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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Suite Mentale, by Gordon Randall Garrett
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Suite Mentale
+
+Author: Gordon Randall Garrett
+
+Illustrator: EMSH
+
+Release Date: September 25, 2007 [EBook #22763]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SUITE MENTALE ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online
+Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+    _Just about a year ago, two enthusiastic young men came to see me,
+    and during the course of the visit announced that they were starting
+    a campaign to make their living in science fiction--and also to
+    become "names" in the best science fiction magazines. They planned
+    to collaborate on some material, and write on their own as well,
+    intending to make the grade both ways._
+
+    _One of the pair was a well-known science fiction fan, who had
+    appeared once or twice in the "pro mags," as fans designate journals
+    like this one. The other was Randall Garrett, who had previously
+    sold a respectable number of stories to various magazines in the
+    science fiction and fantasy field._
+
+    _I shall not try to insult your intelligence by stating that I told
+    them I knew they could do it; on the contrary, I larded doubt with
+    sympathy. However, this story, and Robert A. Madle's "Inside Science
+    Fiction" will show how wrong I was!_
+
+
+
+
+SUITE MENTALE
+
+by Randall Garrett
+
+_Illustrated by EMSH_
+
+
+
+
+OVERTURE--ADAGIO MISTERIOSO
+
+The neurosurgeon peeled the thin surgical gloves from his hands as the
+nurse blotted the perspiration from his forehead for the last time after
+the long, grueling hours.
+
+"They're waiting outside for you, Doctor," she said quietly.
+
+The neurosurgeon nodded wordlessly. Behind him, three assistants were
+still finishing up the operation, attending to the little finishing
+touches that did not require the brilliant hand of the specialist. Such
+things as suturing up a scalp, and applying bandages.
+
+The nurse took the sterile mask--no longer sterile now--while the doctor
+washed and dried his hands.
+
+"Where are they?" he asked finally. "Out in the hall, I suppose?"
+
+[Illustration]
+
+She nodded. "You'll probably have to push them out of the way to get out
+of Surgery."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Her prediction was almost perfect. The group of men in conservative
+business suits, wearing conservative ties, and holding conservative,
+soft, felt hats in their hands were standing just outside the door. Dr.
+Mallon glanced at the five of them, letting his eyes stop on the face of
+the tallest. "He may live," the doctor said briefly.
+
+"You don't sound very optimistic, Dr. Mallon," said the FBI man.
+
+Mallon shook his head. "Frankly, I'm not. He was shot laterally, just
+above the right temple, with what looks to me like a .357 magnum pistol
+slug. It's in there--" He gestured back toward the room he had just
+left. "--you can have it, if you want. It passed completely through the
+brain, lodging on the other side of the head, just inside the skull.
+What kept him alive, I'll never know, but I can guarantee that he might
+as well be dead; it was a rather nasty way to lobotomize a man, but it
+was effective, I can assure you."
+
+The Federal agent frowned puzzledly. "Lobotomized? Like those operations
+they do on psychotics?"
+
+"Similar," said Mallon. "But no psychotic was ever butchered up like
+this; and what I had to do to him to save his life didn't help
+anything."
+
+The men looked at each other, then the big one said: "I'm sure you did
+the best you could, Dr. Mallon."
+
+The neurosurgeon rubbed the back of his hand across his forehead and
+looked steadily into the eyes of the big man.
+
+"You wanted him alive," he said slowly, "and I have a duty to save life.
+But frankly, I think we'll all eventually wish we had the common human
+decency to let Paul Wendell die. Excuse me, gentlemen; I don't feel
+well." He turned abruptly and strode off down the hall.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+One of the men in the conservative suits said: "Louis Pasteur lived
+through most of his life with only half a brain and he never even knew
+it, Frank; maybe--"
+
+"Yeah. Maybe," said the big man. "But I don't know whether to hope he
+does or hope he doesn't." He used his right thumbnail to pick a bit of
+microscopic dust from beneath his left index finger, studying the
+operation without actually seeing it. "Meanwhile, we've got to decide
+what to do about the rest of those screwballs. Wendell was the only sane
+one, and therefore the most dangerous--but the rest of them aren't what
+you'd call safe, either."
+
+The others nodded in a chorus of silent agreement.
+
+
+NOCTURNE--TEMPO DI VALSE
+
+"Now what the hell's the matter with me?" thought Paul Wendell. He could
+feel nothing. Absolutely nothing: No taste, no sight, no hearing, no
+anything. "Am I breathing?" He couldn't feel any breathing. Nor, for
+that matter, could he feel heat, nor cold, nor pain.
+
+"Am I dead? No. At least, I don't _feel_ dead. Who am I? What am I?" No
+answer. _Cogito, ergo sum._ What did that mean? There was something
+quite definitely wrong, but he couldn't quite tell what it was. Ideas
+seemed to come from nowhere; fragments of concepts that seemed to have
+no referents. What did that mean? What is a referent? A concept? He felt
+he knew intuitively what they meant, but what use they were he didn't
+know.
+
+There was something wrong, and he had to find out what it was. And he
+had to find out through the only method of investigation left open to
+him.
+
+So he thought about it.
+
+
+SONATA--ALLEGRO CON BRIO
+
+The President of the United States finished reading the sheaf of papers
+before him, laid them neatly to one side, and looked up at the big man
+seated across the desk from him.
+
+"Is this everything, Frank?" he asked.
+
+"That's everything, Mr. President; everything we know. We've got eight
+men locked up in St. Elizabeth's, all of them absolutely psychotic, and
+one human vegetable named Paul Wendell. We can't get anything out of
+them."
+
+The President leaned back in his chair. "I really can't quite understand
+it. Extra-sensory perception--why should it drive men insane? Wendell's
+papers don't say enough. He claims it can be mathematically worked
+out--that he _did_ work it out--but we don't have any proof of that."
+
+The man named Frank scowled. "Wasn't that demonstration of his proof
+enough?"
+
+A small, graying, intelligent-faced man who had been sitting silently,
+listening to the conversation, spoke at last. "Mr. President, I'm afraid
+I still don't completely understand the problem. If we could go over it,
+and get it straightened out--" He left the sentence hanging expectantly.
+
+"Certainly. This Paul Wendell is a--well, he called himself a psionic
+mathematician. Actually, he had quite a respectable reputation in the
+mathematical field. He did very important work in cybernetic theory, but
+he dropped it several years ago--said that the human mind couldn't be
+worked at from a mechanistic angle. He studied various branches of
+psychology, and eventually dropped them all. He built several of those
+queer psionic machines--gold detectors, and something he called a hexer.
+He's done a lot of different things, evidently."
+
+"Sounds like he was unable to make up his mind," said the small man.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The President shook his head firmly. "Not at all. He did new, creative
+work in every one of the fields he touched. He was considered something
+of a mystic, but not a crackpot, or a screwball.
+
+"But, anyhow, the point is that he evidently found what he'd been
+looking for for years. He asked for an appointment with me; I okayed the
+request because of his reputation. He would only tell me that he'd
+stumbled across something that was vital to national defense and the
+future of mankind; but I felt that, in view of the work he had done, he
+was entitled to a hearing."
+
+"And he proved to you, beyond any doubt, that he had this power?" the
+small man asked.
+
+Frank shifted his big body uneasily in his chair. "He certainly did, Mr.
+Secretary."
+
+The President nodded. "I know it might not sound too impressive when
+heard second-hand, but Paul Wendell could tell me more of what was going
+on in the world than our Central Intelligence agents have been able to
+dig up in twenty years. And he claimed he could teach the trick to
+anyone.
+
+"I told him I'd think it over. Naturally, my first step was to make sure
+that he was followed twenty-four hours a day. A man with information
+like that simply could not be allowed to fall into enemy hands." The
+President scowled, as though angry with himself. "I'm sorry to say that
+I didn't realize the full potentialities of what he had said for several
+days--not until I got Frank's first report."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+"You could hardly be expected to, Mr. President," Frank said. "After
+all, something like that is pretty heady stuff."
+
+"I think I follow you," said the Secretary. "You found he was already
+teaching this trick to others."
+
+The President glanced at the FBI man. Frank said: "That's right; he was
+holding meetings--classes, I suppose you'd call them--twice a week.
+There were eight men who came regularly."
+
+"That's when I gave the order to have them all picked up. Can you
+imagine what would happen if _everybody_ could be taught to use this
+ability? Or even a small minority?"
+
+"They'd rule the world," said the Secretary softly.
+
+The President shrugged that off. "That's a small item, really. The point
+is that _nothing_ would be hidden from _anyone_.
+
+"The way we play the Game of Life today is similar to playing poker. We
+keep a straight face and play the cards tight to our chest. But what
+would happen if everyone could see everyone else's cards? It would cease
+to be a game of strategy, and become a game of pure chance.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+"We'd have to start playing Life another way. It would be like chess,
+where you can see the opponent's every move. But in all human history
+there has never been a social analogue for chess. That's why Paul
+Wendell and his group had to be stopped--for a while at least."
+
+"But what could you have done with them?" asked the Secretary. "Imprison
+them summarily? Have them shot? What _would_ you have done?"
+
+The President's face became graver than ever. "I had not yet made that
+decision. Thank Heaven, it has been taken out of my hands."
+
+"One of his own men shot him?"
+
+"That's right," said the big FBI man. "We went into his apartment an
+instant too late. We found eight madmen and a near-corpse. We're not
+sure what happened, and we're not sure we want to know. Anything that
+can drive eight reasonably stable men off the deep end in less than an
+hour is nothing to meddle around with."
+
+"I wonder what went wrong?" asked the Secretary of no one in particular.
+
+
+SCHERZO--PRESTO
+
+Paul Wendell, too, was wondering what went wrong.
+
+Slowly, over a period of immeasurable time, memory seeped back into him.
+Bits of memory, here and there, crept in from nowhere, sometimes to be
+lost again, sometimes to remain. Once he found himself mentally humming
+an odd, rather funeral tune:
+
+    _Now, though you'd have said that the head was dead,
+      For its owner dead was he,
+    It stood on its neck with a smile well-bred,
+      And bowed three times to me.
+    It was none of your impudent, off-hand nods...._
+
+Wendell stopped and wondered what the devil seemed so important about
+the song.
+
+Slowly, slowly, memory returned.
