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His wrist radio buzzed.
"Yes?"
"This is Lee, Dad. Don't forget about my allowance."
"Yes, son, yes. I'm busy."
"Just didn't want you to forget, Dad," said the wrist radio. Tchaikovsky's "Romeo and Juliet" swarmed about the voice and flushed into the long halls.
The psychiatrist moved in the beehive of offices, in the cross-pollination of themes, Stravinsky mating with Bach, Haydn unsuccessfully repulsing Rachmaninoff, Schubert slain by Duke Ellington. He nodded to the humming secretaries and the whistling doctors fresh to their morning work. At his office he checked a few papers with his stenographer, who sang under her breath, then phoned the police captain upstairs. A few minutes later a red light blinked, a voice said from the ceiling:
"Prisoner delivered to Interview Chamber Nine."
He unlocked the chamber door, stepped in, heard the door lock behind him.
"Go away," said the prisoner, smiling.
The psychiatrist was shocked by that smile. A very sunny, pleasant warm thing, a thing that shed bright light upon the room. Dawn among the dark hills. High noon at midnight, that smile. The blue eyes sparkled serenely above that display of self-assured dentistry.
"I'm here to help you," said the psychiatrist, frowning. Something was wrong with the room. He had hesitated the moment he entered. He glanced around. The prisoner laughed. "If you're wondering why it's so quiet in here, I just kicked the radio to death."
Violent, thought the doctor.
The prisoner read this thought, smiled, put out a gentle hand. "No, only to machines that yak-yak-yak."
Bits of the wall radio's tubes and wires lay on the gray carpeting. Ignoring these, feeling that smile u
pon him like a heat lamp, the psychiatrist sat across from his patient in the unusual silence which was like the gathering of a storm.
"You're Mr. Albert Brock, who calls himself The Murderer?"
Brock nodded pleasantly. "Before we start..." He moved quietly and quickly to detach the wrist radio from the doctor's arm. He tucked it in his teeth like a walnut, gritted and heard it crack, handed it back to the appalled psychiatrist as if he had done them both a favor. "That's better."
The psychiatrist stared at the ruined machine. "You're running up quite a damage bill."
"I don't care," smiled the patient. "As the old song goes: 'Don't Care What Happens to Me!'" He hummed it.
The psychiatrist said: "Shall we start?"
"Fine. The first victim, or one of the first, was my telephone. Murder most foul. I shoved it in the kitchen Insinkerator! Stopped the disposal unit in mid-swallow. Poor thing strangled to death. After that I shot the television set!"
The psychiatrist said, "Mmm."
"Fired six shots right through the cathode. Made a beautiful tinkling crash, like a dropped chandelier."
"Nice imagery."
"Thanks, I always dreamt of being a writer."
"Suppose you tell me when you first began to hate the telephone."
"It frightened me as a child. Uncle of mine called it the Ghost Machine. Voices without bodies. Scared the living hell out of me. Later in life I was never comfortable. Seemed to me a phone was an impersonal instrument. If it felt like it, it let your personality go through its wires. If it didn't want to, it just drained your personality away until what slipped through at the other end was some cold fish of a voice all steel, copper, plastic, no warmth, no reality. It's easy to say the wrong thing on telephones; the telephone changes your meaning on you. First thing you know, you've made an enemy. Then, of course, the telephone's such a convenient thing; it just sits there and demands you call someone who doesn't want to be called. Friends were always calling, calling, calling me. Hell, I hadn't any time of my own. When it wasn't the telephone it was the television, the radio, the phonograph. When it wasn't the television or radio or the phonograph it was motion pictures at the corner theater, motion pictures projected, with commercials on low-lying cumulus clouds. It doesn't rain rain any more, it rains soapsuds. When it wasn't High-Fly Cloud advertisements, it was music by Mozzek in every restaurant; music and commercials on the busses I rode to work. When it wasn't music, it was inter-office communications, and my horror chamber of a radio wrist watch on which my friends and my wife phoned every five minutes. What is there about such 'conveniences' that makes them so temptingly convenient? The average man thinks, Here I am, time on my hands, and there on my wrist is a wrist telephone, so why not just buzz old Joe up, eh? 'Hello, hello!' I love my friends, my wife, humanity, very much, but when one minute my wife calls to say, 'Where are you now, dear?' and a friend calls and says, 'Got the best off-color joke to tell you. Seems there was a guy--' And a stranger calls and cries out, 'This is the Find-Fax Poll. What gum are you chewing at this very instant!' Well!"
"How did you feel during the week?"
"The fuse lit. On the edge of the cliff. That same afternoon I did what I did at the office."
"Which was?"
