The doctor sat across the table from him, a Dixie cup in each hand. She had the look of mischief in her eyes as she shook the cups like little maracas, rattling the pills within them.
"Do I have to choose?" he asked her.
"No," she said. "Never again."
She placed the cups in front of him, then expectantly crossed her arms and sighed. She was growing impatient.
These were pills in name only. They were theurgy suppressors: the ultimate achievement of man's dedication to science and logic. Designed to prevent any and all use of what Controllers believed to be magics, the suppressors were "built" by scientists and engineers brought together from every civilized country in the new world order. The perfect combination and dosage would eliminate esoteric sensitivity to the point of no return. The ghost of Joseph McCarthy would be proud.
"Can I see it again?" he asked. "Just one last time? I want to be sure."
The doctor grew agitated at his persistent and tiresome request, but she wasn't completely without mercy.
"This is it, Aldous," she grunted. "It's time to take your medicine. No more bullshit from you. Say your goodbyes."
She reached into her coat pocket, pulled out a piece of paper and placed it on the table between the two cups. The paper was blank, except for a small pencil drawing of two interlocked gears at its center. He looked down at the paper and smiled knowingly as the gears began to move on the page.
"Goodbye, Doctor. Say hello to your mother for me."
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