"It was right after you tried to take the warts off a fire hydrant and they came and got you," said Clocker, "that Zelda started hearing voices. It got real bad."
"How bad?"
"She's at Glendale Center in an upholstered room. I just came back from visiting her."
Doc gulped his entire drink, a positive sign that he was upset, or happy, or not feeling anything in particular. Now, however, he was noticeably upset.
"Did the psychiatrists give you a diagnosis?" he asked.
"I got it memorized. Catatonia. Dementia praecox, what they used to call, one of the brain vets told me, and he said it's hopeless."
"Rough," said Doc. "Very rough. The outlook is never good in such cases."
"Maybe they can't help her," Clocker said harshly, "but I will."
"People are not horses," Doc reminded him.
"I've noticed that," said Handy Sam, the armless wonder at the flea circus, drinking beer because he had an ingrown toenail and couldn't hold a shot glass. Now that Clocker had told the grim story, he felt free to talk, which he did enthusiastically. "Clocker's got a giant brain, Doc. Who was it said Warlock'd turn into a dog in his third year? Clocker, the only dopester in the racket. And that's just one—"