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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/32353-h.zip b/32353-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..1b6ccbe --- /dev/null +++ b/32353-h.zip diff --git a/32353-h/32353-h.htm b/32353-h/32353-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..378e891 --- /dev/null +++ b/32353-h/32353-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1346 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<!-- $Id: header.txt 236 2009-12-07 18:57:00Z vlsimpson $ --> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Mind Digger, by Winston Marks. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; +} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; +} + +table { + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; +} + +.pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; +} /* page numbers */ + +.linenum { + position: absolute; + top: auto; + left: 4%; +} /* poetry number */ + +.blockquot { + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +.sidenote { + width: 20%; + padding-bottom: .5em; + padding-top: .5em; + padding-left: .5em; + padding-right: .5em; + margin-left: 1em; + float: right; + clear: right; + margin-top: 1em; + font-size: smaller; + color: black; + background: #eeeeee; + border: dashed 1px; +} + +.bb {border-bottom: solid 2px;} + +.bl {border-left: solid 2px;} + +.bt {border-top: solid 2px;} + +.br {border-right: solid 2px;} + +.bbox {border: solid 2px;} + +.center {text-align: center;} + +.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + +.u {text-decoration: underline;} + +.caption {font-weight: bold;} + +/* Images */ +.figcenter { + margin: auto; + text-align: center; +} + +.figleft { + float: left; + clear: left; + margin-left: 0; + margin-bottom: 1em; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-right: 1em; + padding: 0; + text-align: center; +} + +.figright { + float: right; + clear: right; + margin-left: 1em; + margin-bottom: + 1em; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-right: 0; + padding: 0; + text-align: center; +} + +/* Footnotes */ +.footnotes {border: dashed 1px;} + +.footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + +.footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 84%; text-align: right;} + +.fnanchor { + vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: + none; +} + +/* Poetry */ +.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; +} + +.poem span.i4 { + display: block; + margin-left: 4em; + padding-left: 3em; + text-indent: -3em; +} + + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Mind Digger, by Winston Marks + +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: The Mind Digger + +Author: Winston Marks + +Release Date: May 12, 2010 [EBook #32353] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MIND DIGGER *** + + + + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" alt=""/> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + + + +<h1>The Mind Digger</h1> + +<h2>By Winston Marks</h2> + +<p>[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Imagination Stories of +Science and Fantasy April 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any +evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/illus1.jpg" alt=""/> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<div class="sidenote">There was a reason why his scripts were smash hits—they had +realism. And why not? He was reliving every scene and emotion in them!</div> + + +<p>It was really a pretty fair script, and it caught me at a moment when +every playwright worth his salt was playing in France, prostituting in +Hollywood or sulking in a slump. I needed a play badly, so I told Ellie +to get this unknown up to my office and have a contract ready.</p> + +<p>When she announced him on the inter-com, my door banged open and a +youngster in blue-jeans, sweatshirt and a stubbly crew-cut popped in +like a carelessly aimed champagne cork.</p> + +<p>I said, "I'm sorry, son, but I have an interview right now. Besides we +aren't casting yet. Come back in a couple of weeks."</p> + +<p>His grin never faltered, being of the more durable kind that you find on +farms and west of the Rockies. His ragged sneakers padded across my +Persian, and I thought he was going to spring over my desk like a losing +tennis player.</p> + +<p>"I'm your interview," he announced. "At least I'm Hillary Hardy, and +your girl just told me you'd see me."</p> + +<p>"You—are Hillary Hardy?"</p> + +<p>"In the morbid flesh," he said jamming out five enthusiastic fingers +that gulped my hand and jack-hammered until I broke his grip with a +Red-Cross life-saving hold.</p> + +<p>"Spare the meat," I groaned. "I have to sign the contract, too."</p> + +<p>"I did it! I did it! They said I was crazy, but I did it the first +time."</p> + +<p>"Did what?"</p> + +<p>"Sold the first play I wrote."</p> + +<p>"This—is—your first work?"</p> + +<p>"My very first," he said, splitting his freckles with a double row of +white teeth a yard wide. "They said I'd have to go to college, and then +I'd have to write a million words before I'd produce anything +worthwhile."</p> + +<p>If he hadn't owned such an honest, open face I'd have thrown him out as +an imposter right then. The ream of neatly typed pages on my desk would +have fooled any agent, editor or producer like myself, on Broadway. The +format was professional, the plot carefully constructed, the dialogue +breezy as a May afternoon in Chicago and the motivation solidly adult.</p> + +<p>"How old are you?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"Nineteen."</p> + +<p>"And you'll sign an affidavit that you wrote this play, and it's an +original work?"</p> + +<p>"Certainly!" The smile faded a little. "Look, Mr. Crocker, you're not +just kidding about this contract, are you? Is the play really okay?"</p> + +<p>"That," I said trying to restrain my own enthusiasm, "is only determined +on the boards. But I'm willing to risk a thousand-dollar advance on your +signature to this." I shoved the papers at him with my fountain pen on +top.</p> + +<p>He didn't uncap the pen until he had read the whole thing, and while he +pored over the fine print I had time to catch my breath.</p> + +<p>His play competed rather well with the high average output of most +professionals I knew—not exactly terrific, but a relatively safe +gamble, as gambles go on the street of bright lights. Well, I made a +mental note to pass the script around a bit before I signed the contract +myself. After all, he might have cribbed the whole thing somewhere.</p> + +<p>He finished reading, signed the contract and handed it back to me with +an air of expectancy. I stalled, "I, uh, will have the check for you in +a few days. Meanwhile, you'd better get yourself an agent and an +attorney and fix up that affidavit of authorship. Normally, I don't deal +with free-lance playwrights, you see."</p> + +<p>"But I don't need any agent," he protested. "You be my agent, Mr. +Crocker—" He was studying my reaction, and after a moment he said, "You +still don't quite believe that I wrote <i>Updraft</i>, do you, sir? Now that +you've met me you want more time to check up, don't you?"</p> + +<p>I said, "Frankly, yes, Hardy. <i>Updraft</i> is a mature piece of writing, +and unless you are a genius—well, it's just business son."</p> + +<p>"I don't blame you," he said smiling that fresh-air smile. "And I'll +admit I'm no genius, but I can explain everything. You see, I've read 38 +books on how to write plays—"</p> + +<p>"Tut!" I said. "Format technique is just a fraction of producing an +appealing play."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps," he admitted. "But <i>I've memorized all 38 books</i>. What's more, +I've been reading and memorizing plays, novels, poetry and history since +I was 13. I have a storehouse of—"</p> + +<p>"Memorizing?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir. I'm a student of <i>mnemonics</i>, you know, the art of memory +perfection. My real ambition is to develop absolute recall. All my +reading and memorizing have been just exercises to expand my power of +complete recall."</p> + +<p>"You mean that playwriting is just a hobby?"</p> + +<p>"Not—exactly. I need money, lots of it, to continue my research. +Psychiatrists come high."</p> + +<p>Well, I suppose good plays have been written for screwier reasons, and I +was in no mood to look a gift-author in the mouth. I did pass <i>Updraft</i> +around to a brace of critics, and none of them could hang a plagiarism +charge on Hardy. So I wrote out his check and started the wheels going +on the production.</p> + +<p>The boy prodigy dropped out of sight for the time being, taking no +further interest in his brain-child. <i>Updraft</i> did all right in the +sticks, but it was when we opened on Broadway that it began to coin +money.