Heinlein, Robert A – Expanded Universe

You don’t want the best industrial temperament psychometrician; you want the” best

all-around man for psychoses non-lesional and situational. That would be Lentz.”

“Go on.”

“Well- He covers the whole field of environment adjustment. He’s the man

that correlated the theory of optimum tonicity with the relaxation technique that

Korzybski had developed empirically. He actually worked under, Korzybski himself,

when he was a young student-it’s the only thing he’s vain about.”

“He did? Then he must be pretty old; Koxzybski died in- What year did he

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die?”

“I started to say that you must know his work in symbology-theory of

abstraction and calculus of statement, all that sort of thing-because of its

applications to engineering and mathematical physics.”

“That Lentz-yes, of course. But I had never thought of him as a

psychiatrist.”

“No, you wouldn’t, in your field. Nevertheless, we are inclined to credit

him with having done as much to check and reduce the pandemic neuroses of the Crazy

Years as any other man, and more than any man left alive.”

“Where is he?”

“Why, Chicago, I suppose. At the Institute.”

“Get him here.”

“Get him down here. Get on that visiphone and locate him. Then have Steinke

call the Port of Chicago, and hire a stratocar to stand by for him. I want to see

him as soon as possible-before the day is out.” King sat up in his chair with the

air of a man who is once more master of himself and the situation. His spirit knew

that warming replenishment that comes only with reaching a decision. The harassed

expression was gone.

Silard looked dumbfounded. “But, superintendent,” he expostulated, “you

can’t ring for Doctor Lentz as if he were a junior clerk. He’s-he’s Lentz.”

“Certainly-that’s why I want him. But I’m not a neurotic clubwoman looking

for sympathy, either. He’ll come. If necessary, turn on the heat from Washington.

Have the White House call him. But get him here at once. Move!” King strode out of

the office.

When Erickson came off watch he inquired around and found that Harper had

left for town. Accordingly, he dispensed with dinner at the base, shifted into

“drinkin’clothes”, and allowed himself to be dispatched via tube to Paradise.

Paradise, Arizona, was a hard little boom town, which owed its existence to the

breeder plant. It was dedicated exclusively to the serious business of detaching the

personnel of the plant from their inordinate salaries. In this worthy project they

received much cooperation from the plant personnel themselves, each of whom was

receiving from twice to ten times as much money each payday as he had ever received

in any other job, and none of whom was certain of living long enough to justify

saving for old’ age. Besides, the company carried a sinking fund in Manhattan for

their dependents; why be stingy?

It was claimed, with some truth, that any entertainment or luxury obtainable

in New York City could be purchased in Paradise. The local chamber of commerce had

appropriated the slogan of Reno, Nevada, “Biggest Little City in the World.” The

Reno boosters retaliated by claiming that, while a town that close to the atomic

breeder plant undeniably brought thoughts of death and the hereafter; Hell’s Gates

would be a more appropriate name.

Erickson started making the rounds. There were twenty-seven places licensed

to sell liquor in the six blocks of the main street of Paradise. He expected to find

Harper in one of them, and, knowing the man’s habits and tastes, he expected to find

him in the first two three he tried.

He was not mistaken. He found Harper sitting alone a table in the rear of

deLancey’s Sans Souci Bar. Lancey’s was a favorite of both of them. There was

old-fashioned comfort about its chrome-plated bar red leather furniture that

appealed to them more than the spectacular fittings of the up-to-the-minute place.

DeLancey was conservative; he stuck to indirect light and soft music; his hostesses

were required to be fully clothed, even in the evening. The fifth of Scotch in front

of Harper was about two thirds full. Erickson shoved three fingers in front Harper’s

face and demanded, “Count!”

“Three,” announced Harper. “Sit down, Gus.”