people are to some degree psychosomatic, to give it its technical name— you know, psyche and soma , mind and body. But our John was psychosomatic to a vastly greater degree. One in a million. Perhaps unique.
“Very likely some rare hereditary strain was responsible for this. I don't believe John will be angry with me if I tell you that his mother used to be—she's really changed herself a great deal under the psychiatrist's guidance—but that she used to be an excessively hysterical and emotionally tempestuous person, with all sorts of imaginary ailments herself, though not as extreme as John's, of course. And his father was almost exactly the same type."
“That's quite right, Dr. Redford,” Fearing said earnestly.
Max nodded. “Apparently the combination of these two hereditary strains in John produced far more than a doubling of his parents’ sensitivities.
“Just as the chameleon inherits a color-changing ability that other animals lack, so John had inherited a degree of psychosomatic control that is not apparent in other people—at least not without some kind of psychological training of which at present I have only a glimmering.
“All this was borne in on me as I absorbed John's story, hanging on every word. You know, I think both John and Velda were quite startled at the intensity of my interest.” Max chuckled. “But they didn't realize that I was on to something. Here, right in my hands, was a person with, to put it popularly, only the most tenuous of boundaries between his mental and material atoms—for of course, as you know, both mind and matter are ultimately electrical in nature. Our John's subconscious mind had perfect control of his heartbeat and circulatory system. It could flood his tissue with fluids, producing instant swellings, or dehydrate them, giving the effect of emaciation. It could play on his internal organs and ductless glands as if they were musical instruments, creating any life-time it wanted. It could produce horrible discords, turn John into an idiot, say, or an invalid, as it tried to do, or perhaps an acromegalic monster, with gigantic hands and head, by stimulating bone-growth after maturity.
“Or his subconscious mind could keep all his organs in perfect tune, making him the magnificently healthy creature you see today.”
I looked at John Fearing and realized that my earlier impression of the excellence of his physique had, if anything, fallen short of the mark. It wasn't just that he was a clear-eyed, unblemished, athletically-built young man. There was more to it than that—something intangible. It occurred to me that if any man could be said to radiate health, in the literal meaning of that ridiculous cliche, it was John Fearing. I knew it was just my imagination, but I seemed to see a pulsating, faintly golden aura about him.
And his mind appeared to be in as perfect balance as his body. He was wonderfully poised as he sat there with just the sheet pulled around him.. Not the faintest suggestion of nerves. Completely alive, yet in a sense completely impassive.
It was only too easy to imagine such a man making love successfully, with complete naturalness and confidence, without any of the little haltings and clumsiness, the jarrings of rhythm, the cowardices of body, the treacheries of mind that betray the average neurotic—which is to say, the average person. Suddenly it hit me, right between the eyes as they say, that Velda must love John, that no woman could avoid becoming infatuated with such a man. Not just a football star or a muscle maniac, but a creature infinitely subtler.
And yet, in spite of all this, I was conscious of something a shade repellent about Fearing. Perhaps it was that he seemed too well-balanced, too smooth-running, like a gleaming dynamo say, or a beautiful painting without that little touch of ugliness or clashing contrast which creates individuality. In most people, too, one senses the eternal conflict between the weak and indecisive tyrant Mind and the stubborn and rebellious slave Body, but in Fearing the conflict seemed completely absent, which struck me as unpleasant. There was a kind of deep-seated toughness about him, a suggestion of indestructibility. One might have said, “He'd make a nasty ghost."
Of course all this may just have been envy on my part for Fearing's poise and physique, or some sort of jealousy I felt on Max's account.
But whatever the sources of my feeling of revulsion, I now began to believe that Max shared it. Not that Max had slackened in his genial, affectionate, almost fatherly manner toward John, but that he was so effortful about it. Those elephantine “our Johns,” for example. I didn't get the feeling that he was concealing a jealous hatred, however, but that he was earnestly fighting an irrational inward aversion.
As for Fearing, he seemed completely unaware of any hostile feeling on Max's part. His manner was completely open and amiable.
For that matter, I wondered if Max himself were aware of his own feeling. All these thoughts didn't take much time. I was intent on Max's story.
* * * *
Max leaned across the desk. He was blinking excitedly, which, with his glasses, gave an odd effect of flashing eyes.
“My imagination was stirred,” he went on. “There was no end to the things that might be learned from such a super-psychosomatic individual. We could study disease symptoms under perfect conditions, by producing them in controlled amounts in a healthy individual. All sorts of physiological mysteries could be explored. We could trace out the exact patterns of all the nervous processes that are normally beyond the mind's reach. Then if we could learn to impart John's ability to other people—but that's getting a bit ahead of my story.
“I talked to John. He saw my point, realized the service he might render mankind, and gladly agreed to undergo some experiments.
“But at the first attempt a snag appeared. John could not produce any symptoms by a conscious effort, no matter how hard he tried. As I said before, you can't consciously fake a psychosomatic illness, and that was what I was asking John to do. And since he'd undergone psychiatric treatment his subconscious mind was so well behaved that it wouldn't yield to any ordinary blandishments.
