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those things more closely. I’m thinking of changing his school.”
    “Again?”
    “Maybe. I’ll see. The headmaster is going to call me this afternoon. I don’t like to keep shuffling him, but I do want him to finish school in one piece.”
    “A kid can’t grow up without an accident or two. It’s—statistics.”
    “Statistics aren’t the same thing as destiny, Bennie. Everybody makes his own.”
    “Statistics or destiny?”
    “Both, I guess.”
    “I think that if something’s going to happen, it’s going to happen.”
    “I don’t. I happen to think that the human will, backed by a sane mind can exercise some measure of control over events. If I didn’t think so, I wouldn’t be in the racket I’m in.”
    “The world’s a machine—you know—cause, effect. Statistics do imply the prob—”
    “The human mind is not a machine, and I do not know cause and effect. Nobody does.”
    “You have a degree in chemistry, as I recall. You’re a scientist, Doc.”
    “So I’m a Trotskyite deviationist”—he smiled, stretching—“and you were once a ballet teacher.” He got to his feet and picked up his coat.
    “By the way, Miss DeVille called, left a message. She said: ‘How about St. Moritz?’”
    “Too ritzy,” he decided aloud. “It’s going to be Davos.” Because the suicide bothered him more than it should have, Render closed the door of his office and turned off the windows and turned on the phonograph. He put on the desk light only.
    How has the quality of human life been changed , he wrote, since the beginnings of the industrial revolution?
    He picked up the paper and reread the sentence. It was the topic he had been asked to discuss that coming Saturday. As was typical in such cases he did not know what to say because he had too much to say, and only an hour to say it in.
    He got up and began to pace the office, now filled with Beethoven’s Eighth Symphony.
    “The power to hurt,” he said, snapping on a lapel microphone and activating his recorder, “has evolved in a direct relationship to technological advancement.” His imaginary audience grew quiet. He smiled. “Man’s potential for working simple mayhem has been multiplied by mass-production; his capacity for injuring the psyche through personal con—tacts has expanded in an exact ratio to improved communication facilities. But these are all matters of common knowledge, and are not the things I wish to consider tonight. Rather, I should like to discuss what I choose to call autopsychomimesis—the self-generated anxiety complexes which on first scrutiny appear quite similar to classic patterns, but which actually represent radical dispersions of psychic energy. They are peculiar to our times…”
    He paused to dispose of his cigar and formulate his next words.
    “Autopsychomimesis,” he thought aloud, “a self-perpetuated imitation complex—almost an attention-getting affair. A jazzman, for example, who acted hopped-up half the time, even though he had never used an addictive narcotic and only dimly remembered anyone who had—because all the stimulants and tranquilizers of today are quite benign. Like Quixote, he aspired after a legend when his music alone should have been sufficient outlet for his tensions.
    “Or my Korean War Orphan, alive today by virtue of the Red Cross and UNICEF and foster parents whom he never met. He wanted a family so badly that he made one up. And what then?—He hated his imaginary father and he loved his imaginary mother quite dearly—for he was a highly intelligent boy, and he too longed after the half-true complexes of tradition. Why?”
    “Today, everyone is sophisticated enough to understand the time-honored patterns of psychic disturbance. Today, many of the reasons for those disturbances have been removed—not radically as my now-adult war orphan’s, but with as remarkable an effect. We are living in a neurotic past.—Again, why? Because our present times are geared to physical