* * * *
Letter from Professor Albrecht Aigen to Dr. Karl Thurn.
My dear Karl:
Did you receive my last letter? I am anxious to have your assurance that it was impossible that The Leader could englamour the whole nation by his psionic gifts.
* * * *
Telegram, Dr. Albrecht Aigen to Dr. Karl Thurn.
Karl, as you are my friend, answer me!
* * * *
Letter, Dr. Karl Thurn to Professor Albrecht Aigen.
…But what have you discovered, my friend, that you are afraid to face?
* * * *
Letter. Professor Albrecht Aigen to Dr. Karl Thurn.
My dear Karl:
I appeal to you because I have discovered how nearly our nation and the whole world escaped horrors beside which those of The Leader’s actual regime would seem trivial. Give me reasons, arguments, proofs beyond question, which I can put into my report on his career! I must demonstrate beyond question that psi ability did not cause his ascendancy! Help me to contrive a lie which will keep anyone, ever, from dreaming that psi ability can be used to seize a government and a nation. It could seize the world more terribly.…
I cannot express the urgency of this need! There are others who possess The Leader’s powers in a lesser degree. They must remain only swindlers and such, without ambitions to rule, or they might study The Leader’s career as Napoleon studied Alexander’s. There must be no hint, anywhere, of the secret I have discovered. There must be nothing to lead to the least thought of it! The Leader could have multiplied his power ten-thousand-fold! Another like him must never learn how it could be done!
I beg your help, Karl! I am shaken. I am terrified. I wish that I had not undertaken this research. I wish it almost as desperately as I wish that The Leader had never been born!
* * * *
Letter from Colonel Sigmund Knoeller, retired, to Professor Albrecht Aigen, Brunn University.
Herr Professor:
In response to your authorized request for information about certain events; I have the honor to inform you that at the time you mention I was Major in command of the Second Battalion of the 161st Infantry Regiment, assigned to guard duty about the residence of The Leader. Actual guard duty was performed by the secret police. My battalion merely provided sentries around the perimeter of the residence, and at certain places within.
On August 19th I received a command to march three companies of my men into the residence, to receive orders from The Leader in person. This command was issued by the Herr General Breyer, attached to The Leader as a military aide.
I led my men inside according to the orders, guided by the orderly who had brought them. I entered an inner courtyard. There was disturbance. People moved about in a disorderly fashion and chattered agitatedly. This was astonishing in The Leader’s residence. I marched up to General Breyer, who stood outside a group biting his nails. I saluted and said: “Major Knoeller reporting for orders, Herr General.”
There was then confusion in the nearby squabbling group. A man burst out of it and waved his arms at me. He looked like The Leader. He cried shrilly:
“Arrest these men! All of them! Then shoot them!”
I looked at the Herr General Breyer. He bit his nails. The man who looked so much like The Leader foamed at the mouth. But he was not The Leader. That is, in every respect he resembled The Leader to whom I owed loyalty as did everyone. But no one who was ever in The Leader’s presence failed to know it. There was a feeling. One knew to the inmost part of one’s soul that he was The Leader who must be reverenced and obeyed. But one did not feel that way about this man, though he resembled The Leader so strongly.
“Arrest them!” shrilled the man ferociously. “I command it! I am The Leader! Shoot them!”
When I still waited for General Breyer to give me orders, the man shrieked at the troopers. He commanded them to kill General Breyer and all the rest, including me. And if he had been The Leader they would have obeyed. But he was not. So my men stood stiffly at attention, waiting for my orders or General Breyer’s.
There was now complete silence in the courtyard. The formerly squabbling men watched as if astonished. As if they did not believe their eyes. But I waited for General Breyer to give his commands.
The man screamed in a terrible, frustrated rage. He waved his arms wildly. He foamed at the mouth and shrieked at me. I waited for orders from General Breyer. After a long time he ceased to bite his nails and said in a strange voice:
“You had better have this man placed in confinement, Major Knoeller. See that he is not injured. Double all guards and mount machine guns in case of rioting outside. Dismiss!”
