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The powerful German cartel had sold the world on the notion of drug-therapy for mental illness; there was a fortune to be made, there. And by corollary, psychoanalysts were quacks, on a par with orgone box and health food healers.
It was, for him, impossible to imagine a civilization—of any kind of life form—that had not contrived Coke. Otherwise, how could it authentically be called a “civilization”?
“In my opinion, if I may say so,” Pembroke said, “release of this information will topple the entire structure of our society.” “But it is amusing,” Nicole persisted. “Isn’t it? Rudi is a dummy, an ersatz creation of the cartel system, and yet he’s the highest elected official in the USEA. These people voted for him and for the der Alte before him and so on back for fifty years—I’m sorry, but it has to be funny; there’s no other way to look at it.”
“What an ugly tree.” She turned to Nat. “Don’t you agree?” “I think,” he said, “that there’s room in the world for life of every kind.”
How many people, like Kongrosian, could break with the reality principle? Believe in something they knew intellectually was an illusion? Few people, after all, were as sick as Richard Kongrosian.