“At that point we almost gave up the project. But then I thought of a way we might be able to get around the snag: suggestions given directly to the subconscious mind through hypnotism.
“John proved a good hypnotic subject. We tried it—and it worked!"
Max's eyes looked bright as stars as he said that.
“That's about how matters stand today,” he finished off, sinking back in his chair. “We've started a little special work on arterial tension, the lymphatic glands and their nerve supply, one or two other things. But mainly we've been perfecting our setup, getting used to the hypnotic relationship. The important work still lies ahead."
I exhaled appreciatively. Then an unpleasant thought struck me. I wasn't going to voice it, but Max asked, “What is it, Fred?” and I couldn't think of anything else to say, and after all it was a thought that would have occurred to anyone.
“Well, with all this creation of extreme symptoms,” I began, “isn't there a certain amount of—"
Max supplied the word. “Danger?” He shook his head. “We are always very careful."
“And in any case,” Fearing's bell-like voice broke in, “the possibilities being what they are, I would consider almost any risks worth running.” He smiled cheerfully.
The double meaning I momentarily fancied in his words nettled me. I went on impulsively, “But surely some people would be apt to consider it extremely dangerous. Your mother, for instance, or Velda."
Max looked at me sharply.
“Neither my mother nor Mrs. Redford know anything of the extent of our experiments,” Fearing assured me.
There was a pause. Unexpectedly, Max grinned at me, stretched, and said to Fearing, “How do you feel now?"
“Perfectly fit."
“Feel up to another little demonstration?"
“Certainly."
“That reminds me, Max,” I said abruptly, “out in the corridor you mentioned something about—"
He shot me a warning glance.
“We'll go into that some other time,” he said.
“What disease are you going to have me do this time?” Fearing queried.
Max wagged his finger. “You know you're never told that. Can't have your conscious mind messing things up. We'll have some new signals, though. And, Fred, I hope you won't mind waiting outside while I put John under and give him his instructions—acquaint him with the new signals. I'm afraid we still haven't gotten far along enough to risk the possibly disturbing presence of a third person during the early stages of an experiment. One or two more sessions and it should be all right, though. Understand, Fred, this is just the first of a large number of experiments I want you to witness. I'm asking a great deal of you, you see. The only tangible compensation I can offer you is exclusive rights to break the story to the public when we feel the time is ripe."
“Believe me, I consider it a great honor,” I assured him sincerely as I went out.
In the corridor I lit a cigarette, puffed it a moment, and then the tremendous implications of Max's experiments really hit me.
Suppose, as Max had hinted, that it proved possible to impart Fearing's ability to other people?
The benefits would be incalculable. People would be able to help their bodies in the fight against disease and degenerative processes. For instance, they could cut down the flow of blood from a wound, or even stop it completely. They could marshal all the body's resources to fight local infections and stop disease germs before they ever got started. Conceivably, they could heal sick organs, get them working in the right rhythm, unharden arteries, avert or stifle cancers.
It might be possible to prevent disease, even aging, altogether.
We might look forward to a race of immortals, immune to time and decay.
A happy race, untroubled by those conflicts of body and mind, of instinct and conscience, that sap
Mankind's best energies and are at the root of all discords and wars.
There was literally no limit to the possibilities.
I hardly felt I'd been in the corridor a minute, my mind was soaring so, when Max softly opened the door and beckoned to me.
Again Fearing lay stretched on the table. His eyes were closed, but he still looked every whit as vibrantly healthy as before. His chest rose and fell rhythmically with his breathing. I almost fancied I could see the blood coursing under the fair skin.
I was aware of a tremendous suppressed excitement in Max.
“We can talk, of course,” he said. “Best keep it low, though."
“He's hypnotized?” I asked.
“Yes."
“And you've given him the instructions?"
“Yes. Watch."
“What are they this time, Max?"
Max's lips jerked oddly.
“Just watch."
He rapped with the pencil.
I watched. For five, ten seconds nothing seemed to happen.
Fearing's chest stopped moving.
His skin was growing pale.
There was a weak convulsive shudder. His eyelids fell open, showing only the whites. Then there was no further movement whatever.
“Approach him,” Max ordered, his voice thick. “Take his pulse."
Almost, shaking with excitement, I complied.
To my fumbling fingers, Fearing's wrist felt cold. I could not find a pulse.
“Fetch that mirror,” Max's finger stabbed at a nearby shelf. “Hold it to his lips and nostrils."
The polished surface remained unclouded.
I backed away. Wonder gave place to fear. All my worst suspicions returned intensified. Once again I seemed to sense a strain of submerged evil in my friend.
“I told you I would show you something with a bearing on the question, ‘What is death?'” Max was saying huskily. “Here you see death perfectly counterfeited—death-in-life. I would defy any doctor in the world to prove this man alive.” There was a note of triumph in his voice.
My own was uneven with horror. “You instructed him to be dead?"
“Yes."
“And he didn't know it ahead of time?"
“Of course not."
For an interminable period—perhaps three or four seconds—I stared at the blanched form of Fearing. Then I turned to Max.
“I don't like this,” I said. “Get him out of it."
