"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 onel" 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 Brincldey"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, set 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 defences—the hard defences 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 a.s.sociation with the inst.i.tution—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 non-existent 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 a.s.sociation 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 instace—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 b.u.mped 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 ent.i.ties, jealous of her, anxious to drag her down to their own ign.o.ble status. This attack on her spirit, this attempt to despoil the sanct.i.ty of her inner being, a.s.sumed an almost corporate nature. It seemed to her that it was nibbling at the edges of her mind, snuffling at her defences.
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 defences 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, rea.s.suring 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.