The Dream Master by Roger Zelazny Page A

significant areas of mental distress,” said Minton.
    Render drank his punch. He did not like the stress that the man had laid upon the word ‘significant.’
    “In the meantime,” said Render, after a moment, “we treat what we can treat in the best way we know, and neuropy is certainly the best means known.”
    “There are those who say that you don’t really cure neuroses, but cater to them—that you satisfy patients by giving them little worlds all their own to be neurotic in—vacations from reality, places where they’re second in command to God.”
    “That is not the case,” said Render. “The things which occur in those little worlds are not necessarily things which please them. They are not near to command at all; the Shaper—or, as you say, God—is. It is a learning experience. You learn by pleasure and you learn by pain. Generally, in these cases, it is more painful than it is pleasurable.” He lit a cigarette, accepted another cup of punch.
    “So I do not consider the criticism a valid one,” he finished.
    “… And it is quite expensive,” said Minton.
    Render shrugged.
    “Did you ever price an Omnichannel Neural Transmission and Receiver outfit?”
    “No.”
    “Do it sometime,” said Render.
    He listened to a Christmas carol, put out his cigarette, and stood.
    “Thanks a lot, Heydell,” he said. “I’ve got to be going now.”
    “What’s the hurry?” asked Heydell. “Stay awhile.”
    “Like to,” said Render, “but there are people upstairs I have to get back to.”
    “Oh? Many?”
    “A couple.”
    “Bring them down. I was about to set up a buffet, and there’s more than enough. I’ll feed them and ply them with drinks.”
    “Well—” said Render.
    “Fine!” said Heydell. “Why not just call them from here?”
    So he did.
    “Peter’s ankle is all right,” he said.
    “Great. Now what about my coat?” asked Jill.
    “Forget it for now. I’ll take care of it later.”
    “I tried some lukewarm water, but it’s still pinkish…”
    “Put it back in the box, and don’t fool around with it any more! I said I’d take care of it.”
    “Okay, okay. We’ll be down in a minute. Bennie brought a gift for Peter, and something for you. She’s on her way to her sister’s place, but she says she’s in no hurry.”
    “Capital. Drag her down. She knows Heydell.”
    “Fine.” She broke the connection.
    Christmas Eve.
    … The opposite of New Year’s:
    It is the personal time, rather than the social time; it is the time of focusing upon self and family, rather than society. It is a time of many things: A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away. It is a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted…
    They ate from the buffet. Most of them drank the warm Ronrico and cinnamon and cloves and fruit cocktail and ginger-flavored punch. They talked of plastasac lungs and blood screens and diagnosis by computer, and of the worthlessness of penicillin. Peter sat with his hands folded in his lap: listening, watching. His crutches lay at his feet. Music flooded the room.
    Jill sat listening, also.
    When Render talked everyone listened. Bennie smiled, took another drink. Playboy doctor or not, when Render talked it was with the voice of a disc jockey and the logic of the Jesuits. Her boss was known. Who knew Minton? Who knew Heydell? Other doctors, that’s all. Shapers were big-time, and she was his secretary-receptionist. Everybody knew of the Shapers. There was nothing controversial about being a heart specialist or a bone man, an anesthesiologist or an internal medicine buff. Her boss was her measure of glory. The other girls always asked her about him, about his magic machine… “Electronic Svengalis,” that’s what Time had called them, and Render had gotten three paragraphs, two more than any of the others—excepting Baitelmetz, of course.
    The music changed to light classical, to ballet. Bennie felt a year’s end