I obeyed my commands. My men took the struggling, still-shrieking man and put him in a cell in the guardhouse. There was a drunken private there, awaiting court-martial. He was roused and annoyed when his new companion shrieked and screamed and shook the bars of the door. He kicked the man who looked so much like The Leader. I then had the civilian placed in a separate cell, but he continued to rave incoherently until I had the regimental surgeon give him an injection to quiet him. He sank into drugged sleep with foam about his lips.
He looked remarkably like The Leader. I have never seen such a resemblance! But he was not The Leader or we would have known him.
There was no disturbance outside the residence. The doubled guards and the mounted machine guns were not needed.
I am, Herr Professor, (Et cetera.)
* * * *
Letter, with enclosure, from Professor Albrecht Aigen, Brunn University, to Dr. Karl Thurn, University of Laibach.
My dear Karl:
Because of past sharing in my research, you will realize what the enclosed means. It is part of the report of the physicians who examined The Leader three days after his confinement in a military prison. He had recovered much of his self-control. He spoke with precision. He appeared even calm, though he was confused in some matters. The doctors addressed him as “My Leader” because he refused to reply otherwise.
* * * *
(Enclosure)
Dr. Kundmann: But, My Leader, we do not understand what has happened! You were terribly disturbed. You were even…even confused in your behavior! Can you tell us what took place?
The Leader: I suffered a great danger and a temporary damage. That villain Schweeringen—I shot him. It was a mistake. I should have had him worked over—at length!
Dr. Messner: My Leader, will you be so good as to tell us the nature of the danger and the damage?
The Leader: Schweeringen probably told someone what he would propose to me. It was his conviction that because of my special gifts I could cause anyone, not only to obey me, but to pour out to me, directly, his inmost thoughts and memories. Of course this is true. The danger was that of the contact of my mind with an inferior one. But I allowed Schweeringen to persuade me that I should risk even this for the service of my people. Therefore I contacted the mind of Prime Minister Winston, so I could know every scheme and every plan he might have or know to exist to injure my people. I intended, however, to cause him to become loyal to me—though I would later have had him shot. Schweeringen had betrayed me, though. When I made contact with Winston’s mind, it was not only inferior, but diseased! There was a contagion which temporarily affected the delicate balance of my intuition. For a short time I could not know, as ordinarily, what was best for my people.
(End of Enclosure)
You will see, my dear Karl, what took place. To you and to me this explains everything. In the background of my research and your information it is clear. Fortunately, The Leader’s mind was unstable. The strain and shock of so unparalleled experience as complete knowledge of another brain’s contents destroyed his rationality. He became insane. Insane, he no longer had the psi gifts by which he had seized and degraded our nation. He ceased to be The Leader.
But you will see that this must be hidden! Another monster like The Leader, or Napoleon—perhaps even lesser
monsters—could attempt the same feat. But they might be less unstable! They might be able to invade the mind of any human being, anywhere, and drain it of any secret or impress upon it any desire or command, however revolting. You see, Karl, why this must never become known! It must be hidden forever.
* * * *
Letter from Dr. Karl Thurn, University of Laibach, to Professor Albrecht Aigen, Brunn University.
My dear friend:
I am relieved! I feared for your judgment. I thought that perhaps overwork and frustration had set up an anxiety-block to make you cease your work. But you are quite right. Your analysis is brilliant. And now that you have pointed it out, unquestionably a man with The Leader’s psi powers could force another man’s brain to transmit all its contents to him.
But consider the consequences! Consider the conditions of such an event. One’s brain is designed to work within one’s own skull, dealing with sensory messages and the like. Very occasionally it acts outside, shifting crumbs of cheese and confusing computers—and securing candy. But even when one’s will controls outside actions, it does not fuse with the outside brain or thing. It molds or moves the recipient mind, but there is never a sharing of memory. You have explained why.
