Why Do Birds

CHAPTER 3

Edwin, I'm Dr. Wellafield, the Director of the Facility. Sit down, please. You can go now, Harris."

"Glad to know you," said the detainee, extending his hand. The Director took it, and felt a slight sting of coldness. He sat back, massaging his finger absently, while the patient arranged himself in the visitor's chair. The patient was four inches taller and thirty pounds lighter than the Director, and he had no mustache.

"Now, Edwin," the Director said, "it seems that you were examined under sodium pentothal, and you stuck to your story about leaving the Facility on Monday night. The aliens came and got you."

"That's right."

"But you decided to return, because you knew you couldn't get far without ID and clothing."

"Correct. And money."

"Yes. And Dr. Lipshitz tells me that your intention is to go to New York and find somebody to build a big box. Do you have any idea who that somebody might be?"

"No, Doc, I don't. I was wondering if you could give me some ideas."

"Well, there are a number of good architectural firms in New York. Yallow and Moore are said to be one of the best. Now, Edwin, you realize that if we believe you're a danger to yourself or others, it's our duty to keep you here and treat you. On the other hand, if we decide you're mentally competent, we have to return you to the Municipal Court for trial. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Doc. Can I ask you a question?"

"Certainly, Edwin."

"When you say treat me, does that mean you could clear up my delusions if I stayed here?"

"No, I couldn't promise that."

"Is there any chance?"

"Well, frankly, in terms of a cure, no. In this particular disorder, there are some experimental therapies, but basically all we can do is confine the patient and keep them from harming themself or other people."

"I get it."

"All right, now because you're not violent, in my judgment it would serve no purpose to keep you in the Facility, but on the other hand it wouldn't help to stand trial, either. I'm going to make a call to the courthouse and see if I can straighten that out. Who was the judge who sent you here?"

"Judge Sloat was his name."

"Oh, yes, I know him. I don't think there'll be any difficulty. Now about money, you'll get that back as soon as they dismiss the charges. How much was it?"

"Over fifty bucks."

"That won't be enough." The Director looked in his wallet. "I don't have a lot of cash, but here's a thousand." He folded the bills and handed them to the patient.

"A thousand? That's too much."

"No, you'll need more than that. About papers, the best thing would be to get a job as soon as you can, and open a credit account and so on. What was your occupation in your former life, Edwin?"

"I was a kitchenwares salesman in Harrisburg, but the company went broke. I tended bar part time in a speakeasy for a while; that didn't pay enough. See, my wife left me, and I couldn't get the family back together unless I had a decent job. So I thought I'd drive down to New York and see what I could do. Trenton was the farthest I got. I went to sleep in the hotel that night, and when I woke up I was in the spaceship."

"Uh-huh, uh-huh. Well, a good salesperson or a bartender can always get a job, I'm sure. Just one thing, Edwin, when you apply for work, I wouldn't tell your employers about the aliens."

"Gotcha." The patient stood up. "I don't know how to thank you, Doc. I'll send this money back as soon as I can. Could I borrow your pen and a piece of paper?"

"Certainly." The Director handed him a scriber and a pad from the desk. "But don't worry about paying me."

The detainee shook his head. "Dr. Wellafield, one thousand," he said, writing. "I won't forget this, Doc." They shook hands again, and once more the Director felt a curious cold sting. "I'd do more than that for you, my boy," he said, with a catch in his throat.