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>In ten performances we were playing to capacity crowds, and within a +month we had to take in the S. R. O. sign. A lucky hit? I thought so at +the time. <i>Updraft</i> had a dash of humor, a bit of adventure, a dollop of +romance and a gentle little heart tug at the conclusion, but damned if +the critics could put their fingers on its money-making essence. They +gave it pleasant little reviews and mild compliments, but no more. The +cash customers, however, came and kept coming and <i>kept coming</i>!</p> + +<p>The morning after the 100th performance I told Ellie to hunt up Hardy +and see what he was doing about another play. I could stand to have +another hit ready when <i>Updraft</i> petered out.</p> + +<p>That afternoon my secretary reported, "He's in a sanitarium over in +Hoboken."</p> + +<p>"Nuts! I knew we should have held back on his royalties," I exclaimed. +"I suppose he's drunk himself into a—"</p> + +<p>"It's a mental hospital," Ellie said, "but Mr. Hardy told me he is just +there for some experimental psycho-therapy. He sounded quite normal and +cheerful."</p> + +<p>Hillary Hardy showed up next morning at my request, and he did, indeed, +appear in good spirits. I demanded, "What's this business of locking +yourself up in a looney-bin? Don't you realize that's bad public +relations?"</p> + +<p>He chuckled. "I thought of that. So I'm going under an assumed name. +Your girl said you had something very important to tell me."</p> + +<p>"Sure. I want another play," I told him. "<i>Updraft</i> won't run forever, +you know."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I have plenty of money now, so I won't have to bother. The people +at the sanitarium have become interested in my project, and all I'm +spending is board and room there. Thanks to your royalty checks I've got +quite a pile in the bank."</p> + +<p>"Won't have to bother?" I yelled. "Here I launch you on Broadway, and +that's all the gratitude I get. Now's the time to cash in on the +reputation of your first play. It's setting attendance records."</p> + +<p>"Sorry, Mr. Crocker," he said. "I'm in a critical stage of my +experiments. I just can't afford the time at the moment."</p> + +<p>"Experiments! Experiments! What is this business?"</p> + +<p>He brightened. "Would you believe it? I've contacted memories back to +three months after my birth. And at this rate I'll reach birth itself +within a few weeks."</p> + +<p>I shuddered. What a nasty ambition! "What's the percentage?"</p> + +<p>"You don't understand," he said warming to his subject. "The further +back I go the more nearly I approach total recall. At present I can +contact any memory in my experience back to six months, day by day, +minute by minute. I can run off these memories like colored movies, +recalling every sight, sound, smell, feel and taste."</p> + +<p>"So what happened earlier than six months that's so important?"</p> + +<p>"Probably nothing of great interest," Hardy granted, "but the further +back I go, the more intense is the reality of all my memories. For +instance, right now I can return to the day, hour, minute and second I +went to school for the first time. I can remember the look on the +teacher's face and hear the screams of twenty-six kindergarten kids. I +can smell the freshly oiled floors and the newly painted walls. I can +feel the wart on my mother's finger, the one I was holding onto for dear +life."</p> + +<p>The almost fanatic glow in his eager, young face impressed me. Realism +of memory! Could that be the essence of his successful first play? Did +his down-to-earth touch account for <i>Updraft's</i> surprising audience +appeal?</p> + +<p>I pleaded, "Don't let me down now, Hillary. I gambled thousands of +dollars on your first play. If you can repeat we'll both enjoy an even +better pay-off. Besides, have you looked into what your taxes will be?"</p> + +<p>"Taxes? No, I really haven't, but I'm sure I have enough to last another +year. Sorry, Mr. Crocker. Maybe later, but right at the moment—"</p> + +<p>His broad-shouldered, lean athletic form drifted through my door and was +gone.</p> + +<p>Two weeks later <i>Parodisiac</i> arrived, typed on fools-cap, uncorrected, +with pencil notations and coffee-spots on it, but it was by-lined, +"Hillary Hardy," and after a single, quick scanning I was overjoyed to +pay the expense of transcribing it to more durable paper. The play was +powerful, witty and emotion-stirring. It was a work of art.</p> + +<p>And on the last page was scribbled in the border: "I looked into my tax +bill, and found you were right. I'm almost broke after Uncle Sam takes +his cut, so here is the play you asked for. Hope you like it. (signed) +H. H."</p> + +<p>There was a P.S. "Expect to hit <i>birth</i> this week."</p> + +<p>When I phoned him at the sanitarium, asking for Sam Buckle, the name he +had left originally with Ellie, he refused to come to the phone. So I +wired him. "Quit worrying about taxes. I accept your earlier offer to be +your agent as well as producer. Good luck on your experiments."</p> + +<p><i>Parodisiac</i> was much too good to hold for the closing of <i>Updraft</i>. +Indeed, the first play was showing no signs of weakening, so I began +rounding up talent outside the original cast. This was a cinch. Meredith +Crawley finished Act I, Scene I, and accepted the male lead without +turning another page. So did Alicia Pennington, even though it meant +giving up a personal appearance tour to publicize her latest Hollywood +release that was supposed to win her an Oscar.</p> + +<p>Not that I had to go after talent like this to put <i>Parodisiac</i> across. +It was so potent I believe I could have made it a hit with a cast out of +a burleycue revue.</p> + +<p>The season was getting late, so I did the unthinkable. I cut normal +rehearsal time in half and slammed it at the big town without even a +trial run in the back-country. Nobody connected with the show +objected—not even Hec Blankenship, my publicity manager. In fact it was +he who suggested the sleeper treatment.</p> + +<p>With nothing more than last-minute newspaper notices we opened the +box-office to a completely uninformed public, and did it knock the +critics for a loop! Only a couple showed up for the first performance, +along with less than a third-full house of casual first-nighters.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>People wandered out stunned. A substitute drama-critic from the <i>Times</i> +looked me up after the show, and there were tears of gratitude in his +eyes. "My review of this play will establish my reputation," he told me. +"If the boss had had any notion of what you were pulling, he'd have been +here himself. But what about the author? I thought you were going to +have to call the police when you failed to produce the author."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>It had been rough. The skimpy crowd had milled about for a half hour +screaming "Author, author!" Meanwhile, I was too choked up after the +last heart-wrenching scene to get up and make a speech.</p> + +<p>Everything had gone perfectly. Even the brief rehearsal time failed to +leave any rough edges. Crawley and Pennington were so carried away with +their parts that they easily doubled their considerable dramatic stature +that first performance. The supporting cast caught fire, too, and, +well—the likes of it is rarely seen anywhere.</p> + +<p>The lines seemed to come out of the actors' hearts, not their mouths. +Cue-lines blended with the dialogue interplay, the artificiality of +stage-sets, costumery and make-up disappeared, and the simple, yet +profound drama unreeled like a bolt of vividly printed silk, flowing +smoothly, strongly, absorbingly to the tragic-comical climax that left +the emotions reeling from the suspense and warm with relief.</p> + +<p>Two days later I looked at the figures on advance ticket sales and could +find only one conceivable complaint. <i>Parodisiac</i> would make Hillary +Hardy so much money that not even taxes could force him to produce +another for a great while.</p> + +<p>What promised to be a major irritation, fending off the press from Hardy +and protecting his anonymity, was converted into a master +publicity-stroke by Hec Blankenship. He swore the few of us who knew +about Hardy's youth and whereabouts, to complete secrecy, then he +proceeded to build his publicity around the "mystery-author."</p> + +<p>"But he's got a past!" I objected when Hec first presented the scheme. +"Old friends and relatives will spill the beans."</p> + +<p>"Have you really looked into Hillary's past?" Hec asked.</p> + +<p>I confessed I hadn't. Hec said that he had. It developed that Hillary +Hardy was not our boy's real name. In his passion for anonymity he had +been changing his name every time he changed locations, which was often. +Hec had traced his background through three moves that brought the +author across the country, but the trail petered out at a ranch in +Wyoming where Hillary had worked a month as a cow-hand.</p> + +<p>The mystery-author gag worked. Inside of two weeks our promotion expense +dwindled to almost nothing. Columnists were fighting for the privilege +of pouring out free copy on both plays. Some of their speculations as to +Hardy's real identity were pretty fabulous—Winston Churchill, Noel +Coward and even a certain, witty ex-presidential candidate for the +Democratic party—but no one found him out, and the advance sellout +began gaining a week every day.