The Mind Game

by Norman Spinrad

  He succeeded in forcing a rueful little smile from her. “I’ll just change your tapes, and well get out of your way,” she said. Then, with painfully obvious emphasis, “I can see you’re right in the middle of important work, and I’m sure your tape will confirm it.”

  She went over to a piece of equipment half obscured by some canvases which looked like a small brainwave monitor without a screen. Instead, reels of tape were spinning atop it at low speed. Annie shut it down and began rewinding the tape onto one reel.

  “Is that really what this place is like, a booby hatch?” Weller asked Winter while Annie was absorbed in changing the tapes.

  Winter laughed uneasily. “Come on, man,” he said, “it was just a joke. We all love it here. This is the best place on the circuit. I’ve been living at artists’ colonies for three continuous years now, so I ought to know. The food is great, the scenery is attractive, and the booze is free. What more could anyone ask?”

  Annie started threading a new tape in the machine from a large pile behind it. Winter glanced in her direction, then said confidentially: “Of course, it does get a little weird. Being wired into these machines all day. The processing sessions. The strange potions they give us to drink.”

  Annie came back with a reel of tape in her hand, and Winter changed gears again. “As you can see,” he continued much more loudly, “we’re treated like pampered pets. So if our hosts ask us to contribute ourselves as subjects to their experiments, we’d be ingrates to complain. How sweet it is, compared to teaching Art One to snot-nose kids!”

  “And you are working well here, aren’t you?” Annie said.

  Winter beamed at her, and presented his work in progress —an endless spaghetti bowl of random multicolored strands that looked as if he had doodled with it forever and as if he could jive it along for twice as long as that. “See for yourself,” he said, with a grand paternal flourish of his arm.

  Weller had trouble not breaking up, and he had a feeling that Winter was choking on his own laughter too.

  Annie accepted that as an exit line, and they left for the next cabin. Weller didn’t know whether to be embarrassed at the way Winter was putting on his own wife, or to be amused and pleased at the way he was professionally sponging off John Steinhardt.

  “Don’t take Jerry too seriously,” Annie said as they walked across an expanse of shaded brown earth. “As you can see, he pretends not to take himself seriously either. It’s a common mind block with creative people. But you can also see that he is doing creative work.”

  “Oh sure,” Weller muttered, reluctant to pursue the subject further and start another argument. “Uh … by the way, I noticed there weren’t any wires from the headband to the recorder,” he said, in an effort to change the subject. “What do you use, a radio transmitter in the headband?”

  “Uh-huh,” Annie said, as they reached the door to the next cabin, “better mobility.” Apparently however, she was not about to switch tracks. “Now here we have someone who is as creative and sincere as you could imagine,” she said. “Magda Talbot Lawrence, author of ten published novels.”

  “Never heard of her,” Weller said.

  “Well … uh … they’ve all been gothics or sex novels up until now,” Annie said in a smaller voice. “But that’s why she’s here,” she said more brightly. “Now she’s working on a meaningful novel about the Spanish conquest of Mexico. We’re giving her the freedom and consciousness to do serious noncommercial work.”

  In the front room of the cabin a pudgy gray-haired woman in her fifties was typing furiously on an electric typewriter. A fat manuscript was piling up neatly on her desk with Prussian precision. She merely glanced up as they entered. Her face was lined and hard, and she had the eyes of a dedicated proofreader; bored, bleary, but punctiliously alert.

  “Please, no conversation now, Annie,” she said in a schoolteacher’s voice. “I’m right in the middle of a critical scene, and I can’t interrupt the flow.”

  “I’m only here to collect the tape,” Annie said defensively. “I didn’t mean to intrude on a creative moment.”

  “Well, you have, my dear, you have,” said Magda Talbot Lawrence. “You don’t want to create negative results in your experiments by intruding upon my creative consciousness, now do you? So please go about your business quietly, and let me continue to go about mine.”

  With that, she determinedly resumed typing, and Annie felt constrained to walk on tiptoe as she did her business and led Weller out of the cabin with a psychic finger to her lips.

