The Mind Digger
Page 1
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The Mind Digger
By Winston Marks
[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Imagination Stories ofScience and Fantasy April 1958. Extensive research did not uncover anyevidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
[Sidenote: There was a reason why his scripts were smash hits--they hadrealism. And why not? He was reliving every scene and emotion in them!]
It was really a pretty fair script, and it caught me at a moment whenevery playwright worth his salt was playing in France, prostituting inHollywood or sulking in a slump. I needed a play badly, so I told Ellieto get this unknown up to my office and have a contract ready.
When she announced him on the inter-com, my door banged open and ayoungster in blue-jeans, sweatshirt and a stubbly crew-cut popped inlike a carelessly aimed champagne cork.
I said, "I'm sorry, son, but I have an interview right now. Besides wearen't casting yet. Come back in a couple of weeks."
His grin never faltered, being of the more durable kind that you find onfarms and west of the Rockies. His ragged sneakers padded across myPersian, and I thought he was going to spring over my desk like a losingtennis player.
"I'm your interview," he announced. "At least I'm Hillary Hardy, andyour girl just told me you'd see me."
"You--are Hillary Hardy?"
"In the morbid flesh," he said jamming out five enthusiastic fingersthat gulped my hand and jack-hammered until I broke his grip with aRed-Cross life-saving hold.
"Spare the meat," I groaned. "I have to sign the contract, too."
"I did it! I did it! They said I was crazy, but I did it the firsttime."
"Did what?"
"Sold the first play I wrote."
"This--is--your first work?"
"My very first," he said, splitting his freckles with a double row ofwhite teeth a yard wide. "They said I'd have to go to college, and thenI'd have to write a million words before I'd produce anythingworthwhile."
If he hadn't owned such an honest, open face I'd have thrown him out asan imposter right then. The ream of neatly typed pages on my desk wouldhave fooled any agent, editor or producer like myself, on Broadway. Theformat was professional, the plot carefully constructed, the dialoguebreezy as a May afternoon in Chicago and the motivation solidly adult.
"How old are you?" I asked.
"Nineteen."
"And you'll sign an affidavit that you wrote this play, and it's anoriginal work?"
"Certainly!" The smile faded a little. "Look, Mr. Crocker, you're notjust kidding about this contract, are you? Is the play really okay?"
"That," I said trying to restrain my own enthusiasm, "is only determinedon the boards. But I'm willing to risk a thousand-dollar advance on yoursignature to this." I shoved the papers at him with my fountain pen ontop.
He didn't uncap the pen until he had read the whole thing, and while hepored over the fine print I had time to catch my breath.
His play competed rather well with the high average output of mostprofessionals I knew--not exactly terrific, but a relatively safegamble, as gambles go on the street of bright lights. Well, I made amental note to pass the script around a bit before I signed the contractmyself. After all, he might have cribbed the whole thing somewhere.
He finished reading, signed the contract and handed it back to me withan air of expectancy. I stalled, "I, uh, will have the check for you ina few days. Meanwhile, you'd better get yourself an agent and anattorney and fix up that affidavit of authorship. Normally, I don't dealwith free-lance playwrights, you see."
"But I don't need any agent," he protested. "You be my agent, Mr.Crocker--" He was studying my reaction, and after a moment he said, "Youstill don't quite believe that I wrote _Updraft_, do you, sir? Now thatyou've met me you want more time to check up, don't you?"
I said, "Frankly, yes, Hardy. _Updraft_ is a mature piece of writing,and unless you are a genius--well, it's just business son."
"I don't blame you," he said smiling that fresh-air smile. "And I'lladmit I'm no genius, but I can explain everything. You see, I've read 38books on how to write plays--"
"Tut!" I said. "Format technique is just a fraction of producing anappealing play."
"Perhaps," he admitted. "But _I've memorized all 38 books_. What's more,I've been reading and memorizing plays, novels, poetry and history sinceI was 13. I have a storehouse of--"
"Memorizing?"
"Yes, sir. I'm a student of _mnemonics_, you know, the art of memoryperfection. My real ambition is to develop absolute recall. All myreading and memorizing have been just exercises to expand my power ofcomplete recall."
"You mean that playwriting is just a hobby?"
"Not--exactly. I need money, lots of it, to continue my research.Psychiatrists come high."
Well, I suppose good plays have been written for screwier reasons, and Iwas in no mood to look a gift-author in the mouth. I did pass _Updraft_around to a brace of critics, and none of them could hang a plagiarismcharge on Hardy. So I wrote out his check and started the wheels goingon the production.
The boy prodigy dropped out of sight for the time being, taking nofurther interest in his brain-child. _Updraft_ did all right in thesticks, but it was when we opened on Broadway that it began to coinmoney.
* * * * *
In ten performances we were playing to capacity crowds, and within amonth we had to take in the S. R. O. sign. A lucky hit? I thought so atthe time. _Updraft_ had a dash of humor, a bit of adventure, a dollop ofromance and a gentle little heart tug at the conclusion, but damned ifthe critics could put their fingers on its money-making essence. Theygave it pleasant little reviews and mild compliments, but no more. Thecash customers, however, came and kept coming and _kept coming_!
The morning after the 100th performance I told Ellie to hunt up Hardyand see what he was doing about another play. I could stand to haveanother hit ready when _Updraft_ petered out.
That afternoon my secretary reported, "He's in a sanitarium over inHoboken."
"Nuts! I knew we should have held back on his royalties," I exclaimed."I suppose he's drunk himself into a--"
"It's a mental hospital," Ellie said, "but Mr. Hardy told me he is justthere for some experimental psycho-therapy. He sounded quite normal andcheerful."
Hillary Hardy showed up next morning at my request, and he did, indeed,appear in good spirits. I demanded, "What's this business of lockingyourself up in a looney-bin? Don't you realize that's bad publicrelations?"
He chuckled. "I thought of that. So I'm going under an assumed name.Your girl said you had something very important to tell me."
"Sure. I want another play," I told him. "_Updraft_ won't run forever,you know."
"Oh, I have plenty of money now, so I won't have to bother. The peopleat the sanitarium have become interested in my project, and all I'mspending is board and room there. Thanks to your royalty checks I've gotquite a pile in the bank."
"Won't have to bother?" I yelled. "Here I launch you on Broadway, andthat's all the gratitude I get. Now's the time to cash in on thereputation of your first play. It's setting attendance records."
"Sorry, Mr. Crocker," he said. "I'm in a critical stage of myexperiments. I just can't afford the time at the moment."
"Experiments! Experiments! What is this business?"
He brightened. "Would you believe it? I've contacted memories back tothree months after my birth. And at this rate I'll reach birth itselfwithin a few weeks."
I shuddered. What a nasty ambition! "What's the percentage?"
"You don't understand," he said warmin
g to his subject. "The furtherback I go the more nearly I approach total recall. At present I cancontact any memory in my experience back to six months, day by day,minute by minute. I can run off these memories like colored movies,recalling every sight, sound, smell, feel and taste."
"So what happened earlier than six months that's so important?"
"Probably nothing of great interest," Hardy granted, "but the furtherback I go, the more intense is the reality of all my memories.