The elders pondered before Ephraim Howe answered. — “It may be that you are right, dearly beloved children, yet it does not seem so to us. We have not attempted to place the ancient knowledge in the hands of all men because few are ready for it. It is no more safe in childish minds than matches in childish hands.
— “And yet … you may be right. Mark Twain thought so, and was given permission to tell all that he had learned. He did so, writing so that anyone ready for the knowledge could understand. No one did. In desperation he set forth specifically how to become telepathic. Still no one took him seriously. The more seriously he spoke, the more his readers laughed. He died embittered.
— “We would not have you believe that we have done nothing. This republic, with its uncommon emphasis on personal freedom and human dignity, would not have endured as long as it has had we not helped. We chose Lincoln. Oliver Wendell Holmes was one of us. Walt Whitman was our beloved brother. In a thousand ways we have supplied help, when needed, to avert a setback toward slavery and darkness."
The thought paused, then continued. — “Yet each must act as he sees it. It is still your decision to do this?"
Ben spoke aloud, in a steady voice, “It is!"
— “So let it be! Do you remember the history of Salem?"
— “Salem? Where the witchcraft trials were held? … Do you mean to warn us that we may be persecuted as witches?"
— “No. There are no laws against witchcraft today, of course. It would be better if there were. We hold no monopoly on the power of knowledge; do not expect an easy victory. Beware of those who hold, some portion of the ancient knowledge and use it to a base purpose — witches — black magicians!"
The conference concluded and rapport loosed, Ephraim Howe shook hands solemnly all around and bade them goodby.
“I envy you kids," he said, “going off like Jack the Giant Killer to tackle the whole educational system. You’ve got your work cut out for you. Do you remember what Mark Twain said? 'God made an idiot for practice, then he made a school board.’ Still, I’d like to come along."
“Why don’t you, sir?"
“Eh? No, 'twouldn’t do. I don’t really believe in your plan. F’r instance — it was frequently a temptation during the years I spent peddlin’ hardware in the State of Maine to show people better ways of doing things. But I didn’t do it; people are used to paring knives and ice cream freezers, and they won’t thank you to show them how to get along without them, just by the power of the mind. Not all at once, anyhow. They’d read you out of meetin’ — and lynch you, too, most probably.
“Still, I’ll be keeping an eye on you."
Joan reached up and kissed him good-bye. They left.
Chapter Ten
Lions Mouth
Phil picked his largest class to make the demonstration which was to get the newspapers interested in them.
They had played safe to the extent of getting back to Los Angeles and started with the fall semester before giving anyone cause to suspect that they possessed powers out of ordinary. Joan had been bound over not to levitate, not to indulge in practical jokes involving control over inanimate objects, not to startle strangers with weird abilities of any sort. She had accepted the injunctions meekly, so meekly that Coburn claimed to be worried.
“It’s not normal," he objected. “She can’t grow up as fast as all that. Let me see your tongue, my dear."
“Pooh," she answered, displaying that member in a most undiagnostic manner, “Master Ling said I was further advanced along the Way than either one of you."
“The heathen Chinee is peculiar. He was probably just encouraging you to grow up. Seriously, Phil, hadn’t we better put her into a deep hypnosis and scoot her back up the mountain for diagnosis and readjustment?"
“Ben Coburn, you cast an eye in my direction and I’ll bung it out!"
Phil built up to his key demonstration with care. His lectures were sufficiently innocuous that he could afford to have his head of department drop in without fear of reprimand or interference.
But the combined effect was to prepare the students emotionally for what was to come.
Carefully selected assignments for collateral reading heightened his chances.
“Hypnosis is a subject but vaguely understood," he began his lecture on the selected day, “and formerly classed with witchcraft, magic, and so forth, as silly superstition. But it is a commonplace thing today and easily demonstrated. Consequently the most conservative psychologists must recognize its existence and try to observe its characteristics." He went on cheerfully uttering bromides and commonplaces, while he sized up the emotional attitude of the class.
When he felt that they were ready to accept the ordinary phenomena of hypnosis without surprise, he called Joan, who had attended for the purpose, up to the front of the room. She went easily into a state of light hypnosis. They ran quickly through the small change of hypnotic phenomena — catalepsy, compulsion, post-hypnotic suggestion — while he kept up a running chatter about the relation between the minds of the operator and the subject, the possibility of direct telepathic control, the Rhine experiments, and similar matters, orthodox in themselves, but close to the borderline of heterodox thought.
Then he offered to attempt to reach the mind of the subject telepathically.
Each student was invited to write something on a slip of paper. A volunteer floor committee collected the slips, and handed them to Huxley one at a time. He solemnly went through the hocus-pocus of glancing at each one, while Joan read them off as his eyes rested on them. She stumbled convincingly once or twice. — “Nice work, kid." — “Thanks, pal. Can’t I pep it up a little?" — “None of your bright ideas. Just keep on as you are. They’re eating out of our hands now."
By such easy stages he led them around to the idea that mind and will could exercise control over the body much more complete than that ordinarily encountered. He passed lightly over the tales of Hindu holy men who could lift themselves up into the air and even travel from place to place.