  “Now tell me people aren’t creating here!” she said triumphantly, when they were outside in the free air.

  “Well, she looks creative, anyway,” Weller said. He wondered whether Magda Talbot Lawrence was the real thing, a tough old bird who was determined to get some work done no matter what went on, or whether her freeloading act was just more sophisticated. Either way, the manner in which she seemed to control the situation and Annie had to be impressive.

  “Still the skeptic, Jack?” Annie said, fondling her precious reels of tape. “But these tapes go beyond personas and appearances. When we feed them through the computer, we know who was really in what state of consciousness when. Scientifically.”

  Then how come your top scientific brain Bernstein apparently thinks that’s baloney? Weller wanted to say. “Uh-huh,” he muttered, retreating into his own thoughts. Brainwave patterns characteristic of the creative parts of the mind at work, he could believe. But a machine that could tell whether crud or genius was coming out by reading brainwaves was probably another gizmo out of the science-fiction mind of John B. Steinhardt. An electronic shit detector was a little hard to swallow, especially in the light of how much bullshit there was here that didn’t seem to register on their meters.

  The final four cabins that they visited confirmed Weller’s opinion that the artistes of the Colony were taking John B. Steinhardt and Annie for a ride. There was a young hippie poet who mumbled stoned aesthetic impenetrabilities. And a wood sculptress who wore a muumuu and seemed ready to serve them her special herbal tea. There was a science fiction writer, perhaps a pensioned old crony of Steinhardt’s, churning out one more in a long line of potboilers, and ready to deliver an hour-long sermon on the sins of the New York literary establishment at the drop of his own wrongly ignored name. Finally there was a once-famous novelist who hadn’t published a book in eight years, who was supposed to be working on some kind of screenplay about his own life, and who was maintaining very well considering that he seemed fried to the eyeballs.

  They were a slick collection of ducks, and they knew they had a soft touch here. The con job they seemed to be doing on Transformationalism seemed at least as professional as anything Transformationalism was running on them.

  It pleased him to think that know-it-all Steinhardt could still be sucker enough to be exploited by artsy-fartsy slickies even while he was running his programs on them. It restored some of his confidence in his own ability to cope with the Great Man.

  “Well, do we have artists or don’t we have artists?” Annie said smugly as they walked to their own cabin.

  “They’re artists, all right,” Weller said. “The medium is the message.”

  The next morning Annie went to work somewhere right after breakfast, and Weller, left alone to sit and wait for nothing in particular, had a flash of what it must have been like for her to stay at home most days waiting for the phone to ring while he was at the studio. He began to understand the attraction of her new life for her. Here she had programmed activity all day that she was convinced was meaningful. She in effect was happier in a nine-to-five job than as a free-lance actress. Was that the thing she had found out about herself that made her happy to give up her career?

  One thing you had to say for the Institute, thought seemed to develop complexities in this environment.

  He hung around the cabin for an hour or so then took an aimless walk around the compound. When he got back, John B. Steinhardt was
waiting for him perched on a golf cart and looking like Teddy Roosevelt as the Great White Hunter in a bush suit with a silver flask sticking out of a pocket.

  “Climb aboard, kiddo,” Steinhardt rumbled. “We’re going to run a little program on old Doc Bernstein. It’ll give you the feel of what I want to do with my testament, and we’ll have a little fun with the pompous old fart. ”

  “What did you have in mind?” Weller asked, climbing into the cart.

  “Your Monitor act, bucko,” Steinhardt said genially. “Don’t be coy with me, cobber. Bernstein’s half convinced you’re a Monitor, and we both know it. ”

  “So?”

  “So,” said Steinhardt, starting the car and heading off toward the compound gate. “So we’ll help keep his thinking Transformational. ”

  “I have no idea what you want me to do,” Weller said.

  “Just disagree with me all the time to the best of your ability,” Steinhardt said. “I’ll do the rest.”

