Free The Ninth Configuration by William Peter Blatty Page A

more intensely alert. He kept his gaze locked firmly on Reno.
    “See, Hamlet isn’t psycho,” the inmate continued. “However, he’s hanging on the brink. A little push, you know, an eensy little teensy little shove, and the kid would be gone! Bananas! Whacked out! And Hamlet knows this! Not his conscious mind: unconsciously he knows it; so his unconscious makes him do what keeps him sane: namely, acting like he’s nuts! ‘Cause acting nutty is a safety valve, a way to let off steam; a way to get rid of your fucking aggressions and all of your guilts and your fears and your—”
    Fell started to interrupt and Reno cut him off sharply, warning, “Watch, you! Don’t talk dirty!”
    “I never talk—”
    “Quiet, you! I know you: a dirty mind in a dirty clinic! Even your dental floss is dirty!”
    Avidly, Reno turned back to Kane. “Little Booboo, Hamlet avoids going crazy by pretending that he’s crazy; by doing ridiculous, terrible things. And the crazier he acts, the healthier he gets!”
    “Yes,” breathed Kane. There was dawning in his eyes.
    “I mean terrible,” Reno continued. “But meantime, he’s safe; understand me? Look, if I did what Hamlet does in the play, they’d lock me up, you understand? They’d put me away in an institution. But him? Prince Royal Garbagemouth? He gets away with murder. And why? Because nuts are not responsible for their actions!”
    “Yes!” Kane was agitated.
    “Does Hamlet think he’s crazy?” asked Fell.
    “Come on, nobody crazy thinks he’s crazy,” Reno answered disdainfully.
    “Christ, what a putz.”
    Neither Kane nor Fell spoke. Reno said, “Does silence mean consent?”
    “A Man for All Seasons,” murmured Fell.
    Reno shook his head in disbelief.
    Kane’s eyes were fevered. “I think,” he told Reno, “I agree with your theory.”
    Triumphantly, Reno whirled on his dog. “There! You see, dumb, stubborn idiot! From now on we do the scene my way!” He turned to Kane, said, “God bless your arteries, Colonel,” and walked out of the office. “Come on,” he snapped at the dog. “Rip Torn, you don’t know shit!”
    Kane sat down at his desk and stared at his telephone. After a silence,
    Fell spoke. “I want you to listen to me,” he said. “Groper laid on some rules today, like no more visitations with you after seven o’—” “Groper shouldn’t have done that!” Kane interrupted.
    “I told him to do it.”
    “You had no right!”
    “I told you, you’re driving yourself too hard!” Fell’s voice was heated.
    “I want the restrictions lifted,” said Kane.
    “Terrific!” Fell shook his head. “I’ll bet dollars to doughnuts that the Hamlet theory is a ploy dreamed up by Cutshaw to get you to lift the restrictions.”
    Kane’s face was alive, excited.
    “Any comment on that, Little Booboo?” asked Fell.
    “I only wish,” Kane said fervently, “I were sure that it was so!”
    “Oh, you can be sure, all right. Take a look in Cutshaw’s footlocker and you’ll find a book called Madness in Hamlet. You know what’s in it? The theory that Reno just gave us.”
    “You’re sure?”
    “I’m sure.”
    “So Cutshaw put Reno up to it!”
    “What else?”
    “Good! It fits!” said Kane.
    “The hole in my head?”
    “The Hamlet theory is correct: it’s precisely the condition of most of these men! And Cutshaw’s sending in Reno to explain it is just like those paintings out there in the hall: someone’s disguised and terrified shout for us to help him-and telling us how!”
    “And that someone is Cutshaw?”
    “His unconscious!”
    Kane picked up the telephone receiver and pressed on the intercom buzzer. Then he gazed up at Fell. “Incidentally, how do you know what’s in Cutshaw’s footlocker?”
    “Can’t tell you. ‘Medical confidentiality. ’ ”
    “Get me Fort Lewis,” Kane ordered into the phone. He sounded exhilarated. “Quartermaster’s Office. Thank you.” Kane hung up and awaited the