“We have an exceptional opportunity to put such tales to practical test," he told them. “The subject believes fully any statement made by the operator. I shall tell Miss Freeman that she is to exert her will power, and rise up off the floor. It is certain that she will believe that she can do it. Her will will be in an optimum condition to carry out the order, if it can be done. Miss Freeman!"
“Yes, Mr. Huxley."
“Exert your will. Rise up in the air!"
Joan rose straight up into the air, some six feet — until her head nearly touched the high ceiling.
— “How’m doin,’ pal?" — Swell, kid, you’re wowin 'em. Look at 'em stare!"
At that moment Brinkley burst into the room, rage in his eyes.
“Mr. Huxley, you have broken your word to me, and disgraced this university!" It was some ten minutes after the fiasco ending the demonstration. Huxley faced the president in Brinkley’s private office.
“I made you no promise. I have not disgraced the school," Phil answered with equal pugnacity.
“You have indulged in cheap tricks of fake magic to bring your department into disrepute."
“So I’m a faker, am I? You stiff — necked old fossil — explain this one!" Huxley levitated himself until he floated three feet above the rug.
“Explain what?" To Huxley’s amazement Brinckley seemed unaware that anything unusual was going on. He continued to stare at the point where Phils head had been. His manner showed nothing but a slight puzzlement and annoyance at Huxley’s apparently irrelevant remark.
Was it possible that the doddering old fool was so completely self-deluded that he could not observe anything that ran counter to his own preconceptions even when it happened directly under his eyes? Phil reached out with his mind and attempted to see what went on inside Brinckley’s head. He got one of the major surprises of his life. He expected to find the floundering mental processes of near senility; he found cold calculation, keen ability, s
et in a matrix of pure evil that sickened him.
It was just a glimpse, then he was cast out with a wrench that numbed his brain.
Brinckley had discovered his spying and thrown up his defenses — the hard defenses of a disciplined mind.
Phil dropped back to the floor, and left the room, without a word, nor a backward glance.
From THE WESTERN STUDENT, October 3rd:
PSYCH PROF FIRED FOR FRAUD
… students’ accounts varied, but all agreed that it had been a fine show. Fullback 'Buzz’ Arnold told your reporter, “I hated to see it happen; Prof Huxley is a nice guy and he certainly put on a clever skit with some good deadpan acting. I could see how it was done, of course — it was the same the Great Arturo used in his turn at the Orpheum last spring. But I can see Doctor Brinckley’s viewpoint; you can’t permit monkey shines at a serious center of learning."
President Brinckley gave the STUDENT the following official statement: “It is with real regret that I announce the termination of Mr. Huxley’s association with the institution — for the good of the University. Mr. Huxley had been repeatedly warned as to where his steps were leading him. He is a young man of considerable ability. Let us devoutly hope that this experience will serve as a lesson to him in whatever line of endeavor —"
Coburn handed the paper back to Huxley. “You know what happened to me?" he inquired.
“Something new?"
“Invited to resign — No publicity — just a gentle hint. My patients got well too fast; I’d quit using surgery, you know."
“How perfectly stinking!" This from Joan.
“Well," Ben considered, “I don’t blame the medical director; Brinckley forced his hand. I guess we underrated the old cuss."
“Rather! Ben, he’s every bit as capable as any one of us, and as for his motives — I gag when I think about it."
“And I thought he was just a were-mouse," grieved Joan. “We should have pushed him into the tar pits last spring. I told you to. What do we do now?"
“Go right ahead." Phil’s reply was grim. “Well turn the situation to our own advantage; we’ve gotten some publicity — we’ll use it."
“What’s the gag?"
“Levitation again. It’s the most spectacular thing we’ve got for a crowd. Call in the papers, and tell 'em that we will publicly demonstrate levitation at noon tomorrow in Pershing Square."
“Won’t the papers fight shy of sticking their necks out on anything that sounds as fishy as that?"
“Probably they would, but here’s how we’ll handle that: Make the whole thing just a touch screwball and give 'em plenty of funny angles to write up. Then they can treat it as a feature rather than as straight news. The lid’s off, Joan — you can do anything you like; the screwier the better. Let’s get going, troops — I’ll call the News Service. Ben, you and Joan split up the dailies between you."
The reporters were interested, certainly. They were interested in Joan’s obvious good looks, cynically amused by Phil’s flowing tie and bombastic claims, and seriously impressed by his taste in whiskey. They began to take notice when Coburn courteously poured drinks for them without bothering to touch the bottle.
But when Joan floated around the room while Phil rode a nonexistent bicycle across the ceiling, they balked. “Honest, doc," as one of them put it, “we’ve got to eat — you don’t expect us to go back and tell a city editor anything like this. Come clean; is it the whiskey, or just plain hypnotism?"
“Put it any way you like, gentlemen. Just be sure that you say that we will do it all over again in Pershing Square at noon tomorrow." Phil’s diatribe against Brinckley came as an anticlimax to the demonstration, but the reporters obligingly noted it.