  Steinhardt waved patricianly to the guard at the gate, and they buzzed off in the direction of the computer complex. Weller had no idea of what sort of test this was going to be and how he was supposed to pass it. He had a momentary urge to ask Steinhardt for a belt from his hip flask.

  “By the way, that reminds me that Annie seems to feel you may have a regressive attitude toward the Colony,” Steinhardt said.

  Anger coursed suddenly through Weller, not without an admixture of fear. “What did she report I said?” he asked, barely containing his belligerent indignation.

  “Why, the poor lass thinks that you believe that our resident intellectuals are a bunch of phonies,” Steinhardt said, surpressing a grin that showed only in his eyes. “That their only creative area is that of the mooch artist.”

  “Uh … I don’t remember saying. …”

  “Come on, kiddo, don’t try to out-insult me,” Steinhardt said genially. “Neither of us is as stupid as we’re both pretending. Or course our intellectual zoo here is full of blocked writers, artsy con men, and bullshit artists who can’t make it in the marketplace. You think the heavyweights are going to be attracted by free food and flop?”

  “But these people are ripping you off and you know it?” Weller said perplexedly.

  “You’re concerned for my well-being,” Steinhardt exclaimed, breaking up into bellowing laughter. He took the flask out of his pocket and unscrewed the cap. “I’ll drink to that!” he said, toasting Weller and taking a gulp. “But then, I’ll drink to anything!”

  “You think that’s funny?” Weller said.

  Steinhardt nodded, then waved his flask at three passing technicians. “I’m touched,” he said. “To think that you’re concerned for my well-being. I always said I was too easily taken advantage of.” He broke up into laughter again.

  “Would you mind letting me in on the joke?” Weller asked. “M’boy, these clowns are perfect for my purposes,” Steinhardt said. “When they leave here, they’ll hang around in bars talking about themselves for hours on end, bullshit forever in endless seminars, and make ends meet by occasionally teaching our impressionable youth. They’ll talk about their favorite subject, themselves, in as favorable a light as possible, and that will improve our image in media and publishing circles. Ten years of processing hype artists like these, and Transformationalism will be table talk where the intellectual and media elite meet to eat. ”

  “So it’s just a con to sell more Transformationalism!” Weller blurted.

  “Everything Transformationalism does is a con to sell more Transformationalism,” Steinhardt said matter-of-factly. “But everything is also something else. If I can develop processes and eptifiers that will make these characters creatively conscious, I’ll have it.”

  “Have what?”

  Steinhardt became more intense than Weller had ever seen him. “The philosopher’s stone, kiddo,” he said. “The ability to make men creative at will. The key to a Transformational world. The culmination of everything I’m trying to do. The new millennium.”

  “And, incidentally, a cure for writer’s block,” Weller couldn’t help cracking. It made more sense now. All this must in some way be a grandiose attempt to break his own years’-long block.

  Steinhardt took it with a smile. “Incidentally, my ass!” he said. “Being at the mercy of my own subconscious drove me nuts. Try waiting three years for nothing to come, and you’ll see what success here can mean. My goddamn writer’s block is the essence of the problem.”

  “The Great I Am,” Weller muttered under his breath. “What did you say?” Steinhardt said sharply.

  “Nothing,” Weller replied, for he realized that that was what Maria was always calling Steinhardt, and he certainly didn’t want to sidetrack Steinhardt into that.

  Steinhardt grinned at him strangely. “That was no lady, that was my wife,” he said. “When will you learn how far I really am ahead of you, kiddo?”

  At that moment they finally reached the computer complex. “And now for our next Transformational lesson of the day,” Steinhardt said, parking by the entrance. “Remember, laddy-buck, disagree with me as best you can. I’m sure that you’ll do fine, now that we’ve gotten in a little practice.”

  Storming through the computer complex, Steinhardt accosted Bernstein in the main control room, typing on a keyboard below a display screen. “There you are, Arthur,” he said. “We’ve been having a little discussion I’d like your expert opinion on.”

  Bernstein looked up, saw that it was Weller with Steinhardt, and seemed to retreat immediately into some psychic distance. “What is it now, John?” he said slowly. “As you can see, I’m busy right now.”

