"
"All right," Caswell said. "I'll try."
Up to now, he had been bathed in a warm glow of superiority. Everything
the machine said had seemed mildly humorous. As a matter of fact, he
had felt capable of pointing out a few things wrong with the
mechanotherapist.
Now that sense of well-being evaporated, as it always did, and Caswell
was alone, terribly alone and lost, a creature of his compulsions, in
search of a little peace and contentment.
He would undergo anything to find them. Sternly he reminded himself
that he had no right to comment on the mechanotherapist. These machines
knew what they were doing and had been doing it for a long time. He
would cooperate, no matter how outlandish the treatment seemed from his
layman's viewpoint.
But it was obvious, Caswell thought, settling himself grimly on the
couch, that mechanotherapy was going to be far more difficult than he
had imagined.
-- -- -- -- --
The search for the missing customer had been brief and useless. He was
nowhere to be found on the teeming New York streets and no one could
remember seeing a red-haired, red-eyed little man lugging a black
therapeutic machine.
It was all too common a sight.
In answer to an urgent telephone call, the police came immediately,
four of them, led by a harassed young lieutenant of detectives named
Smith.
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