"Not if it's used properly."

"Oh, very definitely. I couldn't agree with you more. We minimize heavy avers ives use token economies, lots of positive reinforcement. It requires supervision - that's where I come in."

"You seem to have a good handle on things."

"I try." He gave an aw, shucks grin. "I wanted to go for a doctorate but I didn't have the bucks."

"Where were you studying?"

"U. of Oregon. I got an MA. there - in counseling ed. Before that, a B.A. in psych from Jedson College."

"I thought everyone at Jedson was rich." The small college outside of Seattle had a reputation as a haven for the offspring of the wealthy,

"That's almost true," he grinned. "The place was a country club. I got in on an athletic scholarship. Track and baseball. In my junior year I tore a ligament and suddenly I was persona non grata." His eyes darkened momentarily, smoldering with the memory of almost - buried injustice. "Anyway, I like what I'm doing - plenty of responsibility and decision making

There was a rustling sound at the far end of the room. We both turned toward it and saw movement beneath the blankets on one of the lower bunks.

"Is that you, Rodney?"

Kruger walked to the bunk and tapped a wriggling lump. A boy sat up, holding the covers up to his chin. He was chubby, black and looked around twelve, but his exact age was impossible to gauge, for his face bore the telltale stigmata of Down's syndrome: elongated cranium, flattened features, deep - set eyes spaced close together, sloping brow, low - set ears, protruding tongue. And an expression of bafflement so typical of the retarded.

"Hello, Rodney." Kruger spoke softly. "What's the matter?"

I had followed him and the boy looked at me questioningly.

"It's all right, Rodney. He's a friend. Now tell me what's the matter."

"Rodney sick." The words were slurred.

"What kind of sickness?"

"Tummy hurt."

"Hmm. We'll have to have the doctor look at you when he makes his visit."

"No!" the boy screamed. "No docka!"

"Now, Rodney!" Kruger was patient. "If you're sick you're going to have to get a checkup."

"No docka!"

"All right, Rodney, all right." Kruger spoke soothingly. He reached out and touched the boy softly on the top of the head. Rodney went hysterical. His eyes popped out and his chin trembled. He cried out and lurched backward so quickly that he hit the rear of his head on the metal bedpost. He yanked the covers over his face, uttering an unintelligible wail of protest.

Kruger turned to me and sighed. He waited until the boy calmed down and then spoke to him again.

"We'll discuss the doctor later, Rodney. Now where are you supposed to be? Where's your group right now?"

"Snack."

"Aren't you hungry?"

The boy shook his head.

"Tummy hurts."

"Well you can't just lie here by yourself. Either come to the infirmary and we'll call someone to have a look at you or get up and join your group for snack."

"No docka."

"Okay. No doctor. Now get up."

The boy crawled out of bed, away from us. I could see now that he was older than I'd thought. Sixteen at least, with the beginning of beard growth dotting his chin. He stared at me, eyes wide in fright.

"This is a friend, Rodney. Mr. Delaware."

"Hello, Rodney." I held out my hand. He looked at it and shook his head.

"Be friendly, Rodney. That's how we earn our goodie points, remember?"

A shake of the head.

"Come on, Rodney, shake hands."

But the retarded boy was resolute. When Kruger took a step forward he retreated, holding his hands in front of his face.

It went on that way for several moments, a flat out contest of wills. Finally Kruger gave in. "Okay, Rodney," he said softly, "we'll forget social skills for today because you're ill. Now run along and join your group."

The boy backed away from us, circling the bed in a wide arc. Still shaking his head and holding his arms in front of him like a punchy fighter, he moved away. When he was close to the door he turned, bolted and half - ran, half - waddled out, disappearing into the sun's glare.

Kruger turned to me and smiled weakly.

"He's one of our more difficult ones. Seventeen and functioning like a three - year - old."

"He seems to be really afraid of doctors."

"He's afraid of lots of things. Like most Down's kids he's had plenty of medical problems - cardiac, infections, dental complications. Add that to the distorted thinking going on in that little head and it builds up. Have you had much experience with mrs?"

"Some."

"I've worked with hundreds of them and I can't remember one who didn't have serious emotional problems. You know, the public thinks they're just like any other kids, but slower. It ain't so."

A trace of irritation had crept into his voice. I put it down to the humiliation of losing at psychic poker to the retarded boy. "Rodney's come a long way," he said. "When he first got here he wasn't even toilet - trained. After thirteen foster homes." He shook his head. "It's really pathetic. Some of the people the county gives kids to aren't fit to raise dogs, let alone children."

He looked ready to launch into a speech, but stopped and slipped his smile back on quickly. "Many of the kids we get are low - probability adoption cases - mr." defective, mixed race, in and out of foster homes, or thrown on the trash heap by their families. When they come here they have no conception of socially appropriate behavior, hygiene, or basic day - today living skills. Quite often we're starting from ground zero. But we're pleased at our progress. One of the students is publishing a study on our results."

"That's a great way to collect data."

"Yes. And quite frankly, it helps us raise money, which is often the bottom line, Doctor, when you want to keep a great place like La Casa going. Come on." He took my arm. "Let's see the rest of the grounds."

We headed toward the pool.

"From what I hear," I said, "Reverend McCaffrey is an excellent fundraiser."

Kruger gave me a sidelong glance, evaluating the intent of my words.

"He is. He's a marvelous person and it comes across. And it takes most of his time. But it's still difficult. You know, he ran another children's home in Mexico, but he had to close it down. There was no government support and the attitude of the private sector there was let the peasants starve."

We were poolside now. The water reflected the forest, green - black dappled with streaks of emerald. There was a strong odor of chlorine mixed with sweat. The lone swimmer was still in the water doing laps - using a butterfly stroke with a lot of muscle behind it.

"Hey, Jimbo!" Kruger called.

The swimmer reached the far end, raised his head out of the water and saw the counselor's wave. He glided effortlessly toward us and pulled himself waist high out of the water. He was in his early forties, bearded and sinewy. His sun - baked body was covered with wet, matted hair.

"Hey, Tim."

"Dr. Delaware, this is Jim Halstead, our head coach. Jim, Dr. Alexander Delaware."

"Actually your only coach." Halstead spoke in a deep voice that emerged from his abdomen. "I'd shake your hand, but mine's kinda clammy."

"That's fine." I smiled.

"Dr. Delaware's a child psychologist, Jim. He's touring La Casa as a prospective Gentleman."

"Great to meet you, Doc, and I hope you join us. It's beautiful out here, isn't it?" He extended a long, brown arm to the Malibu sky.

"Gorgeous."

"Jim used to work in the inner city," said Kruger. "At Manual Arts High. Then he got smart."

Halstead laughed.

"It took me too long. I'm an easy - going guy but when an ape with a knife threatened me after I asked him to do pushups, that was it."

"I'm sure you don't get that here," I said.