"Marfoosh," Caswell replied, making up the word on the spur of the
moment.
"Loud?"
"Sweet."
"Green?"
"Mother."
"Thanagoyes?"
"Patamathonga."
"Arrides?"
"Nexothesmodrastica."
"Chtheesnohelgnopteces?"
"Rigamaroo latasentricpropatria!" Caswell shot back. It was a
collection of sounds he was particularly proud of. The average man
would not have been able to pronounce them.
"Hmm," said the Regenerator. "The pattern fits. It always does."
"What pattern?"
"You have," the machine informed him, "a classic case of feem desire,
complicated by strong dwarkish intentions."
"I do? I thought I was homicidal."
"That term has no referent," the machine said severely. "Therefore I
must reject it as nonsense syllabification. Now consider these points:
The feem desire is perfectly normal. Never forget that. But it is
usually replaced at an early age by the hovendish revulsion.
Individuals lacking in this basic environmental response--"
"I'm not absolutely sure I know what you're talking about," Caswell
confessed.
"Please, sir! We must establish one thing at once. You are the patient.
I am the mechanotherapist. You have brought your troubles to me for
treatment. But you cannot expect help unless you cooperate.
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