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.
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