</p> + +<p>Now, I have made and lost my share of theater fortunes, and I have +learned a certain caution. At the moment I was quite content to ride +with my two smash-hits and leave Hardy to his experiments. Strangely, it +was he who called upon me for action.</p> + +<p>A month after launching <i>Parodisiac</i> he showed up at my office, looking +leaner and more intense than ever. His crew-cut was growing out, but it +was from neglect rather than a sudden artistic temperament, I was sure.</p> + +<p>After locking the doors and cancelling my morning appointments, I said, +"Well, golden boy, what brings you to civilization?"</p> + +<p>His smile was still strong and warm, but it was no longer youthful. +There was a look of deep wisdom in his blue eyes that finally justified +the magnificent play he had written.</p> + +<p>"Money," he answered briefly.</p> + +<p>"Haven't my checks been reaching you?" I asked in amazement.</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes. Very gratifying," he said pacing a groove in the deep carpet +pile. "But I'm moving into prenatal memory now, and I accomplished it by +administrations of a new B vitamin derivative. I have a staff of +biochemists working for me producing this substance, but it's fearfully +expensive. I need more of it, larger lab facilities to produce it +secretly. I want to buy the sanitarium."</p> + +<p>"Buy the—"</p> + +<p>"Lock, stock and personnel," he nodded. "I'm three months before birth, +already. My goal is conception."</p> + +<p>A big, brassy gong chimed in my brain. "That sounds like this +<i>dianetics</i> business that was going the rounds awhile back."</p> + +<p>Hardy nodded. "In some respects, yes. But I have a single goal, total +recall, and I'm taking a more comprehensive approach. Psycho-therapy +helped a great deal, but I have traced-out every angle of mnemonics, +improved on most and invented some new ones. The final problem is one of +improving synaptic potentials and actual tissue tone in the brain. +Biochemistry is giving me the answers. With enough of the new B vitamin +derivative I'm confident I can reach conception—and a totality of +recall."</p> + +<p>"But Hardy, what have you got when you get there? I still say, what's +the percentage?"</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The look he gave me was puzzled but completely tolerant. "You raved to +me about my last play, yet you don't see what I'm getting at?" He +stopped pacing and sat opposite me with his muscular hands knotted into +fists on my desk.</p> + +<p>"George," he said with quiet intentness, "I will be the first man since +creation to have the full potential of his brain at his creative +disposal."</p> + +<p>"How do you figure that?"</p> + +<p>"The brain has three principal functions. It can store information for +recall, it can analyze and correlate this information and finally it can +synthesize creatively. Now the latter two functions are inherently +dependent upon the quality of the first, or memory recall. As a truly +thinking animal, man considers he has reached some acme of perfection +because his brain is so superior to the lower animals. Actually, the +real gulf is between what man <i>has achieved</i> and what he <i>can achieve</i> +with his brain.</p> + +<p>"The key lies in perfecting his recall. What good does it do to keep +pouring in information when most of us are forgetting old things almost +as rapidly as we are learning new ones? Of course, we don't really ever +forget anything, but our power of exact recall grows fuzzy through +disuse. Then when we need a certain name or factual bit of information +we can't quite dig it up, or it comes up in distorted approximations.</p> + +<p>"The same holds for calling on experience to help us with new problems. +We may grasp the general lesson of experience, but most of the specific +incidents of our lives are dulled in time. The lessons we paid dearly to +learn are largely useless. So we go on making the same mistakes, paying +the same penalties over and over again."</p> + +<p>I shrugged. "Everybody would like a better memory, I suppose, but I've +never known anyone to go off the deep end over it like you have. What +more can you gain?"</p> + +<p>"Can't you visualize what it would be like to have even a short +life-time of knowledge and experience laid out in sharp detail of +recall? Think of the new associations of thoughts and concepts that +would be possible! Consider the potential for creating drama, alone! +Every word ever read or spoken, every emotion ever conveyed, every +gesture of anger, love, jealousy, pain, pleasure—all this raw material +glittering brightly, ready to pour out in new conflicts, dramatic +situations, sharp pungent dialogue—"</p> + +<p>He made me sense his enthusiasm, but I couldn't quite feel it. Would +such a tremendous ability necessarily be good? Something about its +immensity frightened me, and I didn't care to consider it for my own use +at all.</p> + +<p>I said, "Don't get me wrong. If this is what's going into your +playwriting, I'm all for it. And what you do with your money is your own +business. What do you propose?"</p> + +<p>"Can you absorb more of my work?" he asked abruptly.</p> + +<p>"I'm your agent, aren't I? I'll peddle it if I can't use it myself," I +told him, not that I was so eager for the broker's 10% so much as I +wanted to have the pick of his output for my own productions.</p> + +<p>I didn't know what I was taking on. He turned out his third play in just +ten days. <i>Ten days</i>, I said. I read to the bottom of page two and +decided to hell with peddling this one. I'd produce it myself.</p> + +<p>Before I got into second gear on <i>Beach Boy</i>, however, Hillary sends a +messenger over with <i>Madame President</i>, a satire so sharp I knew it +would make <i>Call Me Madame</i> look like <i>Little Women</i>.</p> + +<p>What do you do? There are just so many legitimate theaters in the city.</p> + +<p>While I'm pondering this and negotiating with a Hollywood agent to maybe +take <i>Beach Boy</i> off my hands, along comes <i>Red Rice</i>, an epic novel of +Communist China that out-Bucked Pearl a hundred heart-wrenches to one.</p> + +<p>One phone call sold that one to McMullin, and when they got a look at +the manuscript they raised the advance to $10,000. This was not bad for +a first novel, and I didn't resent my $1000 agent's fee.</p> + +<p>Before the summer was over I was about ready to give up show business +and become a one-author agent. Hillary was keeping four secretaries busy +taking dictation and transcribing. He never researched, never revised, +never even glanced at the copy. I've known some prolific writers, but +none could grind it out like Hillary Hardy.</p> + +<p>And it was good! Every piece was better than the last. His characters +were strictly 3-D right on paper, and word pictures! When he mentioned +bedbugs, you itched and bled; when the villain slugged the hero a +low-blow, you felt it in your guts; and when boy got girl—brother, turn +up the house-lights, quick.</p> + +<p>I got so involved trying to produce five plays at once, making dickers +with publishers and motion picture studios, fighting off television +people and answering mail demanding a chance at foreign rights, that it +was mid-November before I realized that it was over a month since I'd +heard from the golden goose.</p> + +<p>In fact Ellie drew my attention to it one morning. "Hadn't you better +call the sanitarium?" she suggested. "Maybe he had a breakdown or +something?"</p> + +<p>The thought chilled me. Not only had I sold Hillary's complete output to +date, but I had a file full of contracts for future novels and movie +scripts worth a couple of million dollars.</p> + +<p>I didn't phone—I went. To Hoboken.</p> + +<p>In the outskirts I found his private hospital, demanded to see Sam +Buckle and was told to sit down and wait. He was in therapy.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Two hours later they took me to him. He lay on a hospital bed in his +shorts, staring at the ceiling and the sweat all over him like he had +just stepped out of a showerbath.</p> + +<p>"Hello, George," he said, still looking at the ceiling.</p> + +<p>"Hi, kid! You sick or something?"</p> + +<p>He smiled a little. "The surf at Monterey. The sun fading through the +low morning mist, a golden ghost peering through the somber veil—and +Julia, beside me, clinging to my arm, crying softly—"</p> + +<p>"Hey, kid, I'm in New Jersey. Where are you?" I said nervously.</p> + +<p>He blinked. "In California, George. Two years ago. I'm there. Do you +understand? <i>I'm really there!</i>"</p> + +<p>It was a little embarrassing. I felt like an intruder on a beach picnic. +"Well, Hillary, that's just fine," I stammered. "I suppose that means +that—that you've done what you set out to."