The Potter of Firsk and Other Stories (68 page)

Cogswell was angry, his round face was red. “Your theory is interesting, Berwick—but it’s too pat. It’s unconvincing.”

Rakowsky laughed. “Take it easy, Doctor. Berwick’s idea isn’t unconvincing—what he says makes sense—but it just isn’t in line with facts.”

“‘Facts’?” asked Don. “What facts?”

Cogswell pulled at his lips. “Betty White has given us a very circumstantial picture of the after-life. The details she presented are—incontrovertible.”

“Well,” said Don, “I don’t want to argue the matter exhaustively…However, one point in regard to the ‘Unobstructed Universe’—Betty White’s spirit spoke to White; but she spoke as the idealized version of Betty White. She described the collective unconscious only as White and his friend Darby conceived it.”

“I must concede,” said Rakowsky, “that there are other equally substantial accounts of the after-life—and that Berwick’s theory has ingenious elements to it…But like all the other theories—it gives no foothold for verification.”

“I’m not so sure.” Don rose to his feet. “Suppose a person wanted to explore this collective unconscious, this after-life; how would he go about it?”

“The classic response is: die,” said Rakowsky.

“After he’s dead—then what?”

“Then he’s there.”

“True. But exactly as the people still alive remember him. He suffers whatever weakness and hardships they endow him with.”

“I see what you’re getting at,” said Head. “For a spirit—call it a spirit—to function at the optimum in this presumable after-life, he has to be remembered as a person with optimum qualities.”

“Right! Strong, intelligent, resourceful!”

Jean grinned. “He’s got to be curious—so that he’ll want to investigate. Also he must be endowed with the will to communicate back.”

Dr. Cogswell struck his fist into his palm. “What about Houdini? He had all these qualities. He was well-known. But he never showed himself.”

“It’s a good point,” said Don. “But I think it can be circumvented. How was Houdini known? What was his reputation?”

“He was known as an intelligent resourceful man, certainly.”

“Yes,” said Don. “But he was known as a profound skeptic—a man who claimed that spiritualism was 100 percent falsity.”

“Well, yes.”

“A few men and women expected to hear from him. The public was beset by Houdini’s own skepticism. Houdini to this day roams the after-life as the eternal embodiment of skepticism, believing nothing, not even in his own existence.”

Cogswell gave Don a look of grudging admiration. “You talked yourself out of that one.”

Don said, “I’m not just giving glib answers. I’m trying to show that my theory can meet objections.”

“It hasn’t met all of them. Just what, concisely, do you plan to do?”

“I want to explore the after-life. That means, I want to explore the collective unconscious. No doubt dangers exist: bogey-men, dragons, demons, television horrors, all the stereotypes of terror. They may even be dangerous; I don’t want to go as a weakling.”

“Don!” said Jean softly.

“‘Go’? What do you mean ‘go’?” asked Rakowsky. “In the classic sense?”

“Good heavens no!” said Don. “I’m not planning to kill myself. I’m talking about heavy unconsciousness, drugged or otherwise. Of course there are methods to kill a body—to make it legally, finally dead—and then revive it. Dr. Cogswell knows more about the subject than I do.”

Dr. Cogswell spoke with care. “These processes exist—but they’re purely experimental. We’ve only killed and revived dogs so far; no human volunteers have been available.”

Don said, “Naturally we’ll try the least drastic methods first…Incidentally, would anyone else care to make the journey? I’m only putting myself forward from a sense of responsibility.”

“The honor’s all yours,” said Godfrey Head. “At least, so far as I’m concerned.”

“What’s the best way for attaining a deep stupor, the metabolism just barely ticking, the brain inert?” Don asked Dr. Cogswell.

“There’s a new anaesthetic—Calabrisol—which meets your requirements.”

“Do you have any objection to using it?”

“No. None whatever. When do you wish to—go? Is ‘go’ the right word?”

“It serves the purpose. Do you think we could be ready as soon as next Saturday?”

“I’ll be in surgery Saturday,” said Dr. Cogswell. “It would have to be Sunday.”

“All right, Sunday, then.”