Joan got ready for bed that night with a feeling of vague depression. The exhilaration of entertaining the newspaper boys had worn off. Ben had proposed supper and dancing to mark their last night of private life, but it had not been a success. To start with, they had blown a tire while coming down a steep curve on Beachwood Drive, and Phil’s gray sedan had rolled over and over. They would have all been seriously injured had it not been for the automatic body control which they possessed.
When Phil examined the wreck, he expressed puzzlement as to its cause. “Those tires were perfectly all right, he maintained. “I had examined them all the way through this morning." But he insisted on continuing with their evening of relaxation.
The floor show seemed dull, the jokes crude and callous after the light, sensitive humor they had learned to enjoy through association with Master Ling.
The ponies in the chorus were young and beautiful. Joan had enjoyed watching them, but she made the mistake of reaching out to touch their minds. The incongruity of the vapid, insensitive spirits she found — almost every instance — added to her malaise.
She was relieved when the floor show ended and Ben asked her to dance. Both of the men were good dancers, especially Coburn, and she fitted herself into his arms contentedly. Her pleasure didn’t last; a drunken couple bumped into them repeatedly. The man was quarrelsome, the woman shrilly vitriolic. Joan asked her escorts to take her home.
These things bothered her as she prepared for bed. Joan, who had never known acute physical fear in her life, feared just one thing — the corrosive, dirty emotions of the poor in spirit. Malice, envy, spite, the snide insults of twisted, petty minds; these things could hurt her, just by being in her presence, even if she were not the direct object of the attack. She was not yet sufficiently mature to have acquired a smooth armor of indifference to the opinions of the unworthy.
After a summer in the company of men of good will, the incident with the drunken couple dismayed her. She felt dirtied by the contact. Worse still, she felt an outlander, a stranger in a strange land.
She awakened sometime in the night with the sense of loneliness increased to overwhelming proportions. She was acutely aware of the three — million-odd living beings around her, but the whole city seemed alive only with malignant entities, jealous of her, anxious to drag her down to their own ignoble status. This attack on her spirit, this attempt to despoil the sanctity of her inner being, assumed an almost corporate nature. It seemed to her that it was nibbling at the edges of her mind, snuffling at her defenses.
Terrified, she called out to Ben and Phil. There was no answer; her mind could not find them.
The filthy thing that threatened her was aware of her failure; she could feel it leer. In open panic she called to the Senior.
No answer. This time the thing spoke — “That way, too, is closed."
As hysteria claimed her, as her last defenses crumbled, she was caught in the arms of a stronger spirit, whose calm, untroubled goodness encysted her against the evil thing that stalked her.
“Ling!" she cried, “Master Ling!" before racking sobs claimed her.
She felt the quiet, reassuring humor of his smile while the fingers of his mind reached out and smoothed away the tensions of her fear. Presently she slept.
His mind stayed with her all through the night, and talked with her, until she awakened.
Ben and Phil listened to her account of the previous night with worried faces. “That settles it, Phil decided. “We’ve been too careless. From now on until this thing is finished, we stay in rapport day and night, awake and asleep. As a matter of fact, I had a bad time of it myself last night, though nothing equal to what happened to Joan."
“So did I, Phil. What happened to you?"
“Nothing very much — just a long series of nightmares in which I kept losing confidence in my ability to do any of the things we learned on Shasta. What about you?"
“Same sort of thing, with variations. I operated all night long, and all of my patients died on the table. Not very pleasant — but something else happened that wasn’t a dream. You know I still use an old — fashioned straight-razor; I was shaving away, paying no attention to it, when it jumped in my hand and cut a big gash in my throat. See? It’s not entirely healed yet." He indi
cated a thin red line which ran diagonally down the right side of his neck.
“Why, Ben!" squealed Joan, “you might have been killed."
“That’s what I thought," he agreed dryly.
“You know, kids," Phil said slowly, “these things aren’t accidental —"
“Open up in there!" The order was bawled from the other side of the door. As one mind, their senses of direct perception jumped through solid oak and examined the speaker. Plainclothes did not conceal the profession of the oversize individual waiting there even had they not been able to see the gold shield on his vest. A somewhat smaller, but equally officious, man waited with him.
Ben opened the door and inquired gently, “What do you want?"
The larger man attempted to come in. Coburn did not move.
“I asked you your business."
“Smart guy, eh? I’m from police headquarters. You Huxley?"
“No."
“Coburn?" Ben nodded.
“You’ll do. That Huxley behind you? Don’t either of you ever stay home? Been here all night?"
“No," said Coburn frostily, “not that it is any of your business."
“I’ll decide about that. I want to talk to you two. I’m from the bunco squad. What’s this game you were giving the boys yesterday?"
“No game, as you call it. Come down to Pershing Square at noon today, and see for yourself."
“You won’t be doing anything in Pershing Square today, Bud."
“Why not?"
“Park Commission’s orders."
“What authority?"
“Huh?"
“By what act, or ordinance, do they deny the right of private citizens to make peaceful use of a public place? Who is that with you?"
The smaller man identified himself. “Name’s Ferguson, D.A.'s office. I want your pal Huxley on a criminal libel complaint. I want you two’s witnesses.
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