+
+When he suddenly realized, with crashing finality, where he was and what
+had happened to him, Paul Wendell went violently insane. Or he would
+have, if he could have become violent.
+
+
+MARCHE FUNEBRE--LENTO
+
+"Open your mouth, Paul," said the pretty nurse. The hulking mass of
+not-quite-human gazed at her with vacuous eyes and opened its mouth.
+Dexterously, she spooned a mouthful of baby food into it. "Now swallow
+it, Paul. That's it. Now another."
+
+"In pretty bad shape, isn't he?"
+
+Nurse Peters turned to look at the man who had walked up behind her. It
+was Dr. Benwick, the new interne.
+
+"He's worthless to himself and anyone else," she said. "It's a shame,
+too; he'd be rather nice looking if there were any personality behind
+that face." She shoveled another spoonful of mashed asparagus into the
+gaping mouth. "Now swallow it, Paul."
+
+"How long has he been here?" Benwick asked, eyeing the scars that showed
+through the dark hair on the patient's head.
+
+"Nearly six years," Miss Peters said.
+
+"Hmmh! But they outlawed lobotomies back in the sixties."
+
+"Open your mouth, Paul." Then, to Benwick: "This was an accident. Bullet
+in the head. You can see the scar on the other side of his head."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The doctor moved around to look at the left temple. "Doesn't leave much
+of a human being, does it?"
+
+"It doesn't even leave much of an animal," Miss Peters said. "He's
+alive, but that's the best you can say for him. (Now swallow, Paul.
+That's it.) Even an ameba can find food for itself."
+
+"Yeah. Even a single cell is better off than he is. Chop out a man's
+forebrain and he's nothing. It's a case of the whole being _less_ than
+the sum of its parts."
+
+"I'm glad they outlawed the operation on mental patients," Miss Peters
+said, with a note of disgust in her voice.
+
+Dr. Benwick said: "It's worse than it looks. Do you know why the
+anti-lobotomists managed to get the bill passed?"
+
+"Let's drink some milk now, Paul. No, Doctor; I was only a little girl
+at that time."
+
+"It was a matter of electro-encephalographic records. They showed that
+there was electrical activity in the prefrontal lobes even after the
+nerves had been severed, which could mean a lot of things; but the A-L
+supporters said that it indicated that the forebrain was still capable
+of thinking."
+
+Miss Peters looked a little ill. "Why--that's _horrible_! I wish you'd
+never told me." She looked at the lump of vegetablized human sitting
+placidly at the table. "Do you suppose he's actually _thinking_,
+somewhere, deep inside?"
+
+"Oh, I doubt it," Benwick said hastily. "There's probably no real
+self-awareness, none at all. There couldn't be."
+
+"I suppose not," Miss Peters said, "but it's not pleasant to think of."
+
+"That's why they outlawed it," said Benwick.
+
+
+RONDO--ANDANTE MA NON POCO
+
+Insanity is a retreat from reality, an escape within the mind from the
+reality outside the mind. But what if there is no detectable reality
+outside the mind? What is there to escape from? Suicide--death in any
+form--is an escape from life. But if death does not come, and can not be
+self-inflicted, what then?
+
+And when the pressure of nothingness becomes too great to bear, it
+becomes necessary to escape; a man under great enough pressure will take
+the easy way out. But if there is no easy way? Why, then a man must take
+the hard way.
+
+For Paul Wendell, there was no escape from his dark, senseless Gehenna
+by way of death, and even insanity offered no retreat; insanity in
+itself is senseless, and senselessness was what he was trying to flee.
+The only insanity possible was the psychosis of regression, a fleeing
+into the past, into the crystallized, unchanging world of memory.
+
+So Paul Wendell explored his past, every year, every hour, every second
+of it, searching to recall and savor every bit of sensation he had ever
+experienced. He tasted and smelled and touched and heard and analyzed
+each of them minutely. He searched through his own subjective thought
+processes, analyzing, checking and correlating them.
+
+_Know thyself._ Time and time again, Wendell retreated from his own
+memories in confusion, or shame, or fear. But there was no retreat from
+himself, and eventually he had to go back and look again.
+
+He had plenty of time--all the time in the world. How can subjective
+time be measured when there is no objective reality?
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Eventually, there came the time when there was nothing left to look at;
+nothing left to see; nothing to check and remember; nothing that he had
+not gone over in every detail. Again, boredom began to creep in. It was
+not the boredom of nothingness, but the boredom of the familiar.
+Imagination? What could he imagine, except combinations and permutations
+of his own memories? He didn't know--perhaps there might be more to it
+than that.
+
+So he exercised his imagination. With a wealth of material to draw upon,
+he would build himself worlds where he could move around, walk, talk,
+and make love, eat, drink and feel the caress of sunshine and wind.
+
+It was while he was engaged in this project that he touched another
+mind. He touched it, fused for a blinding second, and bounced away. He
+ran gibbering up and down the corridors of his own memory, mentally
+reeling from the shock of--_identification_!
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Who was he? Paul Wendell? Yes, he knew with incontrovertible certainty
+that he was Paul Wendell. But he also knew, with almost equal certainty,
+that he was Captain Sir Richard Francis Burton. He was living--had
+lived--in the latter half of the nineteenth century. But he knew nothing
+of the Captain other than the certainty of identity; nothing else of
+that blinding mind-touch remained.
+
+Again he scoured his memory--Paul Wendell's memory--checking and
+rechecking the area just before that semi-fatal bullet had crashed
+through his brain.
+
+And finally, at long last, he knew with certainty where his calculations
+had gone astray. He knew positively why eight men had gone insane.
+
+Then he went again in search of other minds, and this time he knew he
+would not bounce.
+
+
+QUASI UNA FANTASIA POCO ANDANTE PIANISSIMO
+
+An old man sat quietly in his lawnchair, puffing contentedly on an
+expensive briar pipe and making corrections with a fountain pen on a
+thick sheaf of typewritten manuscript. Around him stretched an expanse
+of green lawn, dotted here and there with squat cycads that looked like
+overgrown pineapples; in the distance, screening the big house from the
+road, stood a row of stately palms, their fronds stirring lightly in the
+faint, warm California breeze.
+
+The old man raised his head as a car pulled into the curving driveway.
+The warm hum of the turboelectric engine stopped, and a man climbed out
+of the vehicle. He walked with easy strides across the grass to where
+the elderly gentleman sat. He was lithe, of indeterminate age, but with
+a look of great determination. There was something in his face that made
+the old man vaguely uneasy--not with fear but with a sense of deep
+respect.
+
+"What can I do for you, sir?"
+
+"I have some news for you, Mr. President," the younger one said.
+
+The old man smiled wryly. "I haven't been President for fourteen years.
+Most people call me 'Senator' or just plain 'Mister'."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The younger man smiled back. "Very well, Senator. My name is Camberton,
+James Camberton. I brought some information that may possibly relieve
+your mind--or, again, it may not."
+
+"You sound ominous, Mr. Camberton. I hope you'll remember that I've been
+retired from the political field for nearly five years. What is this
+shattering news?"
+
+"Paul Wendell's body was buried yesterday."
+
+The Senator looked blank for a second, then recognition came into his
+face. "Wendell, eh? After all this time. Poor chap; he'd have been
+better off if he'd died twenty years ago." Then he paused and looked up.
+"But just who are you, Mr. Camberton? And what makes you think I would
+be particularly interested in Paul Wendell?"
+
+"Mr. Wendell wants to tell you that he is very grateful to you for
+having saved his life, Senator. If it hadn't been for your orders, he
+would have been left to die."
+
+The Senator felt strangely calm, although he knew he should feel shock.
+"That's ridiculous, sir! Mr. Wendell's brain was hopelessly damaged; he
+never recovered his sanity or control of his body. I know; I used to
+drop over to see him occasionally, until I finally realized that I was
+only making myself feel worse and doing him no good."
+
+[Illustration]
+
+"Yes, sir. And Mr. Wendell wants you to know how much he appreciated
+those visits."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The Senator grew red. "What the devil are you talking about? I just said
+that Wendell couldn't talk. How could he have said anything to you? What
+do you know about this?"
+
+"I never said he _spoke_ to me, Senator; he didn't. And as to what I
+know of this affair, evidently you don't remember my name. James
+Camberton."
+
+The Senator frowned. "The name is familiar, but--" Then his eyes went
+wide. "Camberton! You were one of the eight men who--Why, _you're the
+man who shot Wendell_!"
+
+Camberton pulled up an empty lawnchair and sat down. "That's right,
+Senator; but there's nothing to be afraid of. Would you like to hear
+about it?"
+
+"I suppose I must." The old man's voice was so low that it was scarcely
+audible. "Tell me--were the other seven released, too? Have--have you
+all regained your sanity? Do you remember--" He stopped.
+
+"Do we remember the extra-sensory perception formula? Yes, we do; all
+eight of us remember it well. It was based on faulty premises, and
+incomplete, of course; but in its own way it was workable enough. We
+have something much better now."
+
+The old man shook his head slowly. "I failed, then. Such an idea is as
+fatal to society as we know it as a virus plague. I tried to keep you
+men quarantined, but I failed. After all those years of insanity, now
+the chess game begins; the poker game is over."
+
+"It's worse than that," Camberton said, chuckling softly. "Or, actually,
+it's much better."
+
+"I don't understand; explain it to me. I'm an old man, and I may not
+live to see my world collapse. I hope I don't."
+
+Camberton said: "I'll try to explain in words, Senator. They're
+inadequate, but a fuller explanation will come later."
+
+And he launched into the story of the two-decade search of Paul Wendell.
+
+
+CODA--ANDANTINO
+
+"Telepathy? Time travel?" After three hours of listening, the
+ex-President was still not sure he understood.
+
+"Think of it this way," Camberton said. "Think of the mind at any given
+instant as being surrounded by a shield--a shield of privacy--a shield
+which you, yourself have erected, though unconsciously. It's a perfect
+insulator against telepathic prying by others. You feel you _have_ to
+have it in order to retain your privacy--your sense of identity, even.
+But here's the kicker: even though no one else can get in, _you_ can't
+get out!
+
+"You can call this shield 'self-consciousness'--perhaps _shame_ is a
+better word. Everyone has it, to some degree; no telepathic thought can
+break through it. Occasionally, some people will relax it for a fraction
+of a second, but the instant they receive something, the barrier goes up
+again."