Kelso broke in. “I don’t understand this. When you awake from the anaesthetic, do you expect to remember your experiences?”

“No,” said Don. “Whatever is discovered must be reported through the controls of three or four of our most dependable mediums—Ivalee, Myron Hogart, Mr. Bose, Mrs. Kerr. If I am able to leave my corporeal body and wander around the after-world, perhaps Kochamba or Molly Toogood or Lew Wetzel will notice. I hope so anyway.”

“It sounds interesting,” said Kelso. “I suppose there’s no way you could take a camera along?” he added hopefully.

“You think of a way. I’ll take it.”

Kelso shook his head helplessly. Dr. Cogswell said, “We’ll have to make certain preparations…The hospital would be most convenient. But there I’d fear for my professional reputation…”

“Eventually the Foundation will own the proper equipment,” said Don. “But in the meantime if we can perform the experiment here, so much the better.”

“It’ll cost money,” said Dr. Cogswell.

“No trouble there,” said Don. “Whatever it costs, we’re good for it.”

XIV

At eleven o’clock Sunday morning all was in readiness. In three of the upstairs bedrooms Ivalee Trembath, Myron Hogart and Mrs. Kerr sat relaxed, eyes closed, trying to make contact with their controls. With them were Godfrey Head, Rakowsky and Tom Ward. On a couch in the living room Don Berwick lay, with Jean sitting close beside him. Contacts were fixed to his chest, wrists and neck; his respiration, heart action and blood pressure were registered on nearby dials. Dr. Cogswell had arranged his equipment around the room: various drugs, hypodermics, an oxygen mask, oxygen tank and the flask of anaesthetic. He had hired a professional anaesthetist for the occasion, a mystified young woman who was unable to understand why a healthy man wanted to be rendered unconscious on a fine summer morning.

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

Vivian Hallsey, at the control table, flashed signals to the upstairs rooms. Dr. Cogswell administered the hypodermic; the anaesthetist applied the mask.

In five minutes Don lay inert. Dr. Cogswell sat beside him, watching the dials which registered his vital processes. Respiration was shallow and slow; pulse and blood pressure were low.

Vivian Hallsey grimaced toward Jean, motioned above-stairs, shook her head. Ivalee Trembath had failed to contact the dependable Molly Toogood; Mrs. Kerr’s Marie Kozard was off somewhere on business of her own. Only Myron Hogart had entered a trance. He lay almost as quiet as Don, lips twitching, fingers jerking.

Godfrey Head spoke quietly, gently. “Is Lew Wetzel there, Myron? Can we talk to Lew Wetzel?”

From Myron Hogart’s lips came a cackle of harsh gibberish. Then a deep easy voice laughed. “Hear that? That was an Injun talking.”

“Hello, Lew.”

“Hello, mister. You understand that Injun talk?”

“No, I’m afraid not, Lew. How’s everything up above?”

“’Bout as always. Nice day today.”

“Do you see my friend Don Berwick there?”

“Don Berwick. Scout, is he? Or trapper?”

“He’s from my own time. He’s a scientist trying to learn things.”

“Don’t see him around.”

“I guess he hasn’t passed over to you yet. He’s unconscious now, and will be up there temporarily. Look for him.”

“Can’t be bothered with them off-again gone agains. Why don’t he handle himself more carefully?”

“He wanted to see you. He wants to shake hands.”

“He’s welcome, he’s welcome.”

“Look around for him, will you, Lew?”

“Can’t worry too much about him, mister,” said Lew fretfully. “If he hasn’t passed over, he’ll be hard to find. It sucks all a man’s vitality out of him living down there with you folks…Yeah, there’s someone here. He’s pale and wan—too weak to talk.”

“Ask him what his name is.”

“He says his name is Donald Berman.”

“Donald Berman, eh? Are you sure?”

“Course I’m sure, you scalawag.”

“It wouldn’t be Donald Berwick, would it?”

“I’ve heard enough of you, mister, and your doubtin’ ways. I ain’t talkin’ no more to you.”