</p> + +<p>"That's right." He nodded slightly. "Total recall, George. Every instant +of my existence re-filed under 'urgent'. Every vision, every sound, +every sensation, laid clean and sharp like a sound film ready for +running. I've done it, George."</p> + +<p>"How long ago did you—"</p> + +<p>"Three weeks ago I began heavy dosing with the vitamin. Today—just this +last hour—I reached back into prenatal to the first instant of my +cellular existence. And it was like ripping a curtain aside. I—I can't +exactly tell you what it's like. Something like coming out of a black +cellar into the noon-day sun. It's almost blinding."</p> + +<p>He closed his eyes, squinting as though to shut out a glare. His blond +hair had grown long, and it lay on the pillow like a woman's. He had +lost some weight, and except for the heavy chest muscles and thick +forearms, he had the appearance of a poet, a delicate soul dedicated to +some ephemeral plane out of this world.</p> + +<p>I figured I'd better provide a little ballast. "Congratulations and all +that," I said, "but what about your work?"</p> + +<p>"I'm done," he said quietly.</p> + +<p>"Done? Are you forgetting that you bought a sanitarium?—some eight +hundred grand worth? And it's only half paid for?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, that. The royalties will take care of the payments."</p> + +<p>"Hillary, you keep forgetting about taxes."</p> + +<p>"Then let them take it back by default. I'm through with it."</p> + +<p>"Dammit," I said, "I looked into this deal. People don't take back +sanitariums like over-ripe bananas, especially when they got you on the +hook for more than it's worth. They'll hold you to the contract. And you +can't get your equity out if you don't protect it by keeping up your +payments. You have a wonderful start, and if you just fill the contracts +I have on file now you can pay it off and have plenty left to retire on. +But right now you aren't so solvent, boy."</p> + +<p>Well, he finally came out of his trance long enough to agree to fulfill +the commitments I'd made for him, and I thought that once he got started +there would be no holding him.</p> + +<p>Just to make sure I did something on my own. I let his identity and +whereabouts leak out.</p> + +<p>It was a sneaky thing to do to him, but I figured that once he got a +real taste of the fame that was waiting him he would never let go of it.</p> + +<p>The papers splashed it: "Mystery Genius Is Lad of 19!"</p> + +<p>They swamped him. They swarmed over him and plastered him with honorary +literary degrees, domestic and foreign. They Oscared him and Nobelled +him. They wined, dined and adored him into a godhead of the arts.</p> + +<p>The acting, publishing, TV, radio and movie greats paid homage to his +genius by the most hysterical bidding for his talents their check-books +could support. I kept waiting for the Secretary of the Treasury to +present him with the key to Fort Knox.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Meanwhile, I waited patiently—having no choice, since I started the +publicity nightmare myself—for the earthquake to settle down. As his +agent I was holding off all new commitments until he fulfilled the ones +on hand.</p> + +<p>Six months passed, and Hillary was still wallowing in glory, too busy +sopping up plaudits to bother turning a hand.</p> + +<p>Finally I sent a goon squad after him and dragged him to my office. He +arrived in a four-hundred dollar suit and a fifty-dollar tie. Each cuff +was decorated by a diamond link and a Hollywood starlet. I shooed out +the excess and came to the point.</p> + +<p>"Recess is over," I said gently. "Now we settle down for a few months of +patty-cake with your secretaries. They're here in my offices now where I +can keep an eye on things. Okay?"</p> + +<p>He grinned his old happy smile, and some of the dewey glaze seemed to +peel from his eyes. "You're right, George," he said much to my surprise. +"I can't coast forever—and believe me, I never visualized what this +would be like. It's wonderful. The world is at my feet, George. At my +feet!"</p> + +<p>I had pegged him right. But after all, who could resist the accolade he +had received? For all his monomania on this business of mnemonics, he +was a red-blooded boy with active glands and youthful corpuscles.</p> + +<p>To my further delight he threw off his imported suit-coat and said, "I'm +ready right now. Where do we start?"</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>I broached the file and studied my priority list. "First off, Oscar +wants a play. That'll take a week or two, I suppose. Then I have an +assignment for a serial—"</p> + +<p>I outlined about three months work for him, or what would have been +three months work last summer.</p> + +<p>I moved him into my own penthouse apartment upstairs and herded him to +work the next morning. My squad of strong-arms guarded all entrances, +and Hec Blankenship finally convinced the public that we meant business +in getting a little privacy for our tame genius so he could hatch some +more immortal works.</p> + +<p>I had lunch sent in to him in the next office and didn't see him until +five that first evening. I went in without knocking. One secretary was +filing her nails, and the other three were putting on their coats. The +covers were still on the typewriters and Hillary was asleep or in a coma +over in the corner.</p> + +<p>I kicked his feet off his desk, and he rocked forward. "Come on +upstairs, I'll buy you a steak," I said.</p> + +<p>He smiled weakly, "I need one. It didn't go so good." In the elevator he +added, "In fact, it didn't go at all."</p> + +<p>"Take it easy," I assured him. "You're a little rusty, that's all. What +about the total recall? Is it still working?"</p> + +<p>He nodded, but he didn't say any more about it.</p> + +<p>Next day I stuck my head in before I went to lunch, and I congratulated +myself on not pushing him too hard the first day. Hillary was off in his +corner again, but his mouth was moving and all four girls were doing the +things that secretaries do when they are about two hours behind in their +work.</p> + +<p>Eight days later the thing dropped on my desk. I wet a finger with keen +anticipation, but the spit wasn't dry before I was plowing into +Hillary's office trailing loose sheets.</p> + +<p>"Are you kidding?" I yelled.</p> + +<p>He was out of his chair over by the window staring out. All he did was +hunch up his shoulders. The girls were standing around trying to act +invisible.</p> + +<p>"Hillary," I said trying to laugh. "Don't be playing gags on old George. +Where is it? Where's Oscar's play?"</p> + +<p>"I—I'm afraid that's it," he said without turning his head.</p> + +<p>"This—this fluff? This pablum?"</p> + +<p>"Well—I thought I'd try something light to begin with."</p> + +<p>"Light? This is no play. This is Pollyanna. It's been done. Where's your +conflict? Your problem? Your suspense? Dammit, where's your characters?"</p> + +<p>"I'll get warmed up tomorrow," Hilliary said, but he didn't have much +conviction in his voice.</p> + +<p>He tried. He really did. I heard him thrashing around for a whole hour +the next morning. By afternoon he was on his way to the hospital in an +ambulance with two men holding him down.</p> + +<p>All I could get out of the doctors was, "complete nervous breakdown." I +finally found a hard-up intern and bribed him to spy for me. He reported +that Hillary had the whole staff stumped. He was acting more like a dope +addict with withdrawal symptoms or a drunk with the D.T.'s.</p> + +<p>I got in touch with Hillary's sanitarium. The head psychiatrist was in +Europe, so I cabled him and flew him back. He took over, and pretty soon +I had the word I dreaded.</p> + +<p>"Your wonder boy will recover," he told me, "but that's a wonder in +itself. I presume he told you of his experiments to achieve total +recall?"</p> + +<p>I said yes.</p> + +<p>"What he probably failed to tell you was that we all tried to dissuade +him."</p> + +<p>"That he didn't mention, but I worried about it."</p> + +<p>"Yes, well you might have. When Hillary Hardy succeeded in stripping +away the last remnant of protective insulation in his memory he exposed +himself not only to its full factual content, but also he lay naked +every past emotional upset, every pain, fear, dread and sorrow he had +ever experienced. It is no longer possible for him to recall an +experience and ponder it objectively. <i>He relives it.</i>"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I get that," I said, "but what's so—"</p> + +<p>"Did you ever hit your thumb with a hammer?" the doctor with the +traditional, gray goatee interrupted.</p> + +<p>"Sure, a couple of times."</p> + +<p>"Ever lose a sweetheart or have a loved one die?"</p> + +<p>I nodded.</p> + +<p>"Suppose that to even think about such experiences you had to endure all +the actual physical or emotional pain of the original incident? The +crushing blow of the hammer? The heartache and tears of your loss? And +suppose further, that you were trying to write a play, and in order to +bring genuine emotion to it you forced yourself to endure these pains +and emotional stresses, minute after minute—"</p> + +<p>"God!" I said. "But you said he'd recover?"