+
+"Then how is telepathy possible? How can you go through it?" The Senator
+looked puzzled as he thoughtfully tamped tobacco into his briar.
+
+"You don't go _through_ it; you go _around_ it."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+"Now wait a minute; that sounds like some of those fourth dimension
+stories I've read. I recall that when I was younger, I read a murder
+mystery--something about a morgue, I think. At any rate, the murder was
+committed inside a locked room; no one could possibly have gotten in or
+out. One of the characters suggested that the murderer traveled through
+the fourth dimension in order to get at the victim. He didn't go through
+the walls; he went around them." The Senator puffed a match flame into
+the bowl of his pipe, his eyes on the younger man. "Is that what you're
+driving at?"
+
+"Exactly," agreed Camberton. "The fourth dimension. Time. You must go
+back in time to an instant when that wall did not exist. An infant has
+no shame, no modesty, no shield against the world. You must travel back
+down your own four-dimensional tube of memory in order to get outside
+it, and to do that, you have to know your own mind completely, and you
+must be _sure_ you know it.
+
+"For only if you know your own mind can you communicate with another
+mind. Because, at the 'instant' of contact, you _become_ that person;
+you must enter his own memory at the beginning and go _up_ the
+hyper-tube. You will have all his memories, his hopes, his fears, his
+_sense of identity_. Unless you know--beyond any trace of doubt--who
+_you_ are, the result is insanity."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The Senator puffed his pipe for a moment, then shook his head. "It
+sounds like Oriental mysticism to me. If you can travel in time, you'd
+be able to change the past."
+
+"Not at all," Camberton said; "that's like saying that if you read a
+book, the author's words will change.
+
+"Time isn't like that. Look, suppose you had a long trough filled with
+supercooled water. At one end, you drop in a piece of ice. Immediately
+the water begins to freeze; the crystallization front moves toward the
+other end of the trough. Behind that front, there is ice--frozen,
+immovable, unchangeable. Ahead of it there is water--fluid, mobile,
+changeable.
+
+"The instant we call 'the present' is like that crystallization front.
+The past is unchangeable; the future is flexible. But they both exist."
+
+"I see--at least, I think I do. And you can do all this?"
+
+"Not yet," said Camberton; "not completely. My mind isn't as strong as
+Wendell's, nor as capable. I'm not the--shall we say--the superman he
+is; perhaps I never will be. But I'm learning--I'm learning. After all,
+it took Paul twenty years to do the trick under the most favorable
+circumstances imaginable."
+
+"I see." The Senator smoked his pipe in silence for a long time.
+Camberton lit a cigaret and said nothing. After a time, the Senator took
+the briar from his mouth and began to tap the bowl gently on the heel of
+his palm. "Mr. Camberton, why do you tell me all this? I still have
+influence with the Senate; the present President is a protégé of mine.
+It wouldn't be too difficult to get you men--ah--put away again. I have
+no desire to see our society ruined, our world destroyed. Why do you
+tell me?"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Camberton smiled apologetically. "I'm afraid you might find it a little
+difficult to put us away again, sir; but that's not the point. You see,
+we need you. We have no desire to destroy our present culture until we
+have designed a better one to replace it.
+
+"You are one of the greatest living statesmen, Senator; you have a
+wealth of knowledge and ability that can never be replaced; knowledge
+and ability that will help us to design a culture and a civilization
+that will be as far above this one as this one is above the wolf pack.
+We want you to come in with us, help us; we want you to be one of us."
+
+"I? I'm an old man, Mr. Camberton. I will be dead before this
+civilization falls; how can I help build a new one? And how could I, at
+my age, be expected to learn this technique?"
+
+"Paul Wendell says you can. He says you have one of the strongest minds
+now existing."
+
+The Senator put his pipe in his jacket pocket. "You know, Camberton, you
+keep referring to Wendell in the present tense. I thought you said he
+was dead."
+
+Again Camberton gave him the odd smile. "I didn't say that, Senator; I
+said they buried his body. That's quite a different thing. You see,
+before the poor, useless hulk that held his blasted brain died, Paul
+gave the eight of us his memories; he gave us _himself_. The mind is not
+the brain, Senator; we don't know what it _is_ yet, but we do know what
+it _isn't_. Paul's poor, damaged brain is dead, but his memories, his
+thought processes, the very essence of all that was Paul Wendell is
+still very much with us.
+
+"Do you begin to see now why we want you to come in with us? There are
+nine of us now, but we need the tenth--you. Will you come?"
+
+"I--I'll have to think it over," the old statesman said in a voice that
+had a faint quaver. "I'll have to think it over."
+
+But they both knew what his answer would be.
+
+
+
+
+Transcriber's Note
+
+This etext was produced from _Future Science Fiction_ No. 30, 1956.
+Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright
+on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors
+have been corrected without note.
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Suite Mentale, by Gordon Randall Garrett
+
+*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SUITE MENTALE ***
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+<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
+    "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
+
+<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
+  <head>
+    <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" />
+    <title>
+      The Project Gutenberg eBook of Suite Mentale, by Randall Garrett
+    </title>
+    <style type="text/css">
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+<body>
+
+
+<pre>
+
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Suite Mentale, by Gordon Randall Garrett
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Suite Mentale
+
+Author: Gordon Randall Garrett
+
+Illustrator: EMSH
+
+Release Date: September 25, 2007 [EBook #22763]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SUITE MENTALE ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online
+Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
+
+
+
+
+
+
+</pre>
+
+
+
+
+
+
+<div class="blockquot"><p><i>Just about a year ago, two enthusiastic young men came to see
+me, and during the course of the visit announced that they were
+starting a campaign to make their living in science fiction&mdash;and
+also to become "names" in the best science fiction magazines.
+They planned to collaborate on some material, and write
+on their own as well, intending to make the grade both ways.</i></p>
+
+<p><i>One of the pair was a well-known science fiction fan, who had
+appeared once or twice in the "pro mags," as fans designate
+journals like this one. The other was Randall Garrett, who
+had previously sold a respectable number of stories to various
+magazines in the science fiction and fantasy field.</i></p>
+
+<p><i>I shall not try to insult your intelligence by stating that I
+told them I knew they could do it; on the contrary, I larded
+doubt with sympathy. However, this story, and Robert A.
+Madle's "Inside Science Fiction" will show how wrong I was!</i></p></div>
+
+
+<h1><big>SUITE MENTALE</big></h1>
+
+<h2>by Randall Garrett</h2>
+
+<p class="illo">Illustrated by EMSH</p>
+
+
+
+<p class="head1">Overture&mdash;Adagio
+Misterioso</p>
+
+<p class="cap">THE NEUROSURGEON peeled
+the thin surgical gloves
+from his hands as the
+nurse blotted the perspiration
+from his forehead for the last
+time after the long, grueling
+hours.</p>
+
+<p>"They're waiting outside for
+you, Doctor," she said quietly.</p>
+
+<p>The neurosurgeon nodded
+wordlessly. Behind him, three
+assistants were still finishing up
+the operation, attending to the
+little finishing touches that did
+not require the brilliant hand of
+the specialist. Such things as
+suturing up a scalp, and applying
+bandages.</p>
+
+<p>The nurse took the sterile
+mask&mdash;no longer sterile now&mdash;while
+the doctor washed and
+dried his hands.</p>
+
+<p>"Where are they?" he asked
+finally. "Out in the hall, I suppose?"</p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 700px;">
+<img src="images/001.png" width="700" height="444" alt="" title="" />
+</div>
+
+<p>She nodded. "You'll probably
+have to push them out of the way
+to get out of Surgery."</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 15%;' />
+
+<p class="cap">HER PREDICTION was almost
+perfect. The group of men
+in conservative business suits,
+wearing conservative ties, and
+holding conservative, soft, felt
+hats in their hands were standing
+just outside the door. Dr.
+Mallon glanced at the five of
+them, letting his eyes stop on the
+face of the tallest. "He may
+live," the doctor said briefly.</p>
+
+<p>"You don't sound very optimistic,
+Dr. Mallon," said the
+FBI man.</p>
+
+<p>Mallon shook his head.
+"Frankly, I'm not. He was shot
+laterally, just above the right
+temple, with what looks to me
+like a .357 magnum pistol slug.
+It's in there&mdash;" He gestured
+back toward the room he had
+just left. "&mdash;you can have it, if
+you want. It passed completely
+through the brain, lodging on
+the other side of the head, just
+inside the skull. What kept him
+alive, I'll never know, but I can
+guarantee that he might as well
+be dead; it was a rather nasty
+way to lobotomize a man, but it
+was effective, I can assure you."</p>
+
+<p>The Federal agent frowned
+puzzledly. "Lobotomized? Like
+those operations they do on psychotics?"</p>
+
+<p>"Similar," said Mallon. "But
+no psychotic was ever butchered
+up like this; and what I had to
+do to him to save his life didn't
+help anything."</p>
+
+<p>The men looked at each other,
+then the big one said: "I'm sure
+you did the best you could, Dr.
+Mallon."</p>
+
+<p>The neurosurgeon rubbed the
+back of his hand across his forehead
+and looked steadily into the
+eyes of the big man.</p>
+
+<p>"You wanted him alive," he
+said slowly, "and I have a duty
+to save life. But frankly, I
+think we'll all eventually wish
+we had the common human decency
+to let Paul Wendell die.
+Excuse me, gentlemen; I don't
+feel well." He turned abruptly
+and strode off down the hall.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 15%;' />
+
+<p class="cap">ONE OF the men in the conservative
+suits said: "Louis
+Pasteur lived through most of
+his life with only half a brain
+and he never even knew it,
+Frank; maybe&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Yeah. Maybe," said the big
+man. "But I don't know whether
+to hope he does or hope he
+doesn't." He used his right
+thumbnail to pick a bit of microscopic
+dust from beneath his left
+index finger, studying the operation
+without actually seeing it.
+"Meanwhile, we've got to decide
+what to do about the rest of
+those screwballs. Wendell was
+the only sane one, and therefore
+the most dangerous&mdash;but the
+rest of them aren't what you'd
+call safe, either."</p>
+
+<p>The others nodded in a chorus
+of silent agreement.</p>
+
+
+
+<p class="head1">Nocturne&mdash;Tempo di valse</p>
+
+<p class="cap">"NOW WHAT the hell's the
+matter with me?"
