The Green Thing

of tomorrow, from that story of science fiction, from the years beyond 2000 AD. Today, the story of a horrible nightmare that wouldn't stop, even when the dreamer woke up. A story called The Green Thing.

It is the year 2000 plus 175. It is late evening, and all is peaceful and quiet in Dr. Harvey Glunden's sanitarium. On the vast estate that stretches away from the main building, there are only the soft country noises. The wind siding in the trees, the shrill trippings of innumerable crickets.

In the wild burnished rooms, the patient's sleep stretched out uncomfortable mattresses and cleaned white sheets. The country breezes straying over their forms. In room 32b, Mr. Suller sleeps peacefully with his head on a fluffy pillow.

He sleeps and he dreams. Help me! Help me! Psychological problems facing our nation. The government has sent me to you, Dr. Glendon, to the most urate. Since you're the country's outstanding psychiatrist, well, I'm honored indeed, Mr. Carley.

But I don't know that as much as I can tell you about the advancement of psychiatric research that isn't being published in the medical journal. Well, Dr. Glendon, isn't there anything that you're working on now, something definite?

I know you're a cautious scholar, but, uh, Mr. Carling, it isn't possible to announce sweeping new generalizations in our kind of science. Our work is painstaking, complex, highly subjective. You take the case of one of the patients here in the sanitarium.

Oh, buddy, will you bring our records of Mr. Summers? Yes, Dr. Bennett, that's one moment. Summers is about 40-41. He was admitted five months ago, suffering from a melancholia. Here are the records, doctors. Oh, thanks, Betty.