</p> + +<p>"In a few weeks, yes. Gradually we will reduce sedation until he can +control his memories again, but never ask him to write another dramatic +work. Another attack like this one could drive him irretrievably +insane."</p> + +<p>It wasn't too hard to understand. After all, what is creative writing +but setting down little bits of yourself? And the demands of literature +are for human problems, conflicts, struggles.</p> + +<p>Young as he was, Hillary was no different from the rest of us. Sure, he +was full of reading and second hand bits of business, but he dug deeply +into his own private pot of pain for his genuine dramatic effects. And +where others dig with a long-handled ladle, Hillary dipped with his bare +soul—and he got scalded.</p> + +<p>Getting him well and keeping him that way was a matter of putting the +lid back on the pot, so to speak. Nobody ever invited him to write +another word. I saw to that. He's still with me, because after he went +bankrupt on the sanitarium deal he had nowhere to turn. After taxes and +the rooking the real estate boys gave him, his royalties were tied up +for years to come.</p> + +<p>He did get better, though. And he even works a little. Turns out scripts +for mild little comic books, the Honey-Bunney type that are approved by +parent-teacher censors. They don't sell very well. No conflict. No guts.</p> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Mind Digger, by Winston Marks + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MIND DIGGER *** + +***** This file should be named 32353-h.htm or 32353-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/2/3/5/32353/ + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan 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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Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + + +</pre> + +</body> +</html> diff --git a/32353-h/images/cover.jpg b/32353-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..10b932b --- /dev/null +++ b/32353-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/32353-h/images/illus1.jpg b/32353-h/images/illus1.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..3c9b973 --- /dev/null +++ b/32353-h/images/illus1.jpg diff --git a/32353.txt b/32353.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..23f40c6 --- /dev/null +++ b/32353.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1136 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Mind Digger, by Winston Marks + +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: The Mind Digger + +Author: Winston Marks + +Release Date: May 12, 2010 [EBook #32353] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MIND DIGGER *** + + + + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + + The Mind Digger + + By Winston Marks + +[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Imagination Stories of +Science and Fantasy April 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any +evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] + +[Sidenote: There was a reason why his scripts were smash hits--they had +realism. And why not? He was reliving every scene and emotion in them!] + + +It was really a pretty fair script, and it caught me at a moment when +every playwright worth his salt was playing in France, prostituting in +Hollywood or sulking in a slump. I needed a play badly, so I told Ellie +to get this unknown up to my office and have a contract ready. + +When she announced him on the inter-com, my door banged open and a +youngster in blue-jeans, sweatshirt and a stubbly crew-cut popped in +like a carelessly aimed champagne cork. + +I said, "I'm sorry, son, but I have an interview right now. Besides we +aren't casting yet. Come back in a couple of weeks." + +His grin never faltered, being of the more durable kind that you find on +farms and west of the Rockies. His ragged sneakers padded across my +Persian, and I thought he was going to spring over my desk like a losing +tennis player. + +"I'm your interview," he announced. "At least I'm Hillary Hardy, and +your girl just told me you'd see me." + +"You--are Hillary Hardy?" + +"In the morbid flesh," he said jamming out five enthusiastic fingers +that gulped my hand and jack-hammered until I broke his grip with a +Red-Cross life-saving hold. + +"Spare the meat," I groaned. "I have to sign the contract, too." + +"I did it! I did it! They said I was crazy, but I did it the first +time." + +"Did what?" + +"Sold the first play I wrote." + +"This--is--your first work?" + +"My very first," he said, splitting his freckles with a double row of +white teeth a yard wide. "They said I'd have to go to college, and then +I'd have to write a million words before I'd produce anything +worthwhile." + +If he hadn't owned such an honest, open face I'd have thrown him out as +an imposter right then. The ream of neatly typed pages on my desk would +have fooled any agent, editor or producer like myself, on Broadway. The +format was professional, the plot carefully constructed, the dialogue +breezy as a May afternoon in Chicago and the motivation solidly adult. + +"How old are you?" I asked. + +"Nineteen." + +"And you'll sign an affidavit that you wrote this play, and it's an +original work?" + +"Certainly!" The smile faded a little. "Look, Mr. Crocker, you're not +just kidding about this contract, are you? Is the play really okay?" + +"That," I said trying to restrain my own enthusiasm, "is only determined +on the boards. But I'm willing to risk a thousand-dollar advance on your +signature to this." I shoved the papers at him with my fountain pen on +top. + +He didn't uncap the pen until he had read the whole thing, and while he +pored over the fine print I had time to catch my breath. + +His play competed rather well with the high average output of most +professionals I knew--not exactly terrific, but a relatively safe +gamble, as gambles go on the street of bright lights. Well, I made a +mental note to pass the script around a bit before I signed the contract +myself. After all, he might have cribbed the whole thing somewhere. + +He finished reading, signed the contract and handed it back to me with +an air of expectancy. I stalled, "I, uh, will have the check for you in +a few days. Meanwhile, you'd better get yourself an agent and an +attorney and fix up that affidavit of authorship. Normally, I don't deal +with free-lance playwrights, you see." + +"But I don't need any agent," he protested. "You be my agent, Mr. +Crocker--" He was studying my reaction, and after a moment he said, "You +still don't quite believe that I wrote _Updraft_, do you, sir? Now that +you've met me you want more time to check up, don't you?" + +I said, "Frankly, yes, Hardy. _Updraft_ is a mature piece of writing, +and unless you are a genius--well, it's just business son." + +"I don't blame you," he said smiling that fresh-air smile. "And I'll +admit I'm no genius, but I can explain everything. You see, I've read 38 +books on how to write plays--" + +"Tut!" I said. "Format technique is just a fraction of producing an +appealing play." + +"Perhaps," he admitted. "But _I've memorized all 38 books_. What's more, +I've been reading and memorizing plays, novels, poetry and history since +I was 13. I have a storehouse of--" + +"Memorizing?" + +"Yes, sir. I'm a student of _mnemonics_, you know, the art of memory +perfection. My real ambition is to develop absolute recall. All my +reading and memorizing have been just exercises to expand my power of +complete recall." + +"You mean that playwriting is just a hobby?" + +"Not--exactly. I need money, lots of it, to continue my research. +Psychiatrists come high." + +Well, I suppose good plays have been written for screwier reasons, and I +was in no mood to look a gift-author in the mouth. I did pass _Updraft_ +around to a brace of critics, and none of them could hang a plagiarism +charge on Hardy. So I wrote out his check and started the wheels going +on the production. + +The boy prodigy dropped out of sight for the time being, taking no +further interest in his brain-child. _Updraft_ did all right in the +sticks, but it was when we opened on Broadway that it began to coin +money. + + * * * * * + +In ten performances we were playing to capacity crowds, and within a +month we had to take in the S. R. O. sign. A lucky hit? I thought so at +the time. _Updraft_ had a dash of humor, a bit of adventure, a dollop of +romance and a gentle little heart tug at the conclusion, but damned if +the critics could put their fingers on its money-making essence. They +gave it pleasant little reviews and mild compliments, but no more. The +cash customers, however, came and kept coming and _kept coming_! + +The morning after the 100th performance I told Ellie to hunt up Hardy +and see what he was doing about another play. I could stand to have +another hit ready when _Updraft_ petered out. + +That afternoon my secretary