hair yelled hoarsely, "Uncouple it, Davies! Can't you see the
guy's got a lightning rod? You're grounding him!

"I can't," Davies groaned. "I'm scared!"

Halfway down the twenty feet of cable, Mouse-hair grabbed on. "I'm
holding it. Release it, you hear?"

Davies fumbled for the broad belt around his thickening middle. He
jabbed the button that sent a negative current through the cable. The
magnetic suction dart dropped away from Infield like a thing that had
been alive and now was killed. He felt an overwhelming sense of relief.

       *       *       *       *       *

After breathing deeply for a few moments, he looked up to see Davies
releasing and drawing all his darts into his belt, making it resemble a
Hydra-sized spiked dog collar. Mouse-hair stood by tensely as the crowd
disassembled.

"This isn't the first time you've pulled something like this, Davies,"
he said. "You weren't too scared to release that cable. You just don't
care about other people's feelings. This is _official_."

Mouse-hair drove a fast, hard right into the soft blue flesh of Davies'
chin. The big man fell silently.

The other turned to Infield. "He was unconscious on his feet," he
explained. "He never knew he fell."

"What did you mean by that punch being official?" Infield asked while
trying to arrange his feelings into the comfortable, familiar patterns.

The young man's eyes almost seemed to narrow, although his face didn't
move; he merely radiated narrowed eyes. "How long have you been Cured?"

"Not--not long," Infield evaded.

The other glanced around the street. He moistened his lips and spoke
slowly. "Do you think you might be interested in joining a fraternal
organization of the Cured?"

Infield's pulse raced, trying to get ahead of his thoughts, and losing
out. A chance to study a pseudo-culture of the "Cured" developed in
isolation! "Yes, I think I might. I owe you a drink for helping me out.
How about it?"

The man's face paled so fast, Infield thought for an instant that he
was going to faint. "All right. I'll risk it." He touched the side of
his face away from the psychiatrist.

Infield shifted around, trying to see that side of his benefactor,
but couldn't manage it in good grace. He wondered if the fellow was
sporting a Mom-voice hearing aid and was afraid of raising her ire. He
cleared his throat, noticing the affectation of it. "My name's Infield."

"Price," the other answered absently. "George Price. I suppose they
have liquor at the Club. We can have a _drink_ there, I guess."

Price set the direction and Infield fell in at his side. "Look, if you
don't drink, I'll buy you a cup of coffee. It was just a suggestion."

       *       *       *       *       *

Under the mousy hair, Price's strong features were beginning to gleam
moistly. "You are lucky in one way, Mr. Infield. People take one look
at your Cure and don't ask you to go walking in the rain. But even
after seeing _this_, some people still ask me to have a drink." _This_
was revealed, as he turned his head, to be a small metal cube above his
left ear.

Infield supposed it was a Cure, although he had never issued one like
it. He didn't know if it would be good form to inquire what kind it was.

"It's a cure for alcoholism," Price told him. "It runs a constant blood
check to see that the alcohol level doesn't go over the sobriety limit."

"What happens if you take one too many?"

Price looked off as if at something not particularly interesting, but
more interesting than what he was saying. "It drives a needle into my
temple and kills me."

The psychiatrist felt cold fury rising in him. The Cures were supposed
to save lives, not endanger them.

"What kind of irresponsible idiot could have issued such a device?" he
demanded angrily.

"I did," Price said. "I used to be a psychiatrist. I was always good
in shop. This is a pretty effective mechanism, if I say so myself. It
can't be removed without causing my death and it's indestructible.
Impervium-shielded, you see."

Price probably would never get crazed enough for liquor to kill
himself, Infield knew. The threat of death would keep him constantly
shocked sane. Men hide in the comforts of insanity, but when faced with
death, they are often forced back to reality. A man can't move his
legs; in a fire, though, he may run. His legs were definitely paralyzed
before and may be again, but for one moment he would forget the moral
defeat of his life and his withdrawal from life and live an enforced
sanity. But sometimes the withdrawal was--or could become--too complete.

"We're here."

Infield looked up self-consciously and noticed that they had crossed
two streets from his building and were standing in front of what
appeared to be a small, dingy cafe. He followed Price through the
screeching screen door.

They seated themselves at a small table with a red-checked cloth.
Infield wondered why cheap bars and restaurants always used red-checked
cloths. Then he looked closer and discovered the reason. They did a
remarkably good job of camouflaging the spots of grease and alcohol.

       *       *       *       *       *

A fat man who smelled of the grease and alcohol of the tablecloths
shuffled up to them with a towel on his arm, staring ahead of him at
some point in time rather than space.

Price lit a cigarette with unsteady hands. "Reggie is studying biblical
text. Cute gadget. His contact lenses are made up of a lot of layers
of polarized glass. Every time he blinks, the amount of polarization
changes and a new page appears. His father once told him that if he
didn't study his Bible and pray for him, his old dad would die."

