‘Long-term thinking,’ breathed the Chief Psychiatrist, who had sidled up to observe them on the roof, notebook in hand. ‘We need more beds for patients.’

He handed Tancredi a pair of binoculars.

‘Tell me,’ asked Tancredi, ‘why do you need all this space?’

‘Because of the obese, the smokers, drug takers, and alcoholics. They all need to be accommodated, cared for and analysed, particularly analysed.’

‘But is that sensible?’ queried Tancredi. ‘Shouldn’t you be cracking down on people who don’t look after themselves?’

‘Are you joking?’ snorted the Chief Psychiatrist, fixing Tancredi with a stare of contempt.

‘A diet of pizza and beer that leads to heart disease isn’t the fault of the individual – it’s the failure of society. Surely you acknowledge that? It’s impossible for people to take responsibility for their actions until the causes of their problems have been analysed.’

He blinked repeatedly from behind his reinforced glasses to emphasise the point.

Tancredi was beginning to understand the necessity for large-scale demolition works on Sanitalis. All that he loathed about psychiatry had also been confirmed. The planet was the living embodiment of its dubious theories. Everything was the fault of someone or something other than the individual.

He scanned the surrounding area with the binoculars and brought them to focus on the Chief Psychiatrist, who, not realising he was being watched, picked his nose. He inspected the fruit of his labour, then slipped it into a top pocket with practised grace.

‘But where does it all end?’ Tancredi asked, disguising his disgust. ‘Won’t the system spiral out of control?’ The image of a monster on the loose flashed through his mind.

‘There is no end, why should there be? As for cost, what price do you put on life? On Sanitalis, we’re committed to total care, irrespective of cost. Everyone must be made well. We are a Well-Being Society.’

Tancredi returned to his bed, confused and repulsed. The Chief Psychiatrist’s filthy habit had put him off the gourmet food served in the hospital ward. Beyond this, he didn’t understand how such an excessive system could work. He turned on the news to learn more about the planet.

The newsreader was talking about hospital-building programmes. There wasn’t just one scheme under development in Hippocratopolis: enormous swathes of Sanitalis were being flattened to make way for new facilities. A city in the north had just been destroyed to create a gigantic hospitalisation zone called ‘Smokers Don’t You Worry’. Tancredi nodded off to sleep.

The newsreader began an interview with a psychiatrist dressed in a brown jacket.

‘I’m obliged to ask you whether the cost of this new facility is justifiable? Why should Sanitalis bear the burden when smokers are warned the habit will kill them?’

The psychiatrist shot the interviewer a look of horror.

‘I find it very difficult to respond to such bigoted questions. Were you dropped on your head as a baby?’

He was about to elucidate further, when the Matron burst into the ward like a bold Valkyrie.