Baby Is Three by Theodore Sturgeon Page B

it any more. And there’s Reichianism which, roughly speaking, identifies Aunt Susan, who slapped you, with an aching kneecap which, when cured, cures you of Aunt Susan too.
    “And there’s—but why go on? The point is that the mushrooming schools of therapy show that we know we’re sick; that we’re anxious—but not yet anxious enough,
en masse—
to do something about it, and that we’re willing to attack the problem on all salients and sectors.”
    “What kind of work have you been doing recently?” Edie asked.
    “Electro-encephalographics, mostly. The size and shape of brainwavegraphs will show a great deal once we get enough of them. And—did you know there’s a measurable change in volume of the fingertips that follows brainwave incidence very closely in disturbed cases? Fascinating stuff. But sometimes I feel it’s the merest dull nudging at the real problems involved. Sometimes I feel like a hard-working contour cartographer trying to record the height and grade of ocean waves. Every time you duplicate an observation to check it, there’s a valley where there was a mountain a second ago.
    “And sometimes I feel that if we could just turn and look in the right direction, we’d see what’s doing it to us, plain as day. Here we sit with our psychological bottle of arnica and our therapeutic cold compresses, trying to cure up an attack of lumps on the headbone. And if we could only turn and look in the right place, there would be an invisible maniac with a stick, beating us over the head, whom we’d never detected before.”
    “You sound depressed.”
    “Oh, I’m not, really,” he said. He stood up and stretched. “But I almost wish I’d get away from that recurrent thought of looking in a new direction; of correlating neurosis with a virus disorder. Find the virus and cure the disease. It’s panacea; wishful thinking. I’m probably getting lazy.”
    “Not you, Jon.” His ex-wife smiled at him. “Perhaps you have the answer, subconsciously, but what you’ve learned won’t let it come out.”
    “Very astute. What made you say that?”
    “It’s a thing you used to say all the time.”
    He laughed and helped her up. “Edie, do you have to get up early tomorrow?”
    “I’m unemployed. Didn’t I tell you?”
    “I didn’t ask,” he said ruefully. “My God, I talk a lot. Would you like to see my new lab?”
    “I’d love to! Oh, I’d love it. Will it be—all right?”
    “All right? Of course it—oh. I see what you mean. Priscilla. Where is she, anyway?”
    “She went out. I thought you noticed. With that man who plays the guitar. Irving.” She nodded toward the discarded instrument.
    “I hadn’t noticed,” he said. Over his features slipped the poker expression of the consulting psychologist. “Who did you come with?”
    “The same one. Irving. Jon, I hope Priscilla can take care of herself.”
    “Let’s go,” he said.
    Faintly, and with exasperation, Ril’s thought came stumblingly through to Ryl and Rul:
    “How can a thinking being be so stupid? Have you ever heard a more accurate description of the Pa’ak virus than that? ‘Cultivating our little traumas and anxieties like plowed fields to increase their yield, and then feeding off them.’ And ‘a new direction.’ Why haven’t these people at least extrapolated the idea of energy life? They know that matter and energy are the same. An energy virus is such a logical thing for them to think of!”
    And Rul’s response: “They can no more isolate their experiments from their neuroses than they can isolate their measuring instruments from gravity. Have patience. When we are able to unite again, we will have the strength to inform them.”
    Ril sent: “Patience? How much more time do you think we have before they start to spread the virus through this whole sector of the cosmos? They are improving rockets, aren’t they? We should have sent for reinforcements. But then—how could we know we’d be trapped like