Manshape by John Brunner Page B

in the grip of depression, she had thought of consulting him about it, but never quite been driven to that extreme.
    Nonetheless, she should not have forgotten he was in charge of that of all the hospitals in the hemisphere…
    The desk reported that Lorenzo was out of range of a solido circuit but could talk to her on a sound-only connection; would that do? Really, this automatic courtesy sometimes went too far! She snapped a yes, and was instantly annoyed with herself; there was nothing more pointless than losing one’s temper with a machine.
    Almost at once the familiar voice rang out: deep and professionally reassuring.
    “Alida! Let me start by saying how sorry I am that we should renew contact under these unhappy circumstances! I take it you are inquiring after Jorgen?”
    “Yes, of course. Have you made a diagnosis?”
    “Only a tentative one, I’m afraid. I’ve scarcely hada chance to talk to him since he emerged from sedation, but the pattern, at least, is indicative.”
    “What does it point to?”
    “A not uncommon phenomenon. Though that doesn’t mean it’s going to be any easier to treat. Are you familiar with the term acedia?”
    Alida hesitated. At length she said, “I’m afraid I’m not well grounded in psychiatric terminology.”
    “Oh, it far pre-dates the emergence of psychological medicine as an independent discipline.” The tone of Lorenzo’s words was such that Alida could picture the faintly patronising smile which must be on their speaker’s face, and once again she trembled on the brink of rage. “Originally it was a theological concept: sloth, one of the seven deadly sins. Sin… ?”
    “Yes, I know what that means.”
    “You’d be surprised how many people nowadays do not! And a good thing too, in my view. My patients seem to pick up quite enough burden of guilt in the natural course of their lives without being told that it’s all inevitable because a jealous deity wished it on their ancestors. Still, as a referent I find this particular notion useful. Back in late medieval times it became more sophisticated, and was ultimately transformed into what was often called ‘the black night of the soul’—a condition in which one questioned whether existence had any point at all. Naturally this was heretical because the faithful were required to accept a
priori
that the creation had a purpose even if the creatures could not comprehend it. I speak of a Christian tradition, you realise, which proved excessively infectious. Other religions managed to escape this particular trap.”
    Alida said slowly, “Jorgen’s ancestors were Christians, weren’t they?”
    “Yes indeed. And, if you’ll pardon my remarking on the fact, so were those of virtually everyone in aposition of high authority at present. So were Saxena’s, and your own.”
    He waited a moment, as though to let her react if she wanted to. But she said nothing.
    “Not,” he resumed, “that such an influence is essential to the onset of the condition. Within the past couple of decades cases of it have been reported on every continent. The relative fatalism of most other traditions acts as a protective barrier, but that’s by no means a universal guarantee of immunity. An excess of gratification—a lack of challenge—any of several quite minor physiological imbalances affecting the central nervous system—oh, at least a score of stimuli can bring it about in a vulnerable personality. Like fever, it’s one of a rather limited number of available responses which may be provoked by a wide range of inputs.”
    With a trace of impatience Alida said, “Thank you for the lecture! But have you forgotten what my discipline is?”
    “Forgive me! The fault must be mine, for using this particular label with its specialised associations, instead of saying casually—as so many of my colleagues would—that he has sprained his mind. Possibly the physiological analogy is more apt. Even a trained athlete, with muscles in tip-top