reported, "He's in a sanitarium over in +Hoboken." + +"Nuts! I knew we should have held back on his royalties," I exclaimed. +"I suppose he's drunk himself into a--" + +"It's a mental hospital," Ellie said, "but Mr. Hardy told me he is just +there for some experimental psycho-therapy. He sounded quite normal and +cheerful." + +Hillary Hardy showed up next morning at my request, and he did, indeed, +appear in good spirits. I demanded, "What's this business of locking +yourself up in a looney-bin? Don't you realize that's bad public +relations?" + +He chuckled. "I thought of that. So I'm going under an assumed name. +Your girl said you had something very important to tell me." + +"Sure. I want another play," I told him. "_Updraft_ won't run forever, +you know." + +"Oh, I have plenty of money now, so I won't have to bother. The people +at the sanitarium have become interested in my project, and all I'm +spending is board and room there. Thanks to your royalty checks I've got +quite a pile in the bank." + +"Won't have to bother?" I yelled. "Here I launch you on Broadway, and +that's all the gratitude I get. Now's the time to cash in on the +reputation of your first play. It's setting attendance records." + +"Sorry, Mr. Crocker," he said. "I'm in a critical stage of my +experiments. I just can't afford the time at the moment." + +"Experiments! Experiments! What is this business?" + +He brightened. "Would you believe it? I've contacted memories back to +three months after my birth. And at this rate I'll reach birth itself +within a few weeks." + +I shuddered. What a nasty ambition! "What's the percentage?" + +"You don't understand," he said warming to his subject. "The further +back I go the more nearly I approach total recall. At present I can +contact any memory in my experience back to six months, day by day, +minute by minute. I can run off these memories like colored movies, +recalling every sight, sound, smell, feel and taste." + +"So what happened earlier than six months that's so important?" + +"Probably nothing of great interest," Hardy granted, "but the further +back I go, the more intense is the reality of all my memories. For +instance, right now I can return to the day, hour, minute and second I +went to school for the first time. I can remember the look on the +teacher's face and hear the screams of twenty-six kindergarten kids. I +can smell the freshly oiled floors and the newly painted walls. I can +feel the wart on my mother's finger, the one I was holding onto for dear +life." + +The almost fanatic glow in his eager, young face impressed me. Realism +of memory! Could that be the essence of his successful first play? Did +his down-to-earth touch account for _Updraft's_ surprising audience +appeal? + +I pleaded, "Don't let me down now, Hillary. I gambled thousands of +dollars on your first play. If you can repeat we'll both enjoy an even +better pay-off. Besides, have you looked into what your taxes will be?" + +"Taxes? No, I really haven't, but I'm sure I have enough to last another +year. Sorry, Mr. Crocker. Maybe later, but right at the moment--" + +His broad-shouldered, lean athletic form drifted through my door and was +gone. + +Two weeks later _Parodisiac_ arrived, typed on fools-cap, uncorrected, +with pencil notations and coffee-spots on it, but it was by-lined, +"Hillary Hardy," and after a single, quick scanning I was overjoyed to +pay the expense of transcribing it to more durable paper. The play was +powerful, witty and emotion-stirring. It was a work of art. + +And on the last page was scribbled in the border: "I looked into my tax +bill, and found you were right. I'm almost broke after Uncle Sam takes +his cut, so here is the play you asked for. Hope you like it. (signed) +H. H." + +There was a P.S. "Expect to hit _birth_ this week." + +When I phoned him at the sanitarium, asking for Sam Buckle, the name he +had left originally with Ellie, he refused to come to the phone. So I +wired him. "Quit worrying about taxes. I accept your earlier offer to be +your agent as well as producer. Good luck on your experiments." + +_Parodisiac_ was much too good to hold for the closing of _Updraft_. +Indeed, the first play was showing no signs of weakening, so I began +rounding up talent outside the original cast. This was a cinch. Meredith +Crawley finished Act I, Scene I, and accepted the male lead without +turning another page. So did Alicia Pennington, even though it meant +giving up a personal appearance tour to publicize her latest Hollywood +release that was supposed to win her an Oscar. + +Not that I had to go after talent like this to put _Parodisiac_ across. +It was so potent I believe I could have made it a hit with a cast out of +a burleycue revue. + +The season was getting late, so I did the unthinkable. I cut normal +rehearsal time in half and slammed it at the big town without even a +trial run in the back-country. Nobody connected with the show +objected--not even Hec Blankenship, my publicity manager. In fact it was +he who suggested the sleeper treatment. + +With nothing more than last-minute newspaper notices we opened the +box-office to a completely uninformed public, and did it knock the +critics for a loop! Only a couple showed up for the first performance, +along with less than a third-full house of casual first-nighters. + + * * * * * + +People wandered out stunned. A substitute drama-critic from the _Times_ +looked me up after the show, and there were tears of gratitude in his +eyes. "My review of this play will establish my reputation," he told me. +"If the boss had had any notion of what you were pulling, he'd have been +here himself. But what about the author? I thought you were going to +have to call the police when you failed to produce the author." + + * * * * * + +It had been rough. The skimpy crowd had milled about for a half hour +screaming "Author, author!" Meanwhile, I was too choked up after the +last heart-wrenching scene to get up and make a speech. + +Everything had gone perfectly. Even the brief rehearsal time failed to +leave any rough edges. Crawley and Pennington were so carried away with +their parts that they easily doubled their considerable dramatic stature +that first performance. The supporting cast caught fire, too, and, +well--the likes of it is rarely seen anywhere. + +The lines seemed to come out of the actors' hearts, not their mouths. +Cue-lines blended with the dialogue interplay, the artificiality of +stage-sets, costumery and make-up disappeared, and the simple, yet +profound drama unreeled like a bolt of vividly printed silk, flowing +smoothly, strongly, absorbingly to the tragic-comical climax that left +the emotions reeling from the suspense and warm with relief. + +Two days later I looked at the figures on advance ticket sales and could +find only one conceivable complaint. _Parodisiac_ would make Hillary +Hardy so much money that not even taxes could force him to produce +another for a great while. + +What promised to be a major irritation, fending off the press from Hardy +and protecting his anonymity, was converted into a master +publicity-stroke by Hec Blankenship. He swore the few of us who knew +about Hardy's youth and whereabouts, to complete secrecy, then he +proceeded to build his publicity around the "mystery-author." + +"But he's got a past!" I objected when Hec first presented the scheme. +"Old friends and relatives will spill the beans." + +"Have you really looked into Hillary's past?" Hec asked. + +I confessed I hadn't. Hec said that he had. It developed that Hillary +Hardy was not our boy's real name. In his passion for anonymity he had +been changing his name every time he changed locations, which was often. +Hec had traced his background through three moves that brought the +author across the country, but the trail petered out at a ranch in +Wyoming where Hillary had worked a month as a cow-hand. + +The mystery-author gag worked. Inside of two weeks our promotion expense +dwindled to almost nothing. Columnists were fighting for the privilege +of pouring out free copy on both plays. Some of their speculations as to +Hardy's real identity were pretty fabulous--Winston Churchill, Noel +Coward and even a certain, witty ex-presidential candidate for the +Democratic party--but no one found him out, and the advance sellout +began gaining a week every day. + +Now, I have made and lost my share of theater fortunes, and I have +learned a certain caution. At the moment I was quite content to ride +with my two smash-hits and leave Hardy to his experiments. Strangely, it +was he who called upon me for action. + +A month after launching _Parodisiac_ he showed up at my office, looking +leaner and more intense than ever. His crew-cut was growing out, but it +was from neglect rather than a sudden artistic temperament, I was sure. + +After locking the doors and cancelling my morning appointments, I said, +"Well, golden boy, what brings you to civilization?" + +His smile was still strong and warm, but it was no longer youthful. +There was a look of deep wisdom in his blue eyes that finally