+thought Paul Wendell. He could
+feel nothing. Absolutely nothing:
+No taste, no sight, no hearing,
+no anything. "Am I
+breathing?" He couldn't feel any
+breathing. Nor, for that matter,
+could he feel heat, nor cold, nor
+pain.</p>
+
+<p>"Am I dead? No. At least, I
+don't <i>feel</i> dead. Who am I?
+What am I?" No answer. <i>Cogito,
+ergo sum.</i> What did that mean?
+There was something quite definitely
+wrong, but he couldn't
+quite tell what it was. Ideas
+seemed to come from nowhere;
+fragments of concepts that
+seemed to have no referents.
+What did that mean? What is a
+referent? A concept? He felt he
+knew intuitively what they
+meant, but what use they were
+he didn't know.</p>
+
+<p>There was something wrong,
+and he had to find out what it
+was. And he had to find out
+through the only method of investigation
+left open to him.</p>
+
+<p>So he thought about it.</p>
+
+
+
+<p class="head1">Sonata&mdash;Allegro con Brio</p>
+
+<p class="cap">THE PRESIDENT of the United
+States finished reading the
+sheaf of papers before him, laid
+them neatly to one side, and
+looked up at the big man seated
+across the desk from him.</p>
+
+<p>"Is this everything, Frank?"
+he asked.</p>
+
+<p>"That's everything, Mr. President;
+everything we know.
+We've got eight men locked up
+in St. Elizabeth's, all of them absolutely
+psychotic, and one human
+vegetable named Paul
+Wendell. We can't get anything
+out of them."</p>
+
+<p>The President leaned back in
+his chair. "I really can't quite understand
+it. Extra-sensory perception&mdash;why
+should it drive
+men insane? Wendell's papers
+don't say enough. He claims it
+can be mathematically worked
+out&mdash;that he <i>did</i> work it out&mdash;but
+we don't have any proof of
+that."</p>
+
+<p>The man named Frank scowled.
+"Wasn't that demonstration
+of his proof enough?"</p>
+
+<p>A small, graying, intelligent-faced
+man who had been sitting
+silently, listening to the conversation,
+spoke at last. "Mr. President,
+I'm afraid I still don't
+completely understand the problem.
+If we could go over it, and
+get it straightened out&mdash;" He
+left the sentence hanging expectantly.</p>
+
+<p>"Certainly. This Paul Wendell
+is a&mdash;well, he called himself a
+psionic mathematician. Actually,
+he had quite a respectable reputation
+in the mathematical field.
+He did very important work in
+cybernetic theory, but he dropped
+it several years ago&mdash;said
+that the human mind couldn't
+be worked at from a mechanistic
+angle. He studied various
+branches of psychology, and
+eventually dropped them all. He
+built several of those queer psionic
+machines&mdash;gold detectors,
+and something he called a hexer.
+He's done a lot of different
+things, evidently."</p>
+
+<p>"Sounds like he was unable
+to make up his mind," said the
+small man.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 15%;' />
+
+<p class="cap">THE PRESIDENT shook his
+head firmly. "Not at all. He
+did new, creative work in every
+one of the fields he touched. He
+was considered something of a
+mystic, but not a crackpot, or a
+screwball.</p>
+
+<p>"But, anyhow, the point is that
+he evidently found what he'd
+been looking for for years. He
+asked for an appointment with
+me; I okayed the request because
+of his reputation. He would only
+tell me that he'd stumbled across
+something that was vital to national
+defense and the future of
+mankind; but I felt that, in view
+of the work he had done, he was
+entitled to a hearing."</p>
+
+<p>"And he proved to you, beyond
+any doubt, that he had
+this power?" the small man
+asked.</p>
+
+<p>Frank shifted his big body
+uneasily in his chair. "He certainly
+did, Mr. Secretary."</p>
+
+<p>The President nodded. "I
+know it might not sound too impressive
+when heard second-hand,
+but Paul Wendell could
+tell me more of what was going
+on in the world than our Central
+Intelligence agents have been
+able to dig up in twenty years.
+And he claimed he could teach
+the trick to anyone.</p>
+
+<p>"I told him I'd think it over.
+Naturally, my first step was to
+make sure that he was followed
+twenty-four hours a day. A man
+with information like that simply
+could not be allowed to fall
+into enemy hands." The President
+scowled, as though angry
+with himself. "I'm sorry to say
+that I didn't realize the full
+potentialities of what he had
+said for several days&mdash;not until
+I got Frank's first report."</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 15%;' />
+
+<p class="cap">"YOU COULD hardly be expected
+to, Mr. President,"
+Frank said. "After all,
+something like that is pretty
+heady stuff."</p>
+
+<p>"I think I follow you," said
+the Secretary. "You found he
+was already teaching this trick to
+others."</p>
+
+<p>The President glanced at the
+FBI man. Frank said: "That's
+right; he was holding meetings&mdash;classes,
+I suppose you'd call
+them&mdash;twice a week. There
+were eight men who came regularly."</p>
+
+<p>"That's when I gave the order
+to have them all picked up. Can
+you imagine what would happen
+if <i>everybody</i> could be taught to
+use this ability? Or even a small
+minority?"</p>
+
+<p>"They'd rule the world,"
+said the Secretary softly.</p>
+
+<p>The President shrugged that
+off. "That's a small item, really.
+The point is that <i>nothing</i> would
+be hidden from <i>anyone</i>.</p>
+
+<p>"The way we play the Game
+of Life today is similar to playing
+poker. We keep a straight
+face and play the cards tight to
+our chest. But what would happen
+if everyone could see everyone
+else's cards? It would cease
+to be a game of strategy, and become
+a game of pure chance.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 15%;' />
+
+<p class="cap">"WE'D HAVE to start playing
+Life another way. It
+would be like chess, where you
+can see the opponent's every
+move. But in all human history
+there has never been a social analogue
+for chess. That's why Paul
+Wendell and his group had to
+be stopped&mdash;for a while at
+least."</p>
+
+<p>"But what could you have
+done with them?" asked the Secretary.
+"Imprison them summarily?
+Have them shot? What
+<i>would</i> you have done?"</p>
+
+<p>The President's face became
+graver than ever. "I had not yet
+made that decision. Thank
+Heaven, it has been taken out of
+my hands."</p>
+
+<p>"One of his own men shot
+him?"</p>
+
+<p>"That's right," said the big
+FBI man. "We went into his
+apartment an instant too late.
+We found eight madmen and a
+near-corpse. We're not sure what
+happened, and we're not sure we
+want to know. Anything that can
+drive eight reasonably stable men
+off the deep end in less than an
+hour is nothing to meddle
+around with."</p>
+
+<p>"I wonder what went wrong?"
+asked the Secretary of no one in
+particular.</p>
+
+
+
+<p class="head1">Scherzo&mdash;Presto</p>
+
+<p class="cap">PAUL WENDELL, too, was
+wondering what went
+wrong.</p>
+
+<p>Slowly, over a period of immeasurable
+time, memory seeped
+back into him. Bits of
+memory, here and there, crept in
+from nowhere, sometimes to be
+lost again, sometimes to remain.
+Once he found himself mentally
+humming an odd, rather funeral
+tune:</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0"><i>Now, though you'd have said that the head was dead,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i2"><i>For its owner dead was he,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>It stood on its neck with a smile well-bred,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i2"><i>And bowed three times to me.</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>It was none of your impudent, off-hand nods....</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p>Wendell stopped and wondered
+what the devil seemed so
+important about the song.</p>
+
+<p>Slowly, slowly, memory returned.</p>
+
+<p>When he suddenly realized,
+with crashing finality, where he
+was and what had happened to
+him, Paul Wendell went violently
+insane. Or he would have,
+if he could have become violent.</p>
+
+
+
+<p class="head1">Marche Funebre&mdash;Lento</p>
+
+<p class="cap">"OPEN YOUR mouth, Paul,"
+said the pretty nurse. The
+hulking mass of not-quite-human
+gazed at her with vacuous eyes
+and opened its mouth. Dexterously,
+she spooned a mouthful of
+baby food into it. "Now swallow
+it, Paul. That's it. Now another."</p>
+
+<p>"In pretty bad shape, isn't
+he?"</p>
+
+<p>Nurse Peters turned to look
+at the man who had walked up
+behind her. It was Dr. Benwick,
+the new interne.</p>
+
+<p>"He's worthless to himself
+and anyone else," she said. "It's
+a shame, too; he'd be rather nice
+looking if there were any personality
+behind that face." She
+shoveled another spoonful of
+mashed asparagus into the gaping
+mouth. "Now swallow it,
+Paul."</p>
+
+<p>"How long has he been here?"
+Benwick asked, eyeing the scars
+that showed through the dark
+hair on the patient's head.</p>
+
+<p>"Nearly six years," Miss
+Peters said.</p>
+
+<p>"Hmmh! But they outlawed
+lobotomies back in the sixties."</p>
+
+<p>"Open your mouth, Paul."
+Then, to Benwick: "This was an
+accident. Bullet in the head. You
+can see the scar on the other side
+of his head."</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 15%;' />
+
+<p class="cap">THE DOCTOR moved around to
+look at the left temple.
+"Doesn't leave much of a human
+being, does it?"</p>
+
+<p>"It doesn't even leave much
+of an animal," Miss Peters said.
+"He's alive, but that's the best
+you can say for him. (Now swallow,
+Paul. That's it.) Even an
+ameba can find food for itself."</p>
+
+<p>"Yeah. Even a single cell is
+better off than he is. Chop out a
+man's forebrain and he's nothing.
+It's a case of the whole
+being <i>less</i> than the sum of its
+parts."</p>
+
+<p>"I'm glad they outlawed the
+operation on mental patients,"
+Miss Peters said, with a note of
+disgust in her voice.</p>
+
+<p>Dr. Benwick said: "It's worse
+than it looks. Do you know why
+the anti-lobotomists managed to
+get the bill passed?"</p>
+
+<p>"Let's drink some milk now,
+Paul. No, Doctor; I was only a
+little girl at that time."</p>
+
+<p>"It was a matter of electro-encephalographic
+records. They
+showed that there was electrical
+activity in the prefrontal lobes
+even after the nerves had been
+severed, which could mean a lot
+of things; but the A-L supporters
+said that it indicated that the
+forebrain was still capable of
+thinking."</p>
+
+<p>Miss Peters looked a little ill.
