eyes. "You're right, George," he said much to my surprise."I can't coast forever--and believe me, I never visualized what thiswould be like. It's wonderful. The world is at my feet, George. At myfeet!"
I had pegged him right. But after all, who could resist the accolade hehad received? For all his monomania on this business of mnemonics, hewas a red-blooded boy with active glands and youthful corpuscles.
To my further delight he threw off his imported suit-coat and said, "I'mready right now. Where do we start?"
* * * * *
I broached the file and studied my priority list. "First off, Oscarwants a play. That'll take a week or two, I suppose. Then I have anassignment for a serial--"
I outlined about three months work for him, or what would have beenthree months work last summer.
I moved him into my own penthouse apartment upstairs and herded him towork the next morning. My squad of strong-arms guarded all entrances,and Hec Blankenship finally convinced the public that we meant businessin getting a little privacy for our tame genius so he could hatch somemore immortal works.
I had lunch sent in to him in the next office and didn't see him untilfive that first evening. I went in without knocking. One secretary wasfiling her nails, and the other three were putting on their coats. Thecovers were still on the typewriters and Hillary was asleep or in a comaover in the corner.
I kicked his feet off his desk, and he rocked forward. "Come onupstairs, I'll buy you a steak," I said.
He smiled weakly, "I need one. It didn't go so good." In the elevator headded, "In fact, it didn't go at all."
"Take it easy," I assured him. "You're a little rusty, that's all. Whatabout 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 congratulatedmyself on not pushing him too hard the first day. Hillary was off in hiscorner again, but his mouth was moving and all four girls were doing thethings that secretaries do when they are about two hours behind in theirwork.
Eight days later the thing dropped on my desk. I wet a finger with keenanticipation, but the spit wasn't dry before I was plowing intoHillary'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 washunch up his shoulders. The girls were standing around trying to actinvisible.
"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 yourconflict? Your problem? Your suspense? Dammit, where's your characters?"
"I'll get warmed up tomorrow," Hilliary said, but he didn't have muchconviction in his voice.
He tried. He really did. I heard him thrashing around for a whole hourthe next morning. By afternoon he was on his way to the hospital in anambulance with two men holding him down.
All I could get out of the doctors was, "complete nervous breakdown." Ifinally found a hard-up intern and bribed him to spy for me. He reportedthat Hillary had the whole staff stumped. He was acting more like a dopeaddict with withdrawal symptoms or a drunk with the D.T.'s.
I got in touch with Hillary's sanitarium. The head psychiatrist was inEurope, so I cabled him and flew him back. He took over, and pretty soonI had the word I dreaded.
"Your wonder boy will recover," he told me, "but that's a wonder initself. I presume he told you of his experiments to achieve totalrecall?"
I said yes.
"What he probably failed to tell you was that we all tried to dissuadehim."
"That he didn't mention, but I worried about it."
"Yes, well you might have. When Hillary Hardy succeeded in strippingaway the last remnant of protective insulation in his memory he exposedhimself not only to its full factual content, but also he lay nakedevery past emotional upset, every pain, fear, dread and sorrow he hadever experienced. It is no longer possible for him to recall anexperience 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 thetraditional, 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 allthe actual physical or emotional pain of the original incident? Thecrushing blow of the hammer? The heartache and tears of your loss? Andsuppose further, that you were trying to write a play, and in order tobring genuine emotion to it you forced yourself to endure these painsand 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 cancontrol his memories again, but never ask him to write another dramaticwork. Another attack like this one could drive him irretrievablyinsane."
It wasn't too hard to understand. After all, what is creative writingbut setting down little bits of yourself? And the demands of literatureare for human problems, conflicts, struggles.
Young as he was, Hillary was no different from the rest of us. Sure, hewas full of reading and second hand bits of business, but he dug deeplyinto his own private pot of pain for his genuine dramatic effects. Andwhere others dig with a long-handled ladle, Hillary dipped with his baresoul--and he got scalded.
Getting him well and keeping him that way was a matter of putting thelid back on the pot, so to speak. Nobody ever invited him to writeanother word. I saw to that. He's still with me, because after he wentbankrupt on the sanitarium deal he had nowhere to turn. After taxes andthe rooking the real estate boys gave him, his royalties were tied upfor years to come.
He did get better, though. And he even works a little. Turns out scriptsfor mild little comic books, the Honey-Bunney type that are approved byparent-teacher censors. They don't sell very well. No conflict. No guts.
The Mind Digger Page 4