justified +the magnificent play he had written. + +"Money," he answered briefly. + +"Haven't my checks been reaching you?" I asked in amazement. + +"Oh, yes. Very gratifying," he said pacing a groove in the deep carpet +pile. "But I'm moving into prenatal memory now, and I accomplished it by +administrations of a new B vitamin derivative. I have a staff of +biochemists working for me producing this substance, but it's fearfully +expensive. I need more of it, larger lab facilities to produce it +secretly. I want to buy the sanitarium." + +"Buy the--" + +"Lock, stock and personnel," he nodded. "I'm three months before birth, +already. My goal is conception." + +A big, brassy gong chimed in my brain. "That sounds like this +_dianetics_ business that was going the rounds awhile back." + +Hardy nodded. "In some respects, yes. But I have a single goal, total +recall, and I'm taking a more comprehensive approach. Psycho-therapy +helped a great deal, but I have traced-out every angle of mnemonics, +improved on most and invented some new ones. The final problem is one of +improving synaptic potentials and actual tissue tone in the brain. +Biochemistry is giving me the answers. With enough of the new B vitamin +derivative I'm confident I can reach conception--and a totality of +recall." + +"But Hardy, what have you got when you get there? I still say, what's +the percentage?" + + * * * * * + +The look he gave me was puzzled but completely tolerant. "You raved to +me about my last play, yet you don't see what I'm getting at?" He +stopped pacing and sat opposite me with his muscular hands knotted into +fists on my desk. + +"George," he said with quiet intentness, "I will be the first man since +creation to have the full potential of his brain at his creative +disposal." + +"How do you figure that?" + +"The brain has three principal functions. It can store information for +recall, it can analyze and correlate this information and finally it can +synthesize creatively. Now the latter two functions are inherently +dependent upon the quality of the first, or memory recall. As a truly +thinking animal, man considers he has reached some acme of perfection +because his brain is so superior to the lower animals. Actually, the +real gulf is between what man _has achieved_ and what he _can achieve_ +with his brain. + +"The key lies in perfecting his recall. What good does it do to keep +pouring in information when most of us are forgetting old things almost +as rapidly as we are learning new ones? Of course, we don't really ever +forget anything, but our power of exact recall grows fuzzy through +disuse. Then when we need a certain name or factual bit of information +we can't quite dig it up, or it comes up in distorted approximations. + +"The same holds for calling on experience to help us with new problems. +We may grasp the general lesson of experience, but most of the specific +incidents of our lives are dulled in time. The lessons we paid dearly to +learn are largely useless. So we go on making the same mistakes, paying +the same penalties over and over again." + +I shrugged. "Everybody would like a better memory, I suppose, but I've +never known anyone to go off the deep end over it like you have. What +more can you gain?" + +"Can't you visualize what it would be like to have even a short +life-time of knowledge and experience laid out in sharp detail of +recall? Think of the new associations of thoughts and concepts that +would be possible! Consider the potential for creating drama, alone! +Every word ever read or spoken, every emotion ever conveyed, every +gesture of anger, love, jealousy, pain, pleasure--all this raw material +glittering brightly, ready to pour out in new conflicts, dramatic +situations, sharp pungent dialogue--" + +He made me sense his enthusiasm, but I couldn't quite feel it. Would +such a tremendous ability necessarily be good? Something about its +immensity frightened me, and I didn't care to consider it for my own use +at all. + +I said, "Don't get me wrong. If this is what's going into your +playwriting, I'm all for it. And what you do with your money is your own +business. What do you propose?" + +"Can you absorb more of my work?" he asked abruptly. + +"I'm your agent, aren't I? I'll peddle it if I can't use it myself," I +told him, not that I was so eager for the broker's 10% so much as I +wanted to have the pick of his output for my own productions. + +I didn't know what I was taking on. He turned out his third play in just +ten days. _Ten days_, I said. I read to the bottom of page two and +decided to hell with peddling this one. I'd produce it myself. + +Before I got into second gear on _Beach Boy_, however, Hillary sends a +messenger over with _Madame President_, a satire so sharp I knew it +would make _Call Me Madame_ look like _Little Women_. + +What do you do? There are just so many legitimate theaters in the city. + +While I'm pondering this and negotiating with a Hollywood agent to maybe +take _Beach Boy_ off my hands, along comes _Red Rice_, an epic novel of +Communist China that out-Bucked Pearl a hundred heart-wrenches to one. + +One phone call sold that one to McMullin, and when they got a look at +the manuscript they raised the advance to $10,000. This was not bad for +a first novel, and I didn't resent my $1000 agent's fee. + +Before the summer was over I was about ready to give up show business +and become a one-author agent. Hillary was keeping four secretaries busy +taking dictation and transcribing. He never researched, never revised, +never even glanced at the copy. I've known some prolific writers, but +none could grind it out like Hillary Hardy. + +And it was good! Every piece was better than the last. His characters +were strictly 3-D right on paper, and word pictures! When he mentioned +bedbugs, you itched and bled; when the villain slugged the hero a +low-blow, you felt it in your guts; and when boy got girl--brother, turn +up the house-lights, quick. + +I got so involved trying to produce five plays at once, making dickers +with publishers and motion picture studios, fighting off television +people and answering mail demanding a chance at foreign rights, that it +was mid-November before I realized that it was over a month since I'd +heard from the golden goose. + +In fact Ellie drew my attention to it one morning. "Hadn't you better +call the sanitarium?" she suggested. "Maybe he had a breakdown or +something?" + +The thought chilled me. Not only had I sold Hillary's complete output to +date, but I had a file full of contracts for future novels and movie +scripts worth a couple of million dollars. + +I didn't phone--I went. To Hoboken. + +In the outskirts I found his private hospital, demanded to see Sam +Buckle and was told to sit down and wait. He was in therapy. + + * * * * * + +Two hours later they took me to him. He lay on a hospital bed in his +shorts, staring at the ceiling and the sweat all over him like he had +just stepped out of a showerbath. + +"Hello, George," he said, still looking at the ceiling. + +"Hi, kid! You sick or something?" + +He smiled a little. "The surf at Monterey. The sun fading through the +low morning mist, a golden ghost peering through the somber veil--and +Julia, beside me, clinging to my arm, crying softly--" + +"Hey, kid, I'm in New Jersey. Where are you?" I said nervously. + +He blinked. "In California, George. Two years ago. I'm there. Do you +understand? _I'm really there!_" + +It was a little embarrassing. I felt like an intruder on a beach picnic. +"Well, Hillary, that's just fine," I stammered. "I suppose that means +that--that you've done what you set out to." + +"That's right." He nodded slightly. "Total recall, George. Every instant +of my existence re-filed under 'urgent'. Every vision, every sound, +every sensation, laid clean and sharp like a sound film ready for +running. I've done it, George." + +"How long ago did you--" + +"Three weeks ago I began heavy dosing with the vitamin. Today--just this +last hour--I reached back into prenatal to the first instant of my +cellular existence. And it was like ripping a curtain aside. I--I can't +exactly tell you what it's like. Something like coming out of a black +cellar into the noon-day sun. It's almost blinding." + +He closed his eyes, squinting as though to shut out a glare. His blond +hair had grown long, and it lay on the pillow like a woman's. He had +lost some weight, and except for the heavy chest muscles and thick +forearms, he had the appearance of a poet, a delicate soul dedicated to +some ephemeral plane out of this world. + +I figured I'd better provide a little ballast. "Congratulations and all +that," I said, "but what about your work?" + +"I'm done," he said quietly. + +"Done? Are you forgetting that you bought a sanitarium?