+"Why&mdash;that's <i>horrible</i>! I wish
+you'd never told me." She looked
+at the lump of vegetablized human
+sitting placidly at the table.
+"Do you suppose he's actually
+<i>thinking</i>, somewhere, deep inside?"</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, I doubt it," Benwick
+said hastily. "There's probably
+no real self-awareness, none at
+all. There couldn't be."</p>
+
+<p>"I suppose not," Miss Peters
+said, "but it's not pleasant to
+think of."</p>
+
+<p>"That's why they outlawed
+it," said Benwick.</p>
+
+
+
+<p class="head1">Rondo&mdash;Andante
+ma non poco</p>
+
+<p class="cap">INSANITY IS a retreat from reality,
+an escape within the
+mind from the reality outside the
+mind. But what if there is no detectable
+reality outside the mind?
+What is there to escape from?
+Suicide&mdash;death in any form&mdash;is
+an escape from life. But if
+death does not come, and can
+not be self-inflicted, what then?</p>
+
+<p>And when the pressure of
+nothingness becomes too great to
+bear, it becomes necessary to escape;
+a man under great enough
+pressure will take the easy way
+out. But if there is no easy way?
+Why, then a man must take the
+hard way.</p>
+
+<p>For Paul Wendell, there was
+no escape from his dark, senseless
+Gehenna by way of death,
+and even insanity offered no retreat;
+insanity in itself is senseless,
+and senselessness was what
+he was trying to flee. The only
+insanity possible was the psychosis
+of regression, a fleeing
+into the past, into the crystallized,
+unchanging world of
+memory.</p>
+
+<p>So Paul Wendell explored his
+past, every year, every hour,
+every second of it, searching to
+recall and savor every bit of sensation
+he had ever experienced.
+He tasted and smelled and
+touched and heard and analyzed
+each of them minutely. He
+searched through his own subjective
+thought processes, analyzing,
+checking and correlating
+them.</p>
+
+<p><i>Know thyself.</i> Time and time
+again, Wendell retreated from
+his own memories in confusion,
+or shame, or fear. But there was
+no retreat from himself, and
+eventually he had to go back and
+look again.</p>
+
+<p>He had plenty of time&mdash;all
+the time in the world. How can
+subjective time be measured
+when there is no objective
+reality?</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 15%;' />
+
+<p class="cap">EVENTUALLY, there came the
+time when there was nothing
+left to look at; nothing left
+to see; nothing to check and remember;
+nothing that he had
+not gone over in every detail.
+Again, boredom began to creep
+in. It was not the boredom of
+nothingness, but the boredom of
+the familiar. Imagination? What
+could he imagine, except combinations
+and permutations of
+his own memories? He didn't
+know&mdash;perhaps there might be
+more to it than that.</p>
+
+<p>So he exercised his imagination.
+With a wealth of material
+to draw upon, he would build
+himself worlds where he could
+move around, walk, talk, and
+make love, eat, drink and feel
+the caress of sunshine and wind.</p>
+
+<p>It was while he was engaged
+in this project that he touched
+another mind. He touched it,
+fused for a blinding second, and
+bounced away. He ran gibbering
+up and down the corridors of his
+own memory, mentally reeling
+from the shock of&mdash;<i>identification</i>!</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 15%;' />
+
+<p class="cap">WHO WAS he? Paul Wendell?
+Yes, he knew with incontrovertible
+certainty that he was
+Paul Wendell. But he also knew,
+with almost equal certainty, that
+he was Captain Sir Richard
+Francis Burton. He was living&mdash;had
+lived&mdash;in the latter half
+of the nineteenth century. But he
+knew nothing of the Captain
+other than the certainty of identity;
+nothing else of that blinding
+mind-touch remained.</p>
+
+<p>Again he scoured his memory&mdash;Paul
+Wendell's memory&mdash;checking
+and rechecking the
+area just before that semi-fatal
+bullet had crashed through his
+brain.</p>
+
+<p>And finally, at long last, he
+knew with certainty where his
+calculations had gone astray. He
+knew positively why eight men
+had gone insane.</p>
+
+<p>Then he went again in search
+of other minds, and this time he
+knew he would not bounce.</p>
+
+
+
+<p class="head1">Quasi Una Fantasia
+Poco Andante Pianissimo</p>
+
+<p class="cap">AN OLD MAN sat quietly in his
+lawnchair, puffing contentedly
+on an expensive briar pipe
+and making corrections with a
+fountain pen on a thick sheaf of
+typewritten manuscript. Around
+him stretched an expanse of
+green lawn, dotted here and
+there with squat cycads that
+looked like overgrown pineapples;
+in the distance, screening
+the big house from the road,
+stood a row of stately palms,
+their fronds stirring lightly in
+the faint, warm California
+breeze.</p>
+
+<p>The old man raised his head
+as a car pulled into the curving
+driveway. The warm hum of the
+turboelectric engine stopped, and
+a man climbed out of the vehicle.
+He walked with easy
+strides across the grass to where
+the elderly gentleman sat. He
+was lithe, of indeterminate age,
+but with a look of great determination.
+There was something
+in his face that made the old
+man vaguely uneasy&mdash;not with
+fear but with a sense of deep respect.</p>
+
+<p>"What can I do for you, sir?"</p>
+
+<p>"I have some news for you,
+Mr. President," the younger one
+said.</p>
+
+<p>The old man smiled wryly. "I
+haven't been President for fourteen
+years. Most people call me
+'Senator' or just plain 'Mister'."</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 15%;' />
+
+<p class="cap">THE YOUNGER man smiled
+back. "Very well, Senator.
+My name is Camberton, James
+Camberton. I brought some information
+that may possibly relieve
+your mind&mdash;or, again, it
+may not."</p>
+
+<p>"You sound ominous, Mr.
+Camberton. I hope you'll remember
+that I've been retired from
+the political field for nearly five
+years. What is this shattering
+news?"</p>
+
+<p>"Paul Wendell's body was
+buried yesterday."</p>
+
+<p>The Senator looked blank for
+a second, then recognition came
+into his face. "Wendell, eh?
+After all this time. Poor chap;
+he'd have been better off if he'd
+died twenty years ago." Then he
+paused and looked up. "But just
+who are you, Mr. Camberton?
+And what makes you think I
+would be particularly interested
+in Paul Wendell?"</p>
+
+<p>"Mr. Wendell wants to tell
+you that he is very grateful to
+you for having saved his life,
+Senator. If it hadn't been for
+your orders, he would have been
+left to die."</p>
+
+<p>The Senator felt strangely
+calm, although he knew he
+should feel shock. "That's ridiculous,
+sir! Mr. Wendell's brain
+was hopelessly damaged; he
+never recovered his sanity or
+control of his body. I know; I
+used to drop over to see him
+occasionally, until I finally realized
+that I was only making myself
+feel worse and doing him no
+good."</p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 700px;">
+<img src="images/002.png" width="700" height="265" alt="" title="" />
+</div>
+
+<p>"Yes, sir. And Mr. Wendell
+wants you to know how much
+he appreciated those visits."</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 15%;' />
+
+<p class="cap">THE SENATOR grew red.
+"What the devil are you
+talking about? I just said that
+Wendell couldn't talk. How
+could he have said anything to
+you? What do you know about
+this?"</p>
+
+<p>"I never said he <i>spoke</i> to me,
+Senator; he didn't. And as to
+what I know of this affair, evidently
+you don't remember my
+name. James Camberton."</p>
+
+<p>The Senator frowned. "The
+name is familiar, but&mdash;" Then
+his eyes went wide. "Camberton!
+You were one of the eight men
+who&mdash;Why, <i>you're the man
+who shot Wendell</i>!"</p>
+
+<p>Camberton pulled up an
+empty lawnchair and sat down.
+"That's right, Senator; but
+there's nothing to be afraid of.
+Would you like to hear about
+it?"</p>
+
+<p>"I suppose I must." The old
+man's voice was so low that it
+was scarcely audible. "Tell me&mdash;were
+the other seven released,
+too? Have&mdash;have you all regained
+your sanity? Do you remember&mdash;"
+He stopped.</p>
+
+<p>"Do we remember the extra-sensory
+perception formula? Yes,
+we do; all eight of us remember
+it well. It was based on faulty
+premises, and incomplete, of
+course; but in its own way it was
+workable enough. We have something
+much better now."</p>
+
+<p>The old man shook his head
+slowly. "I failed, then. Such an
+idea is as fatal to society as we
+know it as a virus plague. I
+tried to keep you men quarantined,
+but I failed. After all
+those years of insanity, now the
+chess game begins; the poker
+game is over."</p>
+
+<p>"It's worse than that," Camberton
+said, chuckling softly.
+"Or, actually, it's much better."</p>
+
+<p>"I don't understand; explain
+it to me. I'm an old man, and I
+may not live to see my world
+collapse. I hope I don't."</p>
+
+<p>Camberton said: "I'll try to
+explain in words, Senator.
+They're inadequate, but a fuller
+explanation will come later."</p>
+
+<p>And he launched into the
+story of the two-decade search of
+Paul Wendell.</p>
+
+
+
+<p class="head1">Coda&mdash;Andantino</p>
+
+<p class="cap">"TELEPATHY? Time travel?"
+After three hours of listening,
+the ex-President was still
+not sure he understood.</p>
+
+<p>"Think of it this way," Camberton
+said. "Think of the mind
+at any given instant as being surrounded
+by a shield&mdash;a shield
+of privacy&mdash;a shield which you,
+yourself have erected, though
+unconsciously. It's a perfect insulator
+against telepathic prying
+by others. You feel you <i>have</i> to
+have it in order to retain your
+privacy&mdash;your sense of identity,
+even. But here's the kicker: even
+though no one else can get in,
+<i>you</i> can't get out!</p>
+
+<p>"You can call this shield 'self-consciousness'&mdash;perhaps
+<i>shame</i>
+is a better word. Everyone has it,
+to some degree; no telepathic
+thought can break through it.
+Occasionally, some people will
+relax it for a fraction of a second,
+but the instant they receive something,
+the barrier goes up again."</p>
+
+<p>"Then how is telepathy possible?