The psychiatrist knew the threat on the father's part couldn't create
such a fixation by itself. His eyebrows faintly inquired.

Price nodded jerkily. "Twenty years ago, at least."

"What'll you have, Georgie?" Reggie asked.

The young man snubbed out his cigarette viciously. "Bourbon. Straight."

Reggie smiled--a toothy, vacant, comedy-relief smile. "Fine. The Good
Book says a little wine is good for a man, or something like that. I
don't remember exactly."

Of course he didn't, Infield knew. Why should he? It was useless to
learn his Bible lessons to save his father, because it was obvious his
father was dead. He would never succeed because there was no reason to
succeed. But he had to try, didn't he, for his father's sake? He didn't
hate his father for making him study. He didn't want him to die. He had
to prove that.

Infield sighed. At least this device kept the man on his feet, doing
some kind of useful work instead of rotting in a padded cell with a
probably imaginary Bible. A man could cut his wrists with the edge of a
sheet of paper if he tried long enough, so of course the Bible would be
imaginary.

"But, Georgie," the waiter complained, "you know you won't drink it.
You ask me to bring you drinks and then you just look at them. Boy, do
you look funny when you're looking at drinks. Honest, Georgie, I want
to laugh when I think of the way you look at a glass with a drink in
it." He did laugh.

Price fumbled with the cigarette stub in the black iron ashtray,
examining it with the skill of scientific observation. "Mr. Infield is
buying me the drink and that makes it different."

Reggie went away. Price kept dissecting the tobacco and paper. Infield
cleared his throat and again reminded himself against such obvious
affectations. "You were telling me about some organization of the
Cured," he said as a reminder.

       *       *       *       *       *

Price looked up, no longer interested in the relic of a cigarette. He
was suddenly intensely interested and intensely observant of the rest
of the cafe. "Was I? I was? Well, suppose you tell me something. What
do you really think of the Incompletes?"

The psychiatrist felt his face frown. "Who?"

"I forgot. You haven't been one of us long. The Incompletes is a truer
name for the so-called Normals. Have you ever thought of just how
dangerous these people are, Mr. Infield?"

"Frankly, no," Infield said, realizing it was not the right thing to
say but tiring of constant pretense.

"You don't understand. Everyone has some little phobia or fixation.
Maybe everyone didn't have one once, but after being told they did
have them for generations, everyone who didn't have one developed a
defense mechanism and an aberration so they would be normal. If that
phobia isn't brought to the surface and Cured, it may arise any time
and endanger other people. The only safe, good sound citizens are
Cured. Those lacking Cures--the Incompletes--_must be dealt with_."

Infield's throat went dry. "And you're the one to deal with them?"

"It's my Destiny." Price quickly added, "And yours, too, of course."

Infield nodded. Price was a demagogue, young, handsome, dynamic,
likable, impassioned with his cause, and convinced that it was his
divine destiny. He was a psychopathic egotist and a dangerous man.
Doubly dangerous to Infield because, even though he was one of the few
people who still read books from the old days of therapy to recognize
Price for what he was, he nevertheless still liked the young man
for the intelligence behind the egotism and the courage behind the
fanaticism.

"How are we going to deal with the Incompletes?" Infield asked.

Price started to glance around the cafe, then half-shrugged, almost
visibly thinking that he shouldn't run that routine into the ground.
"We'll Cure them whether they want to be Cured or not--for their own
good."

Infield felt cold inside. After a time, he found that the roaring was
not just in his head. It was thundering outside. He was getting sick.
Price was the type of man who could spread his ideas throughout the
ranks of the Cured--if indeed the plot was not already universal,
imposed upon many ill minds.

       *       *       *       *       *

He could picture an entirely Cured world and he didn't like the view.
Every Cure cut down on the mental and physical abilities of the patient
as it was, whether Morgan and the others admitted it or not. But if
everyone had a crutch to lean on for one phobia, he would develop
secondary symptoms.

People would start needing two Cures--perhaps a foetic gyro and a
safety belt--then another and another. There would always be a crutch
to lean on for one thing and then room enough to develop something
else--until everyone would be loaded down with too many Cures to
operate.

A Cure was a last resort, dope for a malignancy case, euthanasia for
the hopeless. Enforced Cures would be a curse for the individual and
the race.

But Infield let himself relax. How could anyone force a mechanical
relief for neurotic or psychopathic symptoms on someone who didn't
want or need it?

"Perhaps you don't see how it could be done," Price said. "I'll
explain."

Reggie's heavy hand sat a straight bourbon down before Price and
another before Infield. Price stared at the drink almost without
comprehension of how it came to be. He started to sweat.

"George, drink it."