--some eight +hundred grand worth? And it's only half paid for?" + +"Oh, that. The royalties will take care of the payments." + +"Hillary, you keep forgetting about taxes." + +"Then let them take it back by default. I'm through with it." + +"Dammit," I said, "I looked into this deal. People don't take back +sanitariums like over-ripe bananas, especially when they got you on the +hook for more than it's worth. They'll hold you to the contract. And you +can't get your equity out if you don't protect it by keeping up your +payments. You have a wonderful start, and if you just fill the contracts +I have on file now you can pay it off and have plenty left to retire on. +But right now you aren't so solvent, boy." + +Well, he finally came out of his trance long enough to agree to fulfill +the commitments I'd made for him, and I thought that once he got started +there would be no holding him. + +Just to make sure I did something on my own. I let his identity and +whereabouts leak out. + +It was a sneaky thing to do to him, but I figured that once he got a +real taste of the fame that was waiting him he would never let go of it. + +The papers splashed it: "Mystery Genius Is Lad of 19!" + +They swamped him. They swarmed over him and plastered him with honorary +literary degrees, domestic and foreign. They Oscared him and Nobelled +him. They wined, dined and adored him into a godhead of the arts. + +The acting, publishing, TV, radio and movie greats paid homage to his +genius by the most hysterical bidding for his talents their check-books +could support. I kept waiting for the Secretary of the Treasury to +present him with the key to Fort Knox. + + * * * * * + +Meanwhile, I waited patiently--having no choice, since I started the +publicity nightmare myself--for the earthquake to settle down. As his +agent I was holding off all new commitments until he fulfilled the ones +on hand. + +Six months passed, and Hillary was still wallowing in glory, too busy +sopping up plaudits to bother turning a hand. + +Finally I sent a goon squad after him and dragged him to my office. He +arrived in a four-hundred dollar suit and a fifty-dollar tie. Each cuff +was decorated by a diamond link and a Hollywood starlet. I shooed out +the excess and came to the point. + +"Recess is over," I said gently. "Now we settle down for a few months of +patty-cake with your secretaries. They're here in my offices now where I +can keep an eye on things. Okay?" + +He grinned his old happy smile, and some of the dewey glaze seemed to +peel from his eyes. "You're right, George," he said much to my surprise. +"I can't coast forever--and believe me, I never visualized what this +would be like. It's wonderful. The world is at my feet, George. At my +feet!" + +I had pegged him right. But after all, who could resist the accolade he +had received? For all his monomania on this business of mnemonics, he +was a red-blooded boy with active glands and youthful corpuscles. + +To my further delight he threw off his imported suit-coat and said, "I'm +ready right now. Where do we start?" + + * * * * * + +I broached the file and studied my priority list. "First off, Oscar +wants a play. That'll take a week or two, I suppose. Then I have an +assignment for a serial--" + +I outlined about three months work for him, or what would have been +three months work last summer. + +I moved him into my own penthouse apartment upstairs and herded him to +work the next morning. My squad of strong-arms guarded all entrances, +and Hec Blankenship finally convinced the public that we meant business +in getting a little privacy for our tame genius so he could hatch some +more immortal works. + +I had lunch sent in to him in the next office and didn't see him until +five that first evening. I went in without knocking. One secretary was +filing her nails, and the other three were putting on their coats. The +covers were still on the typewriters and Hillary was asleep or in a coma +over in the corner. + +I kicked his feet off his desk, and he rocked forward. "Come on +upstairs, I'll buy you a steak," I said. + +He smiled weakly, "I need one. It didn't go so good." In the elevator he +added, "In fact, it didn't go at all." + +"Take it easy," I assured him. "You're a little rusty, that's all. What +about the total recall? Is it still working?" + +He nodded, but he didn't say any more about it. + +Next day I stuck my head in before I went to lunch, and I congratulated +myself on not pushing him too hard the first day. Hillary was off in his +corner again, but his mouth was moving and all four girls were doing the +things that secretaries do when they are about two hours behind in their +work. + +Eight days later the thing dropped on my desk. I wet a finger with keen +anticipation, but the spit wasn't dry before I was plowing into +Hillary's office trailing loose sheets. + +"Are you kidding?" I yelled. + +He was out of his chair over by the window staring out. All he did was +hunch up his shoulders. The girls were standing around trying to act +invisible. + +"Hillary," I said trying to laugh. "Don't be playing gags on old George. +Where is it? Where's Oscar's play?" + +"I--I'm afraid that's it," he said without turning his head. + +"This--this fluff? This pablum?" + +"Well--I thought I'd try something light to begin with." + +"Light? This is no play. This is Pollyanna. It's been done. Where's your +conflict? Your problem? Your suspense? Dammit, where's your characters?" + +"I'll get warmed up tomorrow," Hilliary said, but he didn't have much +conviction in his voice. + +He tried. He really did. I heard him thrashing around for a whole hour +the next morning. By afternoon he was on his way to the hospital in an +ambulance with two men holding him down. + +All I could get out of the doctors was, "complete nervous breakdown." I +finally found a hard-up intern and bribed him to spy for me. He reported +that Hillary had the whole staff stumped. He was acting more like a dope +addict with withdrawal symptoms or a drunk with the D.T.'s. + +I got in touch with Hillary's sanitarium. The head psychiatrist was in +Europe, so I cabled him and flew him back. He took over, and pretty soon +I had the word I dreaded. + +"Your wonder boy will recover," he told me, "but that's a wonder in +itself. I presume he told you of his experiments to achieve total +recall?" + +I said yes. + +"What he probably failed to tell you was that we all tried to dissuade +him." + +"That he didn't mention, but I worried about it." + +"Yes, well you might have. When Hillary Hardy succeeded in stripping +away the last remnant of protective insulation in his memory he exposed +himself not only to its full factual content, but also he lay naked +every past emotional upset, every pain, fear, dread and sorrow he had +ever experienced. It is no longer possible for him to recall an +experience and ponder it objectively. _He relives it._" + +"Yes, I get that," I said, "but what's so--" + +"Did you ever hit your thumb with a hammer?" the doctor with the +traditional, gray goatee interrupted. + +"Sure, a couple of times." + +"Ever lose a sweetheart or have a loved one die?" + +I nodded. + +"Suppose that to even think about such experiences you had to endure all +the actual physical or emotional pain of the original incident? The +crushing blow of the hammer? The heartache and tears of your loss? And +suppose further, that you were trying to write a play, and in order to +bring genuine emotion to it you forced yourself to endure these pains +and emotional stresses, minute after minute--" + +"God!" I said. "But you said he'd recover?" + +"In a few weeks, yes. Gradually we will reduce sedation until he can +control his memories again, but never ask him to write another dramatic +work. Another attack like this one could drive him irretrievably +insane." + +It wasn't too hard to understand. After all, what is creative writing +but setting down little bits of yourself? And the demands of literature +are for human problems, conflicts, struggles. + +Young as he was, Hillary was no different from the rest of us. Sure, he +was full of reading and second hand bits of business, but he dug deeply +into his own private pot of pain for his genuine dramatic effects. And +where others dig with a long-handled ladle, Hillary dipped with his bare +soul--and he got scalded. + +Getting him well and keeping him that way was a matter of putting the +lid back on the pot, so to speak. Nobody ever invited him to write +another word. I saw to that. He's still with me, because after he went +bankrupt on the sanitarium deal he had nowhere to turn. After taxes and +the rooking the real estate boys gave him, his royalties were tied up +for years to come. + +He did get better, though. And he even works a little. Turns out scripts +for mild little comic books, the Honey-Bunney type that are approved by +parent-teacher censors. They don't sell very well. No conflict. No guts. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Mind Digger, by Winston Marks + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MIND DIGGER *** + +***** This file should be named 32353.txt or 32353.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/2/3/5/32353/ + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan 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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