+How can you go through
+it?" The Senator looked puzzled
+as he thoughtfully tamped tobacco
+into his briar.</p>
+
+<p>"You don't go <i>through</i> it; you
+go <i>around</i> it."</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 15%;' />
+
+<p class="cap">"NOW WAIT a minute; that
+sounds like some of those
+fourth dimension stories I've
+read. I recall that when I was
+younger, I read a murder mystery&mdash;something
+about a morgue, I
+think. At any rate, the murder
+was committed inside a locked
+room; no one could possibly
+have gotten in or out. One of
+the characters suggested that the
+murderer traveled through
+the fourth dimension in order to
+get at the victim. He didn't go
+through the walls; he went
+around them." The Senator
+puffed a match flame into the
+bowl of his pipe, his eyes on
+the younger man. "Is that what
+you're driving at?"</p>
+
+<p>"Exactly," agreed Camberton.
+"The fourth dimension. Time.
+You must go back in time to an
+instant when that wall did not
+exist. An infant has no shame,
+no modesty, no shield against
+the world. You must travel back
+down your own four-dimensional
+tube of memory in order to get
+outside it, and to do that, you
+have to know your own mind
+completely, and you must be
+<i>sure</i> you know it.</p>
+
+<p>"For only if you know your
+own mind can you communicate
+with another mind. Because, at
+the 'instant' of contact, you <i>become</i>
+that person; you must enter
+his own memory at the
+beginning and go <i>up</i> the hyper-tube.
+You will have all his memories,
+his hopes, his fears, his
+<i>sense of identity</i>. Unless you
+know&mdash;beyond any trace of
+doubt&mdash;who <i>you</i> are, the result
+is insanity."</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 15%;' />
+
+<p class="cap">THE SENATOR puffed his pipe
+for a moment, then shook
+his head. "It sounds like Oriental
+mysticism to me. If you can
+travel in time, you'd be able to
+change the past."</p>
+
+<p>"Not at all," Camberton said;
+"that's like saying that if you
+read a book, the author's words
+will change.</p>
+
+<p>"Time isn't like that. Look,
+suppose you had a long trough
+filled with supercooled water. At
+one end, you drop in a piece of
+ice. Immediately the water begins
+to freeze; the crystallization
+front moves toward the other
+end of the trough. Behind that
+front, there is ice&mdash;frozen, immovable,
+unchangeable. Ahead
+of it there is water&mdash;fluid, mobile,
+changeable.</p>
+
+<p>"The instant we call 'the present'
+is like that crystallization
+front. The past is unchangeable;
+the future is flexible. But they
+both exist."</p>
+
+<p>"I see&mdash;at least, I think I
+do. And you can do all this?"</p>
+
+<p>"Not yet," said Camberton;
+"not completely. My mind isn't
+as strong as Wendell's, nor as
+capable. I'm not the&mdash;shall we
+say&mdash;the superman he is; perhaps
+I never will be. But I'm
+learning&mdash;I'm learning. After
+all, it took Paul twenty years to
+do the trick under the most favorable
+circumstances imaginable."</p>
+
+<p>"I see." The Senator smoked
+his pipe in silence for a long
+time. Camberton lit a cigaret and
+said nothing. After a time, the
+Senator took the briar from his
+mouth and began to tap the bowl
+gently on the heel of his palm.
+"Mr. Camberton, why do you
+tell me all this? I still have influence
+with the Senate; the present
+President is a prot&eacute;g&eacute; of mine.
+It wouldn't be too difficult to get
+you men&mdash;ah&mdash;put away
+again. I have no desire to see
+our society ruined, our world destroyed.
+Why do you tell me?"</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 15%;' />
+
+<p class="cap">CAMBERTON smiled apologetically.
+"I'm afraid you might
+find it a little difficult to put us
+away again, sir; but that's not the
+point. You see, we need you. We
+have no desire to destroy our
+present culture until we have designed
+a better one to replace it.</p>
+
+<p>"You are one of the greatest
+living statesmen, Senator; you
+have a wealth of knowledge and
+ability that can never be replaced;
+knowledge and ability
+that will help us to design a culture
+and a civilization that will
+be as far above this one as this
+one is above the wolf pack. We
+want you to come in with us,
+help us; we want you to be one
+of us."</p>
+
+<p>"I? I'm an old man, Mr. Camberton.
+I will be dead before this
+civilization falls; how can I help
+build a new one? And how could
+I, at my age, be expected to learn
+this technique?"</p>
+
+<p>"Paul Wendell says you can.
+He says you have one of the
+strongest minds now existing."</p>
+
+<p>The Senator put his pipe in
+his jacket pocket. "You know,
+Camberton, you keep referring
+to Wendell in the present tense.
+I thought you said he was dead."</p>
+
+<p>Again Camberton gave him
+the odd smile. "I didn't say that,
+Senator; I said they buried his
+body. That's quite a different
+thing. You see, before the poor,
+useless hulk that held his blasted
+brain died, Paul gave the eight
+of us his memories; he gave us
+<i>himself</i>. The mind is not the
+brain, Senator; we don't know
+what it <i>is</i> yet, but we do know
+what it <i>isn't</i>. Paul's poor, damaged
+brain is dead, but his memories,
+his thought processes, the
+very essence of all that was Paul
+Wendell is still very much with
+us.</p>
+
+<p>"Do you begin to see now
+why we want you to come in
+with us? There are nine of us
+now, but we need the tenth&mdash;you.
+Will you come?"</p>
+
+<p>"I&mdash;I'll have to think it
+over," the old statesman said in
+a voice that had a faint quaver.
+"I'll have to think it over."</p>
+
+<p>But they both knew what his
+answer would be.</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="trans1"><p><b>Transcriber's Note:</b><br />
+This etext was produced from <i>Future Science Fiction</i> No. 30,
+1956. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
+copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
+typographical errors have been corrected without note.</p></div>
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+<pre>
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Suite Mentale, by Gordon Randall Garrett
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Suite Mentale, by Gordon Randall Garrett
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Suite Mentale
+
+Author: Gordon Randall Garrett
+
+Illustrator: EMSH
+
+Release Date: September 25, 2007 [EBook #22763]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SUITE MENTALE ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online
+Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+    _Just about a year ago, two enthusiastic young men came to see me,
+    and during the course of the visit announced that they were starting
+    a campaign to make their living in science fiction--and also to
+    become "names" in the best science fiction magazines. They planned
+    to collaborate on some material, and write on their own as well,
+    intending to make the grade both ways._
+
+    _One of the pair was a well-known science fiction fan, who had
+    appeared once or twice in the "pro mags," as fans designate journals
+    like this one. The other was Randall Garrett, who had previously
+    sold a respectable number of stories to various magazines in the
+    science fiction and fantasy field._
+
+    _I shall not try to insult your intelligence by stating that I told
+    them I knew they could do it; on the contrary, I larded doubt with
+    sympathy. However, this story, and Robert A. Madle's "Inside Science
+    Fiction" will show how wrong I was!_
+
+
+
+
+SUITE MENTALE
+
+by Randall Garrett
+
+_Illustrated by EMSH_
+
+
+
+
+OVERTURE--ADAGIO MISTERIOSO
+
+The neurosurgeon peeled the thin surgical gloves from his hands as the
+nurse blotted the perspiration from his forehead for the last time after
+the long, grueling hours.
+
+"They're waiting outside for you, Doctor," she said quietly.
+
+The neurosurgeon nodded wordlessly. Behind him, three assistants were
+still finishing up the operation, attending to the little finishing
+touches that did not require the brilliant hand of the specialist. Such
+things as suturing up a scalp, and applying bandages.
+
+The nurse took the sterile mask--no longer sterile now--while the doctor
+washed and dried his hands.
+
+"Where are they?" he asked finally. "Out in the hall, I suppose?"
+
+[Illustration]
+
+She nodded. "You'll probably have to push them out of the way to get out
+of Surgery."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Her prediction was almost perfect. The group of men in conservative
+business suits, wearing conservative ties, and holding conservative,
+soft, felt hats in their hands were standing just outside the door. Dr.
+Mallon glanced at the five of them, letting his eyes stop on the face of
+the tallest. "He may live," the doctor said briefly.
+
+"You don't sound very optimistic, Dr. Mallon," said the FBI man.
+
+Mallon shook his head. "Frankly, I'm not. He was shot laterally, just
+above the right temple, with what looks to me like a .357 magnum pistol
+slug. It's in there--" He gestured back toward the room he had just
+left. "--you can have it, if you want. It passed completely through the
+brain, lodging on the other side of the head, just inside the skull.
+What kept him alive, I'll never know, but I can guarantee that he might
+as well be dead; it was a rather nasty way to lobotomize a man, but it
+was effective, I can assure you."
+
+The Federal agent frowned puzzledly. "Lobotomized? Like those operations
+they do on psychotics?"
+
+"Similar," said Mallon. "But no psychotic was ever butchered up like
+this; and what I had to do to him to save his life didn't help
+anything."
+
+The men looked at each other, then the big one said: "I'm sure you did
+the best you could, Dr. Mallon."
+
+The neurosurgeon rubbed the back of his hand across his forehead and
+looked steadily into the eyes of the big man.
+
+"You wanted him alive," he said slowly, "and I have a duty to save life.
+But frankly, I think we'll all eventually wish we had the common human
+decency to let Paul Wendell die. Excuse me, gentlemen; I don't feel
+well." He turned abruptly and strode off down the hall.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+One of the men in the conservative suits said: "Louis Pasteur lived
+through most of his life with only half a brain and he never even knew
+it, Frank; maybe--"
+
+"Yeah. Maybe," said the big man. "But I don't know whether to hope he
+does or hope he doesn't." He used his right thumbnail to pick a bit of
+microscopic dust from beneath his left index finger, studying the
+operation without actually seeing it. "Meanwhile, we've got to decide
+what to do about the rest of those screwballs. Wendell was the only sane
+one, and therefore the most dangerous--but the rest of them aren't what
+you'd call safe, either."
+
+The others nodded in a chorus of silent agreement.
+
+
+NOCTURNE--TEMPO DI VALSE
+
+"Now what the hell's the matter with me?" thought Paul Wendell. He could
+feel nothing. Absolutely nothing: No taste, no sight, no hearing, no
+anything. "Am I breathing?" He couldn't feel any breathing. Nor, for
+that matter, could he feel heat, nor cold, nor pain.
+
+"Am I dead? No. At least, I don't _feel_ dead. Who am I? What am I?" No
+answer. _Cogito, ergo sum._ What did that mean? There was something
+quite definitely wrong, but he couldn't quite tell what it was. Ideas
+seemed to come from nowhere; fragments of concepts that seemed to have
+no referents. What did that mean? What is a referent? A concept? He felt
+he knew intuitively what they meant, but what use they were he didn't
+know.
