captive wild duck from flying away?"
"One wing is clipped."
"Right. Certain of the feathers are trimmed, which throws the duck offbalance every time he tries to fly. He's crippled, right? But if youclip the _other_ wing, what happens? He's in balance again. He can'tfly as _well_ as he could before his wings were clipped--but he _can_fly!
"That's what Brownlee's _geas_ does--restore the balance by clippingthe other wing."
His Grace smiled. There was an odd sort of twinkle in his eyes. "Letme carry your analogy somewhat farther. If the one wing is tooseverely clipped, clipping the other won't help. Our duck wouldn'thave enough lift to get off the ground, even if he's balanced.
"Now, a zany who was that badly crippled--?"
I grinned back at him. "Right. It would be so obvious that he wouldhave been put away very quickly. He would not be just psychopathic,but completely psychotic--and demonstrably so."
"Then," the Duke said, still pursuing the same track, "the only wayto 'cure' that kind would be to find a method to ... ah ... 'grow thefeathers back', wouldn't it? And where does that put today'spsychotherapy? Providing, of course, that the analogy follows."
"It does," I said. "The real cure that I want to find would do justthat--'grow the feathers back'. And that's beyond the limits ofpsychotherapy, too. That's why Dr. Brownlee and his boys want to studyevery zany we bring in, whether he can be helped or not. They'relooking for a _cure_, not a stopgap."
"Let me drag that analogy out just a tiny bit more," said His Grace."Suppose there is a genetic defect in the duck which makes itimpossible--absolutely impossible--to grow feathers on that wing. Willyour cure work?"
I was very quiet for along time. At least, it seemed long. Thequestion had occurred to me before, and I didn't even like to thinkabout it. Now, I had to face it again for a short while.
"Frankly," I said as evenly as I could, "I doubt that anything couldbe done. But that's only an opinion. We don't know enough yet to makeany such predictions. It is my hope that some day we'll find a methodof restoring every human being to his or her full potential--but I'mnot at all certain of what the source of that potential is.
"But when we do get our cure," I went on, "then our first move must beto abolish the _geas_. And I wish that day were coming tomorrow."
* * * * *
There seemed to be a sudden silence in the room. I hadn't realizedthat I'd been talking so loudly or so vehemently.
The Duke broke it by saying: "Look here, Royall; I'm going to stay onhere until I've learned all about every phase of this thing. It maysound a bit conceited, but I'm going to try to learn in a few weekseverything you have learned in a year. So you'll have to teach me, ifyou will. And then I'd like to borrow one or two of your therapists,your hexperts, to teach the technique in England.
"Allowing people like that to kill and maim when it can be preventedis unthinkable in a civilized society. I've got to learn how to stopit in England. Will you teach me?"
"On one condition," I said.
"What's that?"
"That you teach me how to use a walking stick."
He laughed. "You're on!"
The officer stuck his head in the waiting room again. "Pardon me.Inspector Acrington? The District Attorney would like to see you."
"Surely."
After he had left, I sat there for a minute or two, just thinking.Then Brownlee came back from his conference with the D.A. and satdown beside me.
"I met your noble friend heading for the D.A.'s office," he said witha smile. "He said that any man who was as determined to find a bettermethod in order to replace a merely workable method is a remarkableman and therefore worth studying under. I just told him I agreed withhim."
"Thanks," I said. "Thanks a lot."
Because Brownlee knows why I'm looking for a cure to replace thestopgap. Brownlee knows why I gave up smoking three years ago, why Idon't have any matches or lighters in the house, why I keep theashtrays for guests only, and why, for that reason, I don't have manyguests. Brownlee knows why there are only electric stoves in myapartment--never gas.
Brownlee knows why my son quivers and turns his head away from a matchflame. Brownlee knows why he had to put the _geas_ on Stevie.
And I even think Brownlee suspects that I concealed some of theevidence in the fire that killed Stevie's mother--my wife.
Yes, I'm looking for a cure. But until then, I'll be thankful for thestopgap.
* * * * *
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