Godfrey Head pleaded and cajoled, but Lew Wetzel remained obstinately silent. Myron Hogart twitched, whimpered, gave a jerk, opened his eyes. “Did you talk to Lew?”

Godfrey nodded. “He came; we talked a bit.”

“Learn what you wanted?”

“He was a little touchy today.”

Myron sighed. “He gets that way sometimes.”

In the other rooms Ivalee Trembath and Mrs. Kerr still sat. Mrs. Kerr sang hymns, but Ivalee was quiet. Their controls refused to appear.

Two hours later Don returned to consciousness, assisted by a few whiffs of oxygen. He lay looking up at the ceiling, deep in thought, then turned his head, searched the faces standing over him.

“Do you remember anything?” asked Jean.

Don frowned. “It’s like coming out of a dream. There were shapes, lights. There was a face: a man with pale blue eyes. He seemed to tower over me, as if I were a child. He wore fringed buckskin…Lew Wetzel?”

Jean nodded. “He’s the only one who came through.”

“What did he say?”

“You tell us what you saw first.”

“That’s all. Except I seemed to fly…It’s completely vague. Like last week’s dream.”

XV

“Well, we can’t expect dramatic successes every time,” said Don. “Today was just a teaser…Confound that Lew Wetzel! Donald Berman!”

The group sat at the back of the old Marsile house in Orange City. Charcoal glowed in the barbecue pit; steaks marinated in oil, garlic, herbs and wine.

Kelso asked Dr. Cogswell, “Do you think some other anaesthetic might work better? One of the hypnotics?”

Dr. Cogswell shook his head. “I’m sure I don’t know. We’re just prodding around in the dark.”

“How about opium?”

“Opium? You mean—opium?”

“Yes. According to the lore, it turns the mind out to canter through flowering fields. Or perhaps mescaline?”

Dr. Cogswell shook his head doubtfully. “Opium and mescaline induce hallucinations, true, but the mechanism is purely cerebral.”

Don sighed fretfully. “Doctor, how much effort would be involved in setting up a simulated-death tank at 26 Madrone?”

“Considerable effort, a great deal of money.”

Jean turned away quickly, went to fork the steaks out over the coals.

Dr. Cogswell’s eyes took on a thoughtful glint. “Our present equipment is obsolete. We’ve a dozen ideas which we’d like to introduce into a new system. However, funds are short, and my colleagues would be delighted if I reported that funds were forthcoming.”

“Okay,” said Don. “You can take over the old dining room and kitchen—make any alterations you like.”

Kelso asked, “You’re seriously planning to try this artificial death, Don?”

“I don’t plan to check out the new equipment, no. I want to see it tested backwards and forwards. If they kill and revive a dozen dogs, a dozen primates, including a few orang-utans, I might take a chance.”

Kelso considered. “Isn’t there any other way, that doesn’t incur any risk?”

Jean looked hopefully over her shoulder.

“You name it, we’ll try it.”

Kelso rubbed his chin. “If we could train a chimpanzee—”

Don snapped his fingers. “A question we should ask: ‘Are there animals in the after-world?’ Excuse me; what would we train the chimpanzee to do?”

Kelso shook his head. “Darned if I know.”

Don turned to Dr. Cogswell. “How long will it take you to set up a new tank?”

Dr. Cogswell considered. “A month and a half—in that neighborhood.”

“And allow another two months for testing—say a total of three or four months. Right?”

Dr. Cogswell nodded.

“We can put the time to good use,” said Don. “Kelso, maybe you can help us out here.”

“I’ll be glad to try.”

“Granting my theory, that the mass unconscious generates an after-world in the matrix of mind-stuff, that the characteristics of a spirit are determined by his reputation; that notoriety and fame strengthen the spirit—conceding all this to be true, it might benefit me to be planted in the public mind as a man of ingenuity and effectiveness.”

Kelso nodded thoughtfully. “In other words—you want publicity?”

“Of a certain sort: as much as possible. The public should think of Donald Berwick as efficient, resourceful, insatiably curious, given to traveling to strange places, with a faculty for emerging unscathed. They must think of him as a lucky dare-devil who always wins.”