+
+There was something wrong, and he had to find out what it was. And he
+had to find out through the only method of investigation left open to
+him.
+
+So he thought about it.
+
+
+SONATA--ALLEGRO CON BRIO
+
+The President of the United States finished reading the sheaf of papers
+before him, laid them neatly to one side, and looked up at the big man
+seated across the desk from him.
+
+"Is this everything, Frank?" he asked.
+
+"That's everything, Mr. President; everything we know. We've got eight
+men locked up in St. Elizabeth's, all of them absolutely psychotic, and
+one human vegetable named Paul Wendell. We can't get anything out of
+them."
+
+The President leaned back in his chair. "I really can't quite understand
+it. Extra-sensory perception--why should it drive men insane? Wendell's
+papers don't say enough. He claims it can be mathematically worked
+out--that he _did_ work it out--but we don't have any proof of that."
+
+The man named Frank scowled. "Wasn't that demonstration of his proof
+enough?"
+
+A small, graying, intelligent-faced man who had been sitting silently,
+listening to the conversation, spoke at last. "Mr. President, I'm afraid
+I still don't completely understand the problem. If we could go over it,
+and get it straightened out--" He left the sentence hanging expectantly.
+
+"Certainly. This Paul Wendell is a--well, he called himself a psionic
+mathematician. Actually, he had quite a respectable reputation in the
+mathematical field. He did very important work in cybernetic theory, but
+he dropped it several years ago--said that the human mind couldn't be
+worked at from a mechanistic angle. He studied various branches of
+psychology, and eventually dropped them all. He built several of those
+queer psionic machines--gold detectors, and something he called a hexer.
+He's done a lot of different things, evidently."
+
+"Sounds like he was unable to make up his mind," said the small man.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The President shook his head firmly. "Not at all. He did new, creative
+work in every one of the fields he touched. He was considered something
+of a mystic, but not a crackpot, or a screwball.
+
+"But, anyhow, the point is that he evidently found what he'd been
+looking for for years. He asked for an appointment with me; I okayed the
+request because of his reputation. He would only tell me that he'd
+stumbled across something that was vital to national defense and the
+future of mankind; but I felt that, in view of the work he had done, he
+was entitled to a hearing."
+
+"And he proved to you, beyond any doubt, that he had this power?" the
+small man asked.
+
+Frank shifted his big body uneasily in his chair. "He certainly did, Mr.
+Secretary."
+
+The President nodded. "I know it might not sound too impressive when
+heard second-hand, but Paul Wendell could tell me more of what was going
+on in the world than our Central Intelligence agents have been able to
+dig up in twenty years. And he claimed he could teach the trick to
+anyone.
+
+"I told him I'd think it over. Naturally, my first step was to make sure
+that he was followed twenty-four hours a day. A man with information
+like that simply could not be allowed to fall into enemy hands." The
+President scowled, as though angry with himself. "I'm sorry to say that
+I didn't realize the full potentialities of what he had said for several
+days--not until I got Frank's first report."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+"You could hardly be expected to, Mr. President," Frank said. "After
+all, something like that is pretty heady stuff."
+
+"I think I follow you," said the Secretary. "You found he was already
+teaching this trick to others."
+
+The President glanced at the FBI man. Frank said: "That's right; he was
+holding meetings--classes, I suppose you'd call them--twice a week.
+There were eight men who came regularly."
+
+"That's when I gave the order to have them all picked up. Can you
+imagine what would happen if _everybody_ could be taught to use this
+ability? Or even a small minority?"
+
+"They'd rule the world," said the Secretary softly.
+
+The President shrugged that off. "That's a small item, really. The point
+is that _nothing_ would be hidden from _anyone_.
+
+"The way we play the Game of Life today is similar to playing poker. We
+keep a straight face and play the cards tight to our chest. But what
+would happen if everyone could see everyone else's cards? It would cease
+to be a game of strategy, and become a game of pure chance.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+"We'd have to start playing Life another way. It would be like chess,
+where you can see the opponent's every move. But in all human history
+there has never been a social analogue for chess. That's why Paul
+Wendell and his group had to be stopped--for a while at least."
+
+"But what could you have done with them?" asked the Secretary. "Imprison
+them summarily? Have them shot? What _would_ you have done?"
+
+The President's face became graver than ever. "I had not yet made that
+decision. Thank Heaven, it has been taken out of my hands."
+
+"One of his own men shot him?"
+
+"That's right," said the big FBI man. "We went into his apartment an
+instant too late. We found eight madmen and a near-corpse. We're not
+sure what happened, and we're not sure we want to know. Anything that
+can drive eight reasonably stable men off the deep end in less than an
+hour is nothing to meddle around with."
+
+"I wonder what went wrong?" asked the Secretary of no one in particular.
+
+
+SCHERZO--PRESTO
+
+Paul Wendell, too, was wondering what went wrong.
+
+Slowly, over a period of immeasurable time, memory seeped back into him.
+Bits of memory, here and there, crept in from nowhere, sometimes to be
+lost again, sometimes to remain. Once he found himself mentally humming
+an odd, rather funeral tune:
+
+    _Now, though you'd have said that the head was dead,
+      For its owner dead was he,
+    It stood on its neck with a smile well-bred,
+      And bowed three times to me.
+    It was none of your impudent, off-hand nods...._
+
+Wendell stopped and wondered what the devil seemed so important about
+the song.
+
+Slowly, slowly, memory returned.
+
+When he suddenly realized, with crashing finality, where he was and what
+had happened to him, Paul Wendell went violently insane. Or he would
+have, if he could have become violent.
+
+
+MARCHE FUNEBRE--LENTO
+
+"Open your mouth, Paul," said the pretty nurse. The hulking mass of
+not-quite-human gazed at her with vacuous eyes and opened its mouth.
+Dexterously, she spooned a mouthful of baby food into it. "Now swallow
+it, Paul. That's it. Now another."
+
+"In pretty bad shape, isn't he?"
+
+Nurse Peters turned to look at the man who had walked up behind her. It
+was Dr. Benwick, the new interne.
+
+"He's worthless to himself and anyone else," she said. "It's a shame,
+too; he'd be rather nice looking if there were any personality behind
+that face." She shoveled another spoonful of mashed asparagus into the
+gaping mouth. "Now swallow it, Paul."
+
+"How long has he been here?" Benwick asked, eyeing the scars that showed
+through the dark hair on the patient's head.
+
+"Nearly six years," Miss Peters said.
+
+"Hmmh! But they outlawed lobotomies back in the sixties."
+
+"Open your mouth, Paul." Then, to Benwick: "This was an accident. Bullet
+in the head. You can see the scar on the other side of his head."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The doctor moved around to look at the left temple. "Doesn't leave much
+of a human being, does it?"
+
+"It doesn't even leave much of an animal," Miss Peters said. "He's
+alive, but that's the best you can say for him. (Now swallow, Paul.
+That's it.) Even an ameba can find food for itself."
+
+"Yeah. Even a single cell is better off than he is. Chop out a man's
+forebrain and he's nothing. It's a case of the whole being _less_ than
+the sum of its parts."
+
+"I'm glad they outlawed the operation on mental patients," Miss Peters
+said, with a note of disgust in her voice.
+
+Dr. Benwick said: "It's worse than it looks. Do you know why the
+anti-lobotomists managed to get the bill passed?"
+
+"Let's drink some milk now, Paul. No, Doctor; I was only a little girl
+at that time."
+
+"It was a matter of electro-encephalographic records. They showed that
+there was electrical activity in the prefrontal lobes even after the
+nerves had been severed, which could mean a lot of things; but the A-L
+supporters said that it indicated that the forebrain was still capable
+of thinking."
+
+Miss Peters looked a little ill. "Why--that's _horrible_! I wish you'd
+never told me." She looked at the lump of vegetablized human sitting
+placidly at the table. "Do you suppose he's actually _thinking_,
+somewhere, deep inside?"
+
+"Oh, I doubt it," Benwick said hastily. "There's probably no real
+self-awareness, none at all. There couldn't be."
+
+"I suppose not," Miss Peters said, "but it's not pleasant to think of."
+
+"That's why they outlawed it," said Benwick.
+
+
+RONDO--ANDANTE MA NON POCO
+
+Insanity is a retreat from reality, an escape within the mind from the
+reality outside the mind. But what if there is no detectable reality
+outside the mind? What is there to escape from? Suicide--death in any
+form--is an escape from life. But if death does not come, and can not be
+self-inflicted, what then?
+
+And when the pressure of nothingness becomes too great to bear, it
+becomes necessary to escape; a man under great enough pressure will take
+the easy way out. But if there is no easy way? Why, then a man must take
+the hard way.
+
+For Paul Wendell, there was no escape from his dark, senseless Gehenna
+by way of death, and even insanity offered no retreat; insanity in
+itself is senseless, and senselessness was what he was trying to flee.
+The only insanity possible was the psychosis of regression, a fleeing
+into the past, into the crystallized, unchanging world of memory.
+
+So Paul Wendell explored his past, every year, every hour, every second
+of it, searching to recall and savor every bit of sensation he had ever
+experienced. He tasted and smelled and touched and heard and analyzed
+each of them minutely. He searched through his own subjective thought
+processes, analyzing, checking and correlating them.
+
+_Know thyself._ Time and time again, Wendell retreated from his own
+memories in confusion, or shame, or fear. But there was no retreat from
+himself, and eventually he had to go back and look again.
+
+He had plenty of time--all the time in the world. How can subjective
+time be measured when there is no objective reality?
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Eventually, there came the time when there was nothing left to look at;
+nothing left to see; nothing to check and remember; nothing that he had
+not gone over in every detail. Again, boredom began to creep in. It was
+not the boredom of nothingness, but the boredom of the familiar.
+Imagination? What could he imagine, except combinations and permutations
+of his own memories? He didn't know--perhaps there might be more to it
+than that.
+
+So he exercised his imagination. With a wealth of material to draw upon,
+he would build himself worlds where he could move around, walk, talk,
+and make love, eat, drink and feel the caress of sunshine and wind.
+
+It was while he was engaged in this project that he touched another
+mind. He touched it, fused for a blinding second, and bounced away. He
+ran gibbering up and down the corridors of his own memory, mentally
+reeling from the shock of--_identification_!
