Quicksand by John Brunner

which called for a reply from someone

-- why not from Paul? And he'd likewise stressed the advantages of a

registrar's post as a stepping-stone to eventual fame. Paul, slightly

disheartened by the requirements of the course he'd just started on

-- the two-year programme for a Diploma of Psychological Medicine --

had complied with one or two of the suggestions, but given up when no

instant results followed, preferring to spend his free time in study.
     
     
Now, a couple of months past Christmas, Alsop appeared to be ready to

write Paul off as the white hope of Chent. Paul was still helping at

his once-weekly clinic in Blickham, but the references Alsop had made

to letting him tackle clinic sessions on his own during the consultant's

absence had remained a vague idea without plans to implement it.
     
     
-- I suppose I have disappointed him. But that doesn't make him unique.

My parents, my wife, even myself are in there with him.
     
     
At all events, the greeting he offered this morning was friendly enough.

He waved Paul to the interview chair in the rather cheerless office.
     
     
"Chuck me that stuff from the couch, would you?" he went on. Paul passed

over a small stack of files that had been dumped on the grey blanket.

"How are things, young fellow?"
     
     
-- Should I tell him? It's already only half a secret. But he has small

sympathy for failures, and failing in marriage is about as basic as

failures come.
     
     
"So-so." Paul shrugged. "The weather's been getting me down, I think.

I'm coming to understand why the suicide peak starts in March."
     
     
"Thought you'd have worked that out in your teens," Alsop grunted,

scanning a succession of case-notes as he talked. "Your wife still away,

is she?"
     
     
"Yes."
     
     
"That's probably a contributory factor. I wouldn't go so far as that chap

in Sweden who advocates promiscuity as a treatment for delinquents,

but there's no doubt whatever about the therapeutic effect of regular

orgasm." Alsop gave a dry chuckle. "Your friend Bakshad seems to realise

that okay. I ran into him in Blickliam last night with what must be his

twentieth different girl since he got here."
     
     
Paul, off guard, was overwhelmed with a pang of bitterness.
     
     
-- Therapeutic effects of orgasm! I've half a mind to spew the truth in

his lap and see how his face changes!
     

 
But while the decision was still untaken Alsop had gone on.
     
     
"You ran foul of some local bigwig, I gather -- hm?"
     
     
Paul scowled. "Mrs Weddenhall, Jay Pee ! Who told you about that --

Dr Holinshed?"
     
     
"Of course."
     
     
"I thought I'd set him straight on the matter. But apparently I didn't

shout loudly enough to make him listen."
     
     
"Well, there's no need to shout at me," Alsop said, glancing up.

"Candidly -- mind if I speak straight out?"
     
     
"Of course not," Paul muttered.
     
     
"I think you're letting things get on top of you. Bad. Mustn't do it.

If you try and identify with these unfortunates all around us you're

much too liable to wind up joining them. You had some psychotherapy once,

didn't you?"
     
     
"A course of analysis," Paul said. And repeated his habitual cover-story:

"Thought it was the simplest way of getting a patient's-eye view of

psychiatry."
     
     
"Yes." Alsop nodded slowly once, and said again, "Ye-es. . . . Well,

there's nothing to be ashamed of in feeling the strain. This isn't the

easiest of hospitals to work in, despite its size. But it'd be damned

silly if you let yourself crack up under the petty kind of pressure

Chent can generate. So you ought to take precautions while there's time."
     
     
-- Like what? Cultivate Holinshed and lick his boots a bit?

Tell Iris to go to hell?
     
     
"However," Alsop went on briskly, "the schedule's too full this morning to

worry about healing the physicians. Fuller than you appear to realise.

I asked you to add Mrs Chancery to the roster for today, and you didn't."
     
     
Paul