As he dialed the NYRT Corporation, the expression on his craglike face was almost pleasant. It was good, for a change, to find that a human could retain some significant facts. -- -- -- -- -- "But surely you remember your goricae?" the Regenerator was saying. "No," Caswell answered wearily. "Tell me, then, about your juvenile experiences with the thorastrian fleep." "Never had any." "Hmm. Blockage," muttered the machine. "Resentment. Repression. Are you sure you don't remember your goricae and what it meant to you? The experience is universal." "Not for me," Caswell said, swallowing a yawn. He had been undergoing mechanotherapy for close to four hours and it struck him as futile. For a while, he had talked voluntarily about his childhood, his mother and father, his older brother. But the Regenerator had asked him to put aside those fantasies. The patient's relationships to an imaginary parent or sibling, it explained, were unworkable and of minor importance psychologically. The important thing was the patient's feelings--both revealed and repressed--toward his goricae. "Aw, look," Caswell complained, "I don't even know what a goricae is." "Of course you do. You just won't let yourself know." "I don't know. Tell me." "It would be better if you told me." "How can I?" Caswell raged. "I don't know!" "What do you imagine a goricae would be?" "A forest fire," Caswell said. "A salt tablet. A jar of denatured alcohol. A small screwdriver. Am I getting warm? A notebook. A revolver--" "These associations are meaningful," the Regenerator assured him. "Your attempt at randomness shows a clearly underlying pattern. Do you begin to recognize it?" "What in hell is a goricae?" Caswell roared. "The tree that nourished you during infancy, and well into puberty, if my theory about you is correct. Inadvertently, the goricae stifled your necessary rejection of the feem desire. This in turn gave rise to your present urge to dwark someone in a vlendish manner." "No tree nourished me." "You cannot recall the experience?" "Of course not. It never happened." "You are sure of that?" "Positive." "Not even the tiniest bit of doubt?" "No! No goricae ever nourished me. Look, I can break off these sessions at any time, right?" "Of course," the Regenerator said. "But it would not be advisable at this moment. You are expressing anger, resentment, fear. By your rigidly summary rejection--" "Nuts," said Caswell, and pulled off the headband. -- -- -- -- -- The silence was wonderful. Caswell stood up, yawned, stretched and massaged the back of his neck. He stood in front of the humming black machine and gave it a long leer. "You couldn't cure me of a common cold," he told it. Stiffly he walked the length of the living room and returned to the Regenerator. "Lousy fake!" he shouted. Caswell went into the kitchen and opened a bottle of beer. His revolver was still on the table, gleaming dully.