"Were you serious about that 'therapy revolution' we were talking about this afternoon?"
"I'm always serious. So what?"
"Excellent, excellent," Pettigill laughed. "I've spent thirty years just waiting for such a man as you! No, I'm serious, my cynical friend—what position would you like in the new government?"
"Let's see—why don't you make my descendants real peachy happy and make me, say, Administrator of Civilian Relations. That sounds big and important."
"Fine, fine! Tell me, Bartle—how are your relations with psychotics?"
Bartle leaped to the floor. Instantly he recalled what Pettigill had said that had disturbed him. When they had been discussing the repercussions of a miscast, Pettigill had said, "it will be disastrous" and not "it would be disastrous." The devil had been planning just such a thing for God knows how long!
"How many of 'em, Pettigill?" Bartle asked.
"A lot, Bartle, a lot," the little man answered. "I would say 170 million! I might even say, a nation of psychotics!" He giggled again.
A smile sliced through Bartle's sallow cheeks. "My relations with them would be the best! Keep that Scotch handy, Pettigill. I'll be right over."