Consider what must happen if a brain of limited power and essentially emotional operation is linked to another and more powerful one. Assume for a moment that my she-dog had linked her brain to yours, even momentarily. Do you realize that she would not have gotten your memories, much less your power to reason? She would not even have acquired your knowledge of the meaning of words! When a bright light shines in your eyes, you see nothing else. When thunder rolls in your ears, you do not hear the ticking of a clock. When you suffer pain, you do not notice a feather’s tickle. If my she-dog had linked her mind to yours, she would have experienced something which is knowledge more firmly fixed and more continuously known than anything else in your conscious life. This overwhelmingly strong conviction would have been so powerful and so positive that it would be imprinted—branded—burned into every cell of her brain. She could never get it out.
But in receiving this overwhelming experience she would not get your memories or power to reason or even your personality. She would have experienced only your identity. She would have received only the conviction that she was yourself! She would have been like those poor lunatics who believe that they are Napoleon, though they have nothing of Napoleon in them but the conviction of identity. They do not know when he was born or have more than the vaguest notion of what he did, but they try to act as who he was—according to their own ideas of how Napoleon would act in their situation. This is how my she-dog would have behaved.
I am relieved. You have explained everything. Your letter gave me the suspicion. I secured a transcript of the Herr Doctor’s report for myself. My suspicion became a certainty. You will find the clue in the report. Consider: The Leader had had the experience I imagined for my she-dog. He had linked his mind with a stronger one and a greater personality—if it must be said, a greater man. For a moment The Leader knew what that man knew most certainly, with most profound conviction, with most positive knowledge. It was burned into his brain. He could never get it out. He did not secure that other man’s memories or knowledge or ability. He was blinded, deafened, dazed by the overwhelming conviction that, the other man had of his own identity. It would not be possible for him to get anything else from a stronger mind and a greater person. Nor could anyone else succeed where he failed, my friend! There is no danger of any man seizing the world by seizing the minds of all his fellows! One who tries will meet the fate of The Leader.
You realize what that fate was, of course. He suddenly ceased to be the monster who could cast a spell of blind adoration for himself. He ceased to be The Leader! So the doctors gave him truth-serum so he would not try to conceal anything from them. The result is in the transcript on the third page beyond the place you quoted to me. There the doctors asked The Leader who he was. Read his answer, my friend! It proves everything! He said:
“I am Prime Minister Winston.”
THE AMBULANCE MADE TWO TRIPS (1960)
Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald found a package before his door that morning, along with the milk. He took it inside and opened it. It was a remarkably fine meerschaum pipe, such as the sergeant had longed irrationally to own for many years. There was no message with it, nor any card. He swore bitterly.
On his way to Headquarters he stopped in at the orphanage where he usually left such gifts. On other occasions he had left Scotch, a fly-rod, sets of very expensive dry-flies, and dozens of pairs of silk socks. The female head of the orphanage accepted the gift with gratitude.
“I don’t suppose,” said Fitzgerald morbidly, “that any of your kids will smoke this pipe, but I want to be rid of it and for somebody to know.” He paused. “Are you gettin’ many other gifts on this order, from other cops? Like you used to?”
The head of the orphanage admitted that the total had dropped off. Fitzgerald went on his way, brooding. He’d been getting anonymous gifts like this ever since Big Jake Connors moved into town with bright ideas. Big Jake denied that he was the generous party. He expressed complete ignorance. But Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald knew better. The gifts were having their effect upon the Force. There was a police lieutenant whose wife had received a mink stole out of thin air and didn’t speak to her husband for ten days when he gave it to the Community Drive. He wouldn’t do a thing like that again! There was another sergeant—not Fitzgerald—who’d found a set of four new white-walls tires on his doorstep, and was ostracized by his teen-age offspring when he turned them into the police Lost and Found. Fitzgerald gave his gifts to an orphanage, with a fine disregard of their inappropriateness. But he gloomily suspected that a great many of his friends were weakening. The presents weren’t bribes. Big Jake not only didn’t ask acknowledgments of them, he denied that he was the giver. But inevitably the recipients of bounty with the morning milk felt less indignation about what Big Jake was doing and wasn’t getting caught at.