The voice belonged to a young woman, a blonde girl with pink skin
and suave, draped clothes. In this den of the Cured, Infield thought
half-humorously, it was surprising to see a Normal--an "Incomplete."
But then he noticed something about the baby she carried. The Cure had
been very simple. It wasn't even a mechanized half-human robot, just a
rag doll. She sat down at the table.

"George," she said, "drink it. One drink won't raise your alcohol index
to the danger point. You've got to get over this fear of even the sight
or smell of liquor."

The girl turned to Infield. "You're one of us, but you're new, so you
don't know about George. Maybe you can help if you do. It's all silly.
He's not an alcoholic. He didn't need to put that Cure on his head.
It's just an excuse for not drinking. All of this is just because a
while back something happened to the baby here--" she adjusted the
doll's blanket--"when he was drinking. Just drinking, not drunk.

"I don't remember what happened to the baby--it wasn't important.
But George has been brooding about it ever since. I guess he thinks
something else bad will happen because of liquor. That's silly. Why
don't you tell him it's silly?"

"Maybe it is," Infield said softly. "You could take the shock if he
downed that drink and the shock might do you good."

       *       *       *       *       *

Price laughed shortly. "I feel like doing something very melodramatic,
like throwing my drink--and yours--across the room, but I haven't got
the guts to touch those glasses. Do it for me, will you? Cauterizing
the bite might do me good if I'd been bitten by a rabid dog, but I
don't have the nerve to do it."

Before Infield could move, Reggie came and set both drinks on a little
circular tray. He moved away. "I knew it. That's all he did, just look
at the drink. Makes me laugh."

Price wiped the sweat off his palms. Infield sat and thought. Mrs.
Price cooed to the rag doll, unmindful of either of them now.

"You were explaining," the psychiatrist said. "You were going to tell
me how you were going to Cure the Incompletes."

"I said _we_ were going to do it. Actually _you_ will play a greater
part than I, _Doctor_ Infield."

The psychiatrist sat rigidly.

"You didn't think you could give me your right name in front of your
own office building and that I wouldn't recognize you? I know some
psychiatrists are sensitive about wearing Cures themselves, but it is a
mark of honor of the completely sane man. You should be proud of your
Cure and eager to Cure others. _Very_ eager."

"Just what do you mean?" He already suspected Price's meaning.

Price leaned forward. "There is one phobia that is so wide-spread, a
Cure is not even thought of--hypochondria. Hundreds of people come to
your office for a Cure and you turn them away. Suppose you and the
other Cured psychiatrists give _everybody_ who comes to you a Cure?"

Infield gestured vaguely. "A psychiatrist wouldn't hand out Cures
unless they were absolutely necessary."

"You'll feel differently after you've been Cured for a while yourself.
Other psychiatrists have."

Before Infield could speak, a stubble-faced, barrel-chested man moved
past their table. He wore a safety belt. It was the man Price had
called Davies, the one who had fastened one of his safety lines to
Infield in the street.

Davies went to the bar in the back. "Gimme a bottle," he demanded of a
vacant-eyed Reggie. He came back toward them, carrying the bottle in
one hand, brushing off rain drops with the other. He stopped beside
Price and glared. Price leaned back. The chair creaked. Mrs. Price kept
cooing to the doll.

"You made me fall," Davies accused.

Price shrugged. "You were unconscious. You never knew it."

Sweat broke out on Davies' forehead. "You broke the Code. Don't you
think I can imagine how it was to fall? You louse!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Suddenly, Davies triggered his safety belt. At close range, before
the lines could fan out in a radius, all the lines in front attached
themselves to Price, the ones at each side clung to their table and the
floor, and all the others to the table behind Infield. Davies released
all lines except those on Price, and then threw himself backward,
dragging Price out of his chair and onto the floor. Davies didn't mind
making others fall. They were always trying to make _him_ fall just so
they could laugh at him or pounce on him; why shouldn't he like to make
them fall first?

Expertly, Davies moved forward and looped the loose lines around
Price's head and shoulders and then around his feet. He crouched beside
Price and shoved the bottle into the gasping mouth and poured.

Price twisted against the binding lines in blind terror, gagging and
spouting whiskey. Davies laughed and tilted the bottle more.

Mrs. Price screamed. "The Cure! If you get that much liquor in his
system, it will kill him!" She rocked the rag doll in her arms, trying
to soothe it, and stared in horror.

Infield hit the big man behind the ear. He dropped the bottle and fell
over sideways on the floor. Fear and hate mingled in his eyes as he
looked up at Infield.

Nonsense, Infield told himself. Eyes can't register emotion.

Davies released his lines and drew them in. He got up precariously.
"I'm going to kill you," he said, glaring at Infield. "You made me fall
worse than Georgie did. I'm really going to kill you."

Infield wasn't a large man, but he had pressed two hundred and fifty
many times in gym. He grabbed Davies' belt with both hands and lifted
him about six inches off the floor.