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Who was he? Paul Wendell? Yes, he knew with incontrovertible certainty
+that he was Paul Wendell. But he also knew, with almost equal certainty,
+that he was Captain Sir Richard Francis Burton. He was living--had
+lived--in the latter half of the nineteenth century. But he knew nothing
+of the Captain other than the certainty of identity; nothing else of
+that blinding mind-touch remained.
+
+Again he scoured his memory--Paul Wendell's memory--checking and
+rechecking the area just before that semi-fatal bullet had crashed
+through his brain.
+
+And finally, at long last, he knew with certainty where his calculations
+had gone astray. He knew positively why eight men had gone insane.
+
+Then he went again in search of other minds, and this time he knew he
+would not bounce.
+
+
+QUASI UNA FANTASIA POCO ANDANTE PIANISSIMO
+
+An old man sat quietly in his lawnchair, puffing contentedly on an
+expensive briar pipe and making corrections with a fountain pen on a
+thick sheaf of typewritten manuscript. Around him stretched an expanse
+of green lawn, dotted here and there with squat cycads that looked like
+overgrown pineapples; in the distance, screening the big house from the
+road, stood a row of stately palms, their fronds stirring lightly in the
+faint, warm California breeze.
+
+The old man raised his head as a car pulled into the curving driveway.
+The warm hum of the turboelectric engine stopped, and a man climbed out
+of the vehicle. He walked with easy strides across the grass to where
+the elderly gentleman sat. He was lithe, of indeterminate age, but with
+a look of great determination. There was something in his face that made
+the old man vaguely uneasy--not with fear but with a sense of deep
+respect.
+
+"What can I do for you, sir?"
+
+"I have some news for you, Mr. President," the younger one said.
+
+The old man smiled wryly. "I haven't been President for fourteen years.
+Most people call me 'Senator' or just plain 'Mister'."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The younger man smiled back. "Very well, Senator. My name is Camberton,
+James Camberton. I brought some information that may possibly relieve
+your mind--or, again, it may not."
+
+"You sound ominous, Mr. Camberton. I hope you'll remember that I've been
+retired from the political field for nearly five years. What is this
+shattering news?"
+
+"Paul Wendell's body was buried yesterday."
+
+The Senator looked blank for a second, then recognition came into his
+face. "Wendell, eh? After all this time. Poor chap; he'd have been
+better off if he'd died twenty years ago." Then he paused and looked up.
+"But just who are you, Mr. Camberton? And what makes you think I would
+be particularly interested in Paul Wendell?"
+
+"Mr. Wendell wants to tell you that he is very grateful to you for
+having saved his life, Senator. If it hadn't been for your orders, he
+would have been left to die."
+
+The Senator felt strangely calm, although he knew he should feel shock.
+"That's ridiculous, sir! Mr. Wendell's brain was hopelessly damaged; he
+never recovered his sanity or control of his body. I know; I used to
+drop over to see him occasionally, until I finally realized that I was
+only making myself feel worse and doing him no good."
+
+[Illustration]
+
+"Yes, sir. And Mr. Wendell wants you to know how much he appreciated
+those visits."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The Senator grew red. "What the devil are you talking about? I just said
+that Wendell couldn't talk. How could he have said anything to you? What
+do you know about this?"
+
+"I never said he _spoke_ to me, Senator; he didn't. And as to what I
+know of this affair, evidently you don't remember my name. James
+Camberton."
+
+The Senator frowned. "The name is familiar, but--" Then his eyes went
+wide. "Camberton! You were one of the eight men who--Why, _you're the
+man who shot Wendell_!"
+
+Camberton pulled up an empty lawnchair and sat down. "That's right,
+Senator; but there's nothing to be afraid of. Would you like to hear
+about it?"
+
+"I suppose I must." The old man's voice was so low that it was scarcely
+audible. "Tell me--were the other seven released, too? Have--have you
+all regained your sanity? Do you remember--" He stopped.
+
+"Do we remember the extra-sensory perception formula? Yes, we do; all
+eight of us remember it well. It was based on faulty premises, and
+incomplete, of course; but in its own way it was workable enough. We
+have something much better now."
+
+The old man shook his head slowly. "I failed, then. Such an idea is as
+fatal to society as we know it as a virus plague. I tried to keep you
+men quarantined, but I failed. After all those years of insanity, now
+the chess game begins; the poker game is over."
+
+"It's worse than that," Camberton said, chuckling softly. "Or, actually,
+it's much better."
+
+"I don't understand; explain it to me. I'm an old man, and I may not
+live to see my world collapse. I hope I don't."
+
+Camberton said: "I'll try to explain in words, Senator. They're
+inadequate, but a fuller explanation will come later."
+
+And he launched into the story of the two-decade search of Paul Wendell.
+
+
+CODA--ANDANTINO
+
+"Telepathy? Time travel?" After three hours of listening, the
+ex-President was still not sure he understood.
+
+"Think of it this way," Camberton said. "Think of the mind at any given
+instant as being surrounded by a shield--a shield of privacy--a shield
+which you, yourself have erected, though unconsciously. It's a perfect
+insulator against telepathic prying by others. You feel you _have_ to
+have it in order to retain your privacy--your sense of identity, even.
+But here's the kicker: even though no one else can get in, _you_ can't
+get out!
+
+"You can call this shield 'self-consciousness'--perhaps _shame_ is a
+better word. Everyone has it, to some degree; no telepathic thought can
+break through it. Occasionally, some people will relax it for a fraction
+of a second, but the instant they receive something, the barrier goes up
+again."
+
+"Then how is telepathy possible? How can you go through it?" The Senator
+looked puzzled as he thoughtfully tamped tobacco into his briar.
+
+"You don't go _through_ it; you go _around_ it."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+"Now wait a minute; that sounds like some of those fourth dimension
+stories I've read. I recall that when I was younger, I read a murder
+mystery--something about a morgue, I think. At any rate, the murder was
+committed inside a locked room; no one could possibly have gotten in or
+out. One of the characters suggested that the murderer traveled through
+the fourth dimension in order to get at the victim. He didn't go through
+the walls; he went around them." The Senator puffed a match flame into
+the bowl of his pipe, his eyes on the younger man. "Is that what you're
+driving at?"
+
+"Exactly," agreed Camberton. "The fourth dimension. Time. You must go
+back in time to an instant when that wall did not exist. An infant has
+no shame, no modesty, no shield against the world. You must travel back
+down your own four-dimensional tube of memory in order to get outside
+it, and to do that, you have to know your own mind completely, and you
+must be _sure_ you know it.
+
+"For only if you know your own mind can you communicate with another
+mind. Because, at the 'instant' of contact, you _become_ that person;
+you must enter his own memory at the beginning and go _up_ the
+hyper-tube. You will have all his memories, his hopes, his fears, his
+_sense of identity_. Unless you know--beyond any trace of doubt--who
+_you_ are, the result is insanity."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The Senator puffed his pipe for a moment, then shook his head. "It
+sounds like Oriental mysticism to me. If you can travel in time, you'd
+be able to change the past."
+
+"Not at all," Camberton said; "that's like saying that if you read a
+book, the author's words will change.
+
+"Time isn't like that. Look, suppose you had a long trough filled with
+supercooled water. At one end, you drop in a piece of ice. Immediately
+the water begins to freeze; the crystallization front moves toward the
+other end of the trough. Behind that front, there is ice--frozen,
+immovable, unchangeable. Ahead of it there is water--fluid, mobile,
+changeable.
+
+"The instant we call 'the present' is like that crystallization front.
+The past is unchangeable; the future is flexible. But they both exist."
+
+"I see--at least, I think I do. And you can do all this?"
+
+"Not yet," said Camberton; "not completely. My mind isn't as strong as
+Wendell's, nor as capable. I'm not the--shall we say--the superman he
+is; perhaps I never will be. But I'm learning--I'm learning. After all,
+it took Paul twenty years to do the trick under the most favorable
+circumstances imaginable."
+
+"I see." The Senator smoked his pipe in silence for a long time.
+Camberton lit a cigaret and said nothing. After a time, the Senator took
+the briar from his mouth and began to tap the bowl gently on the heel of
+his palm. "Mr. Camberton, why do you tell me all this? I still have
+influence with the Senate; the present President is a protege of mine.
+It wouldn't be too difficult to get you men--ah--put away again. I have
+no desire to see our society ruined, our world destroyed. Why do you
+tell me?"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Camberton smiled apologetically. "I'm afraid you might find it a little
+difficult to put us away again, sir; but that's not the point. You see,
+we need you. We have no desire to destroy our present culture until we
+have designed a better one to replace it.
+
+"You are one of the greatest living statesmen, Senator; you have a
+wealth of knowledge and ability that can never be replaced; knowledge
+and ability that will help us to design a culture and a civilization
+that will be as far above this one as this one is above the wolf pack.
+We want you to come in with us, help us; we want you to be one of us."
+
+"I? I'm an old man, Mr. Camberton. I will be dead before this
+civilization falls; how can I help build a new one? And how could I, at
+my age, be expected to learn this technique?"
+
+"Paul Wendell says you can. He says you have one of the strongest minds
+now existing."
+
+The Senator put his pipe in his jacket pocket. "You know, Camberton, you
+keep referring to Wendell in the present tense. I thought you said he
+was dead."
+
+Again Camberton gave him the odd smile. "I didn't say that, Senator; I
+said they buried his body. That's quite a different thing. You see,
+before the poor, useless hulk that held his blasted brain died, Paul
+gave the eight of us his memories; he gave us _himself_. The mind is not
+the brain, Senator; we don't know what it _is_ yet, but we do know what
+it _isn't_. Paul's poor, damaged brain is dead, but his memories, his
+thought processes, the very essence of all that was Paul Wendell is
+still very much with us.
+
+"Do you begin to see now why we want you to come in with us? There are
+nine of us now, but we need the tenth--you. Will you come?"
+
+"I--I'll have to think it over," the old statesman said in a voice that
+had a faint quaver. "I'll have to think it over."
+
+But they both knew what his answer would be.
+
+
+
+
+Transcriber's Note
+
+This etext was produced from _Future Science Fiction_ No. 30, 1956.
+Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright
+on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors
+have been corrected without note.
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Suite Mentale, by Gordon Randall Garrett
+
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