There was something sneering about the smile he gave me.
“Watch!” He commanded fiercely, and rapped again.
It was only some change in the light, I told myself, that was giving Fearing's flesh a greenish tinge.
Then I saw the limp arms and legs stiffen and the face tighten into a sardonic mask.
“Touch him!"
Unwillingly, only to get the thing over with as swiftly as possible, I obeyed. Fearing's arm felt as stiff as a board and, if anything, colder than before.
Rigor mortis.
But that faint odor of putrescence—I knew that could only be my imagination.
“For God's sake, Max,” I pleaded, “you've got to get him out of it.” Then, throwing aside reserve, “I don't know what you're trying to do, but you can't. Velda—"
Max jerked as I spoke the name. Instantly the terrifying shell that had gathered around him seemed to drop away. It was as if that one word had roused him from a dream. “Of course,” he said, in his natural voice. He smiled reassuringly and rapped.
Eagerly I watched Fearing.
Max rapped again: three—one.
It takes time, I told myself. Now the muscles were beginning to relax, weren't they?
But Max was rapping again. The signal printed itself indelibly on my brain: three—one.
And yet again. Three—one. Three—one. THREE—ONE.
I looked at Max. In his tortured expression I read a ghastly certainty.
I wouldn't ever want to relive the next few hours. I imagine that in all history there was never a trick conceived for reviving the dying that Max didn't employ, along with all the modern methods— injections, even into the heart itself, electrical stimulation, use of a new lightweight plastic version of the iron lung, surgical entry into the chest and direct massage of the heart.
Whatever suspicions I had of Max vanished utterly during those hours. The frantic genuineness and inspired ingenuity of his efforts to revive Fearing couldn't possibly have been faked. No more could his tragic, rigidly suppressed grief have been simulated. I saw Max's emotions stripped to the raw during those hours, and they were all good.
One of the first things he did was call in several of the other faculty doctors. They helped him, though I could tell that from the first they looked upon the case as hopeless, and would have considered the whole business definitely irregular, if it hadn't been for their extreme loyalty to Max, far beyond any consideration of professional solidarity. Their attitude showed me, as nothing else ever had, Max's stature as a medical man.
Max was completely frank with them and everyone else. He made no effort whatsoever to suppress the slightest detail of the events leading up to the tragedy. He was bitter in his self-accusations, insisting that his judgment had been unforgivably at fault in the final experiment. He would have gone even further than that if it hadn't been for his colleagues. It was they who dissuaded him from resigning from the faculty and describing his experiments in such inaccurately harsh terms as to invite criminal prosecution.
And then there was Max's praiseworthy behavior toward Fearing's mother. While they were still working on Fearing, though without any real hope, she burst in. Whatever reforms the psychiatrist may have achieved in her personality, were washed out now. I still can close my eyes and visualize that hateful, overdressed woman stamping around like an angry parrot, screaming the vilest accusations at Max at the top of her voice and talking about her son and herself in the most disgusting terms. But although he was near the breaking point, Max was never anything but compassionate toward her, accepting all the blame she heaped on his head.
A little later Velda joined Ma. If I'd still had any of my early suspicions, her manner would have dissipated them. She was comp
letely practical and self-possessed, betraying no personal concern whatsoever in Fearing's death. If anything, she was too cool and unmoved. But that may have been what Max needed at the time.
The next days were understandably difficult. While most of the newspapers were admirably reserved and judicious in reporting the case, one of the tabloids played up Max as “The Doctor Who Ordered a Man to Die,” featuring an exclusive interview with Fearing's mother.
The chorus of wild bleats from various anti-science cults was of course to be expected. It led to a number of stories that crept into the fringe of print and would have been more unpleasant if they hadn't been so ridiculous. One man, evidently drawing on Poe's story “The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar,” demanded that a “death watch” be maintained on Fearing and, on the morning of the funeral, hinted darkly that they were interring a man who was somehow still alive.
Even the medical profession was by no means wholly behind Max. A number of local doctors, unconnected with the medical school, were severe in their criticisms of him. Such sensational experiments reflected on the profession, were of doubtful value in any case, and so forth. Though none of these criticisms were released to the public.
The funeral was held on the third day. I attended it out of friendship for Max, who felt it his duty to be present. Fearing's mother was there, of course, dressed in a black outfit that somehow managed to look loud and common. Since the tabloid interview there had been a complete break between her and our group, so that her wailing tirades and nauseous sobbing endearments could only be directed at the empty air and the bronze-fitted casket.
Max looked old. Velda stood beside him, holding his arm. She was as impassive as on the day of Fearing's death.
There was only one odd thing about her behavior. She insisted that we remain at the cemetery until the casket had been placed in the tomb and the workman had fixed in place the marble slab that closed it.
She watched the whole process with a dispassionate intentness.
I thought that perhaps she did it on Max's account, to impress on him that the whole affair was over and done with. Or she may conceivably have feared some unlikely final demonstration or foray on the part of the wilder anti-science groups and felt that the presence of a few intelligent witnesses was advisable to prevent some final garish news item from erupting into print.
The Black Gondolier and Other Stories Page 19