"I could drop you," the psychiatrist said.

"No!" Davies begged weakly. "Please!"

"I'll do it if you cause more trouble." Infield sat down and rubbed his
aching forearms.

       *       *       *       *       *

Davies backed off in terror, right into the arms of Reggie. The waiter
closed his huge hands on the acrophobe's shoulders.

"_You_ broke the Code all the way," Reggie said. "The Good Book says
'Thou shouldn't kill' or something like that, and so does the Code."

"Let him go, Reggie," Price choked out, getting to his feet. "I'm not
dead." He wiped his hand across his mouth.

"No. No, you aren't." Infield felt an excitement pounding through him,
same as when he had diagnosed his first case. No, better than that.

"That taste of liquor didn't kill you, Price. Nothing terrible
happened. You could find some way to get rid of that Cure."

Price stared at him as if he were a padded-cell case. "That's
different. I'd be a hopeless drunk without the Cure. Besides, no one
ever gets rid of a Cure."

They were all looking at Infield. Somehow he felt this represented a
critical point in history. It was up to him which turn the world took,
the world as represented by these four Cured people. "I'm afraid I'm
for _less_ Cures instead of more, Price. Look, if I can show you that
someone can discard a Cure, would you get rid of that--if I may use the
word--_monstrous_ thing on your head?"

Price grinned. Infield didn't recognize its smugness at the time.

"I'll show you." He took off the circlet with the lightning rod and
yanked at the wire running down into his collar. The new-old excitement
within was running high. He felt the wire snap and come up easily. He
threw the Cure on the floor.

"Now," he said, "I am going out in that rain storm. There's thunder and
lightning out there. I'm afraid, but I can get along without a Cure and
so can you."

"You can't! Nobody can!" Price screamed after him. He turned to the
others. "If he reveals us, the Cause is lost. We've got to stop him
_for good_. We've got to go after him."

"It's slippery," Davies whimpered. "I might fall."

Mrs. Price cuddled her rag doll. "I can't leave the baby and she
mustn't get wet."

"Well, there's no liquor out there and you can study your text in the
lightning flashes, Reggie. Come on."

       *       *       *       *       *

Running down the streets that were tunnels of shining tar, running into
the knifing ice bristles of the rain, Henry Infield realized that he
was very frightened of the lightning.

There is no action without a reason, he knew from the old neglected
books. He had had a latent fear of lightning when he chose the
lightning rod Cure. He could have picked a safety belt or foetic gyro
just as well.

He sneezed. He was soaked through, but he kept on running. He didn't
know what Price and Reggie planned to do when they caught him. He
slipped and fell. He would soon find out what they wanted. The
excitement was all gone now and it left an empty space into which fear
rushed.

Reggie said, "We shall make a sacrifice."

Infield looked up and saw the lightning reflected on the blade of a
thin knife. Infield reached toward it more in fascination than fear. He
managed to get all his fingers around two of Reggie's. He jerked and
the knife fell into Infield's palm. The psychiatrist pulled himself
erect by holding to Reggie's arm. Staggering to his feet, he remembered
what he must do and slashed at the waiter's head. A gash streaked
across the man's brow and blood poured into his eyes. He screamed. "I
can't see the words!"

It was his problem. Infield usually solved other people's problems, but
now he ran away--he couldn't even solve his own.

Infield realized that he had gone mad as he held the thin blade high
overhead, but he did need some kind of lightning rod. Price (who was
right behind him, gaining) had been right. No one could discard a Cure.
He watched the lightning play its light on the blade of his Cure and he
knew that Price was going to kill him in the next moment.

He was wrong.

The lightning hit him first.

       *       *       *       *       *

Reggie squinted under the bandage at the lettering on the door that
said INFIELD & MORGAN and opened the door. He ran across the room to
the man sitting at the desk, reading by the swivel light.

"Mr. Morgan, your partner, Mr. Infield, he--"

"Just a moment." Morgan switched on the room lights. "What were you
saying?"

"Mr. Infield went out without his Cure in a storm and was struck by
lightning. We took him to the morgue. He must have been crazy to go
out without his Cure."

Morgan stared into his bright desk light without blinking. "This is
quite a shock to me. Would you mind leaving? I'll come over to your
place and you can tell me about it later."

Reggie went out. "Yes, sir. He was struck by lightning, struck dead. He
must have been crazy to leave his Cure...." The door closed.

Morgan exhaled. Poor Infield. But it wasn't the lightning that killed
him, of course. Morgan adjusted the soundproofing plugs in his ears,
thinking that you did have to have quite a bit of light to read lips.
The thunder, naturally, was what had killed Infield. Loud noise--any
noise--that would do it every time. Too bad Infield had never really
stopped being one of the Incompletes. Dangerous people. He would have
to deal with them.