The doctor shook his head. "Nothing goes farther than this room, Stevie—Steven."
The child leaned forward, pressing his knees together, hugging himself with his arms, bowing his head. His position was almost foetal. He said, "I'm never by myself. They never let me be by myself."
The psychiatrist said reasonably, "But nobody can live by himself, Stevie." He had apparently forgotten Steven, and the boy did not correct him again. "You have to learn to live with other people, to work and play with them, to know them, and the only way you can learn is by being with them. When you can't be with them personally, there's always television. That's how you learn, Stevie. You can't be by yourself."
The boy looked up and said starkly, "Never?"
The gleaming teeth showed. "But why should you want to?"
Steven said, "I don't know."
The doctor said, slowly and with emphasis, "Stevie, long before you were born the world was a very bad place. There were wars all the time. Do you know why?"
The boy shook his head.
"It was because people were different from each other, and didn't understand each other, and didn't know each other. They had to learn how to be alike, and understand, and know, so that they would be able to live together. They learned in many ways, Stevie. One way was by visiting each other—you've heard about the visitors who come from—"
Steven said, "You mean the Happy Tours."