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diff --git a/22763-h/22763-h.htm b/22763-h/22763-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8c3d10d --- /dev/null +++ b/22763-h/22763-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1607 @@ +<!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"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + p {margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em;} + + h1 {text-align: left; margin-top: 2em; clear: both;} + + h2 {text-align: right; clear: both;} + + hr {width: 33%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both;} + + body {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + + .blockquot{margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 20%;} + + .figcenter {margin: 1em auto; text-align: center;} + + .poem {margin-left:10%; margin-right:10%; text-align: left;} + .poem br {display: none;} + .poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + .poem span.i0 {display: block; margin-left: 0em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i2 {display: block; margin-left: 2em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + + .trans1 {border: solid 1px; margin: 3em 15%; padding: .25em 1em; text-align: justify;} + + img {border: none} + + p.cap:first-letter {float: left; clear: left; + margin: 0 0.1em 0 0; + padding:0; + line-height: .8em; font-size: 2.5em;} + + .illo {margin-bottom: 2em; margin-top: 1.5em; font-size: smaller; + font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; text-align: right;} + + .head1 {text-align: center; font-variant: small-caps; font-size: larger; margin-top: 3em;} + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> + </head> +<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—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—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—no longer sterile now—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—" 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."</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—"</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—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—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—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—why +should it drive +men insane? Wendell's papers +don't say enough. He claims it +can be mathematically worked +out—that he <i>did</i> work it out—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—" He +left the sentence hanging expectantly.</p> + +<p>"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."</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—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—classes, +I suppose you'd call +them—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—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—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—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—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—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—death in any form—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—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—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—<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—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.</p> + +<p>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.</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—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—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—" Then +his eyes went wide. "Camberton! +You were one of the eight men +who—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—were +the other seven released, +too? Have—have you all regained +your sanity? Do you remember—" +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—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—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 <i>have</i> 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, +<i>you</i> can't get out!</p> + +<p>"You can call this shield 'self-consciousness'—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—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—beyond any trace of +doubt—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—frozen, immovable, +unchangeable. Ahead +of it there is water—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—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—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."</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 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?"</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—you. +Will you come?"</p> + +<p>"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."</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 + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SUITE MENTALE *** + +***** This file should be named 22763-h.htm or 22763-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/2/7/6/22763/ + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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