  “Well, this is a matter of cosmic importance,” Steinhardt said. “Jack here thinks our creativity program is a waste of time and money, that we’re chasing after the unattainable.” Bernstein looked sharply at Weller. “And what’s more, he thinks that you seem to be of the same opinion.” Now Weller looked at Steinhardt in surprise. What was this role that Steinhardt was casting him in?

  “I’ve never made a secret of the fact that I believe a lot of this brainwave stuff is of questionable validity,” Bernstein said indignantly. “You don’t have to send Monitors around to find that out. ”

  “Let’s just say that Jack here has persuaded me to look at my obsessions with a more open mind,” Steinhardt said, ignoring the innuendo. “So let’s have some updated results.”

  “As you wish, John,” Bernstein said coldly. “So far, we’ve verified that there are certain brainwave patterns that always seem present when a subject is doing creative work.” He touched some keys. A series of four regular wavy lines appeared on the display scene. “Subject Jerry Winter in ordinary conversation.” He played more keys. The top two lines flattened out while the bottom two seemed more agitated. “Same subject in the act of painting.” He typed a long sequence. Five more brainwave patterns appeared on the screen, all closely approximating Winter’s. “Five random Colony subjects in objectively verifiable creative states.”

  Bernstein looked up and back at Steinhardt. “Conclusion: creative states are always associated with characteristic brainwave patterns,” he said.

  “But we’ve known that for a long time, Arthur,” Steinhardt said impatiently. “What about inducing creative consciousness electronically? That’s what you’re supposed to be inventing. That’s the number-one priority under my personal directive. How long is it going to take?”

  Bernstein spoke to Weller, or to Steinhardt through Weller. “John insists that I leap to the next conclusion and build him a creativity machine.”

  “That’s right,” Steinhardt said. “I don’t see why you’re having so much trouble with the piddling details. I gave you the whole idea myself. Reverse the polarity of a brainwave monitor so you can broadcast the creative wave pattern into the brain. Create the right electronic environment, and the creative juices should start to flow. ”

  “You see, Mr. Weller,” Bernstein said, “we’ve built such a d
evice according to John’s specifications, and we have been experimenting with it—”

  “So where are my results?” Steinhardt roared. “I’m getting tired of all this dicking around.”

  “We’re still not getting them, John,” Bernstein said. “Fear panic, anger, and tranquility we seem to be able to induce electronically, because they’re simple and powerful mental states that override the subtleties. But electronically induced creativity eludes us. Because although certain brainwave patterns are always associated with creativity, it does not necessarily follow that creative activity always arises from the presence of those patterns. It’s obviously not a straight causal relationship.”

  “That’s a lot of bullshit,” Steinhardt said. “I’m not asking for perfection yet, I just want something that more or less works.” He gave Weller a kick and a sidelong glance. “You just want to forget about electronically induced creativity so you can concentrate on the chemical stuff.”

  What am I supposed to do now? Weller wondered. Disagree with him? Disagree with what?

  “That chemical stuff, as you call it, John,” Bernstein said, “is what’s getting the best results,” He touched a few keys. The six closely approximating brainwave patterns on the screen coalesced into one average pattern. “Charactertistic creative pattern.” Bernstein typed another sequence, and a second series of brain traces appeared, quite different from the first. “An ordinary subject in resting state,” Bernstein said. “The same subject told to write a paragraph about himself.” The second pattern moved into a somewhat closer approximation of the first. “Now with eptifier.” Now the approximation of the second pattern to the first became much closer.

  “Conclusion, ” Bernstein said, “eptifier elevates the creative consciousness of an ordinary subject doing something like a creative task. Further conclusion: this is the line of research we should give our number-one priority.”

  “You see what I mean?” Steinhardt said to Weller. “He’s dragging his feet on my project so I’ll forget about it and let him ride his own hobbyhorse.” Again Steinhardt gave Weller a little kick. Disagree … ? How… ?