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  _Just about a year ago, two enthusiastic young men came to see me, and during the course of the visit announced that they were starting a campaign to make their living in science fiction--and also to become "names" in the best science fiction magazines. They planned to collaborate on some material, and write on their own as well, intending to make the grade both ways._

  _One of the pair was a well-known science fiction fan, who had appeared once or twice in the "pro mags," as fans designate journals like this one. The other was Randall Garrett, who had previously sold a respectable number of stories to various magazines in the science fiction and fantasy field._

  _I shall not try to insult your intelligence by stating that I told them I knew they could do it; on the contrary, I larded doubt with sympathy. However, this story, and Robert A. Madle's "Inside Science Fiction" will show how wrong I was!_

  SUITE MENTALE

  by Randall Garrett

  _Illustrated by EMSH_

  OVERTURE--ADAGIO MISTERIOSO

  The neurosurgeon peeled the thin surgical gloves from his hands as thenurse blotted the perspiration from his forehead for the last time afterthe long, grueling hours.

  "They're waiting outside for you, Doctor," she said quietly.

  The neurosurgeon nodded wordlessly. Behind him, three assistants werestill finishing up the operation, attending to the little finishingtouches that did not require the brilliant hand of the specialist. Suchthings as suturing up a scalp, and applying bandages.

  The nurse took the sterile mask--no longer sterile now--while the doctorwashed and dried his hands.

  "Where are they?" he asked finally. "Out in the hall, I suppose?"

  She nodded. "You'll probably have to push them out of the way to get outof Surgery."

  * * * * *

  Her prediction was almost perfect. The group of men in conservativebusiness suits, wearing conservative ties, and holding conservative,soft, felt hats in their hands were standing just outside the door. Dr.Mallon glanced at the five of them, letting his eyes stop on the face ofthe tallest. "He may live," the doctor said briefly.

  "You don't sound very optimistic, Dr. Mallon," said the FBI man.

  Mallon shook his head. "Frankly, I'm not. He was shot laterally, justabove the right temple, with what looks to me like a .357 magnum pistolslug. It's in there--" He gestured back toward the room he had justleft. "--you can have it, if you want. It passed completely through thebrain, lodging on the other side of the head, just inside the skull.What kept him alive, I'll never know, but I can guarantee that he mightas well be dead; it was a rather nasty way to lobotomize a man, but itwas effective, I can assure you."

  The Federal agent frowned puzzledly. "Lobotomized? Like those operationsthey do on psychotics?"

  "Similar," said Mallon. "But no psychotic was ever butchered up likethis; and what I had to do to him to save his life didn't helpanything."

  The men looked at each other, then the big one said: "I'm sure you didthe best you could, Dr. Mallon."

  The neurosurgeon rubbed the back of his hand across his forehead andlooked steadily into the eyes of the big man.

  "You wanted him alive," he said slowly, "and I have a duty to save life.But frankly, I think we'll all eventually wish we had the common humandecency to let Paul Wendell die. Excuse me, gentlemen; I don't feelwell." He turned abruptly and strode off down the hall.

  * * * * *

  One of the men in the conservative suits said: "Louis Pasteur livedthrough most of his life with only half a brain and he never even knewit, Frank; maybe--"

  "Yeah. Maybe," said the big man. "But I don't know whether to hope hedoes or hope he doesn't." He used his right thumbnail to pick a bit ofmicroscopic dust from beneath his left index finger, studying theoperation without actually seeing it. "Meanwhile, we've got to decidewhat to do about the rest of those screwballs. Wendell was the only saneone, and therefore the most dangerous--but the rest of them aren't whatyou'd call safe, either."

  The others nodded in a chorus of silent agreement.

  NOCTURNE--TEMPO DI VALSE

  "Now what the hell's the matter with me?" thought Paul Wendell. He couldfeel nothing. Absolutely nothing: No taste, no sight, no hearing, noanything. "Am I breathing?" He couldn't feel any breathing. Nor, forthat matter, could he feel heat, nor cold, nor pain.

  "Am I dead? No. At least, I don't _feel_ dead. Who am I? What am I?" Noanswer. _Cogito, ergo sum._ What did that mean? There was somethingquite definitely wrong, but he couldn't quite tell what it was. Ideasseemed to come from nowhere; fragments of concepts that seemed to haveno referents. What did that mean? What is a referent? A concept? He felthe knew intuitively what they meant, but what use they were he didn'tknow.

  There was something wrong, and he had to find out what it was. And hehad to find out through the only method of investigation left open tohim.

  So he thought about it.

  SONATA--ALLEGRO CON BRIO

  The President of the United States finished reading the sheaf of papersbefore him, laid them neatly to one side, and looked up at the big manseated across the desk from him.

  "Is this everything, Frank?" he asked.

  "That's everything, Mr. President; everything we know. We've got eightmen locked up in St. Elizabeth's, all of them absolutely psychotic, andone human vegetable named Paul Wendell. We can't get anything out ofthem."

  The President leaned back in his chair. "I really can't quite understandit. Extra-sensory perception--why should it drive men insane? Wendell'spapers don't say enough. He claims it can be mathematically workedout--that he _did_ work it out--but we don't have any proof of that."

  The man named Frank scowled. "Wasn't that demonstration of his proofenough?"

  A small, graying, intelligent-faced man who had been sitting silently,listening to the conversation, spoke at last. "Mr. President, I'm afraidI still don't completely understand the problem. If we could go over it,and get it straightened out--" He left the sentence hanging expectantly.

  "Certainly. This Paul Wendell is a--well, he called himself a psionicmathematician. Actually, he had quite a respectable reputation in themathematical field. He did very important work in cybernetic theory, buthe dropped it several years ago--said that the human mind couldn't beworked at from a mechanistic angle. He studied various branches ofpsychology, and eventually dropped them all. He built several of thosequeer psionic machines--gold detectors, and something he called a hexer.He's done a lot of different things, evidently."

  "Sounds like he was unable to make up his mind," said the small man.

  * * * * *

  The President shook his head firmly. "Not at all. He did new, creativework in every one of the fields he touched. He was considered somethingof a mystic, but not a crackpot, or a screwball.

  "But, anyhow, the point is that he evidently found what he'd beenlooking for for years. He asked for an appointment with me; I okayed therequest because of his reputation. He would only tell me that he'dstumbled across something that was vital to national defense and thefuture of mankind; but I felt that, in view of the work he had done, hewas entitled to a hearing."

  "And he proved to you, beyond any doubt, that he had this power?" thesmall man asked.

  Frank shifted his big body uneasily in his chair. "He certainly did, Mr.Secretary."

  The President nodded. "I know it might not sound too impressive whenheard second-hand, but Paul Wendell could tell me more of what was goingon in the world than our Central Intelligence agents have been able todig up in twenty years. And he cla
imed he could teach the trick toanyone.

  "I told him I'd think it over. Naturally, my first step was to make surethat he was followed twenty-four hours a day. A man with informationlike that simply could not be allowed to fall into enemy hands." ThePresident scowled, as though angry with himself. "I'm sorry to say thatI didn't realize the full potentialities of what he had said for severaldays--not until I got Frank's first report."

  * * * * *

  "You could hardly be expected to, Mr. President," Frank said. "Afterall, something like that is pretty heady stuff."

  "I think I follow you," said the