ABSTRACT
“Judging from my patients,” said a psychiatrist friend of mine as we looked back at Berkeley from his sailboat on the bay, “I’d say that 100,000 people mentally shoot down that damned helicopter every day.” It was a beautiful day on the water, but full of gallows humor. Not many words were exchanged between the six people on the boat but every now and then someone would take a hard look at the distant shore. You could pick out the white slim shaft of the campanile on the campus, the buildings on the hill at the radiation laboratory. A wisp of smoke curled from somewhere in the industrial area. “Well, I guess Berkeley's burning,” said one of the crew, an IBM salesman. “Yeah, here comes the napalm,” I said, pointing to a low-flying plane, probably a “weekend warrior” from nearby Alameda Naval Air Station.