At Headquarters, Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald found a memo. A memo was routine, but the contents of this one were remarkable. He scowled at it. He made phone calls, checking up on the more unlikely parts of it. Then he went to make the regular investigation.
When he reached his destination he found it an unpretentious frame building with a sign outside: “Elite Cleaners and Dyers.” There were no plate-glass windows. There was nothing show-off about it. It was just a medium-sized, modestly up-to-date establishment to which lesser tailoring shops would send work for wholesale treatment. From some place in the back, puffs of steam shot out at irregular intervals. Somebody worked a steampresser on garments of one sort or another. There was a rumbling hum, as of an oversized washing-machine in operation. All seemed tranquil.
The detective went in the door. Inside there was that peculiar, professional-cleaning-fluid smell, which is not as alarming as gasoline or carbon tetrachloride, but nevertheless discourages the idea of striking a match. In the outer office a man wrote placidly on one blue-paper strip after another. He had an air of pleasant self-confidence. He glanced up briefly, nodded, wrote on three more blue-paper strips, and then gathered them all up and put them in a particular place. He turned to Fitzgerald.
“Well?”
Fitzgerald showed his shield. The man behind the counter nodded again.
“My name’s Fitzgerald,” grunted the detective. “The boss?”
“Me,” said the man behind the counter. He was cordial. “My name’s Brink. You’ve got something to talk to me about?”
“That’s the idea,” said Fitzgerald. “A coupla questions.”
Brink jerked a thumb toward a door.
“Come in the other office. Chairs there, and we can sit down. What’s the trouble? A complaint of some kind?”
He ushered Fitzgerald in before him. The detective found himself scowling. He’d have felt better with a different kind of man to ask questions of. T
his Brink looked untroubled and confident. It didn’t fit the situation. The inner office looked equally matter-of-fact. No.… There was the shelf with the usual books of reference on textiles and such items as a cleaner-and-dyer might need to have on hand. But there were some others: “Basic Principles of Psi”, “Modern Psychokinetic Theories.” There was a small, mostly-plastic machine on another shelf. It had no obvious function. It looked as if it had some unguessable but rarely-used purpose. There was dust on it.
“What’s the complaint?” repeated Brink. “Hm-m-m. A cigar?”
“No,” said Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald. “I’ll light my pipe.” He did, extracting tobacco and a pipe that was by no means a meerschaum from his pocket. He puffed and said: “A guy who works for you caught himself on fire this mornin’. It happened on a bus. Very peculiar. The guy’s name was Jacaro.”
Brink did not look surprised.
“What happened?”
“It’s kind of a strange thing,” said Fitzgerald. “Accordin’ to the report he’s ridin’ this bus, readin’ his paper, when all of a sudden he yells an’ jumps up. His pants are on fire. He gets ’em off fast and chucks them out the bus window. He’s blistered some but not serious, and he clams up—but good—when the ambulance doc puts salve on him. He won’t say a word about what happened or how. They hadda call a ambulance because he couldn’t go huntin’ a doc with no pants on.”
“But he’s not burned badly?” asked Brink.
“No. Blisters, yes. Scared, yes. And mad as hell. But he’ll get along. It’s too bad. We’ve pinched him three times on suspicion of arson, but we couldn’t make it stick. Something ought to happen to make that guy stop playin’ with matches—only this wasn’t matches.”
“I’m glad he’s only a little bit scorched,” said Brink. He considered. “Did he say anything about his eyelids twitching this morning? I don’t suppose he would.”
The detective stared.
“He didn’t. Say aren’t you curious about how he came to catch on fire? Or what his pants smelled of that burned so urgent? Or where he expected burnin’ to start instead of his pants?”
The Murray Leinster Megapack Page 184
