The Mind Digger
Page 3
brain.
"The key lies in perfecting his recall. What good does it do to keeppouring in information when most of us are forgetting old things almostas rapidly as we are learning new ones? Of course, we don't really everforget anything, but our power of exact recall grows fuzzy throughdisuse. Then when we need a certain name or factual bit of informationwe can't quite dig it up, or it comes up in distorted approximations.
"The same holds for calling on experience to help us with new problems.We may grasp the general lesson of experience, but most of the specificincidents of our lives are dulled in time. The lessons we paid dearly tolearn are largely useless. So we go on making the same mistakes, payingthe same penalties over and over again."
I shrugged. "Everybody would like a better memory, I suppose, but I'venever known anyone to go off the deep end over it like you have. Whatmore can you gain?"
"Can't you visualize what it would be like to have even a shortlife-time of knowledge and experience laid out in sharp detail ofrecall? Think of the new associations of thoughts and concepts thatwould be possible! Consider the potential for creating drama, alone!Every word ever read or spoken, every emotion ever conveyed, everygesture of anger, love, jealousy, pain, pleasure--all this raw materialglittering brightly, ready to pour out in new conflicts, dramaticsituations, sharp pungent dialogue--"
He made me sense his enthusiasm, but I couldn't quite feel it. Wouldsuch a tremendous ability necessarily be good? Something about itsimmensity frightened me, and I didn't care to consider it for my own useat all.
I said, "Don't get me wrong. If this is what's going into yourplaywriting, I'm all for it. And what you do with your money is your ownbusiness. What do you propose?"
"Can you absorb more of my work?" he asked abruptly.
"I'm your agent, aren't I? I'll peddle it if I can't use it myself," Itold him, not that I was so eager for the broker's 10% so much as Iwanted to have the pick of his output for my own productions.
I didn't know what I was taking on. He turned out his third play in justten days. _Ten days_, I said. I read to the bottom of page two anddecided to hell with peddling this one. I'd produce it myself.
Before I got into second gear on _Beach Boy_, however, Hillary sends amessenger over with _Madame President_, a satire so sharp I knew itwould make _Call Me Madame_ look like _Little Women_.
What do you do? There are just so many legitimate theaters in the city.
While I'm pondering this and negotiating with a Hollywood agent to maybetake _Beach Boy_ off my hands, along comes _Red Rice_, an epic novel ofCommunist China that out-Bucked Pearl a hundred heart-wrenches to one.
One phone call sold that one to McMullin, and when they got a look atthe manuscript they raised the advance to $10,000. This was not bad fora first novel, and I didn't resent my $1000 agent's fee.
Before the summer was over I was about ready to give up show businessand become a one-author agent. Hillary was keeping four secretaries busytaking dictation and transcribing. He never researched, never revised,never even glanced at the copy. I've known some prolific writers, butnone could grind it out like Hillary Hardy.
And it was good! Every piece was better than the last. His characterswere strictly 3-D right on paper, and word pictures! When he mentionedbedbugs, you itched and bled; when the villain slugged the hero alow-blow, you felt it in your guts; and when boy got girl--brother, turnup the house-lights, quick.
I got so involved trying to produce five plays at once, making dickerswith publishers and motion picture studios, fighting off televisionpeople and answering mail demanding a chance at foreign rights, that itwas mid-November before I realized that it was over a month since I'dheard from the golden goose.
In fact Ellie drew my attention to it one morning. "Hadn't you bettercall the sanitarium?" she suggested. "Maybe he had a breakdown orsomething?"
The thought chilled me. Not only had I sold Hillary's complete output todate, but I had a file full of contracts for future novels and moviescripts worth a couple of million dollars.
I didn't phone--I went. To Hoboken.
In the outskirts I found his private hospital, demanded to see SamBuckle and was told to sit down and wait. He was in therapy.
* * * * *
Two hours later they took me to him. He lay on a hospital bed in hisshorts, staring at the ceiling and the sweat all over him like he hadjust stepped out of a showerbath.
"Hello, George," he said, still looking at the ceiling.
"Hi, kid! You sick or something?"
He smiled a little. "The surf at Monterey. The sun fading through thelow morning mist, a golden ghost peering through the somber veil--andJulia, beside me, clinging to my arm, crying softly--"
"Hey, kid, I'm in New Jersey. Where are you?" I said nervously.
He blinked. "In California, George. Two years ago. I'm there. Do youunderstand? _I'm really there!_"
It was a little embarrassing. I felt like an intruder on a beach picnic."Well, Hillary, that's just fine," I stammered. "I suppose that meansthat--that you've done what you set out to."
"That's right." He nodded slightly. "Total recall, George. Every instantof my existence re-filed under 'urgent'. Every vision, every sound,every sensation, laid clean and sharp like a sound film ready forrunning. I've done it, George."
"How long ago did you--"
"Three weeks ago I began heavy dosing with the vitamin. Today--just thislast hour--I reached back into prenatal to the first instant of mycellular existence. And it was like ripping a curtain aside. I--I can'texactly tell you what it's like. Something like coming out of a blackcellar into the noon-day sun. It's almost blinding."
He closed his eyes, squinting as though to shut out a glare. His blondhair had grown long, and it lay on the pillow like a woman's. He hadlost some weight, and except for the heavy chest muscles and thickforearms, he had the appearance of a poet, a delicate soul dedicated tosome ephemeral plane out of this world.
I figured I'd better provide a little ballast. "Congratulations and allthat," I said, "but what about your work?"
"I'm done," he said quietly.
"Done? Are you forgetting that you bought a sanitarium?--some eighthundred grand worth? And it's only half paid for?"
"Oh, that. The royalties will take care of the payments."
"Hillary, you keep forgetting about taxes."
"Then let them take it back by default. I'm through with it."
"Dammit," I said, "I looked into this deal. People don't take backsanitariums like over-ripe bananas, especially when they got you on thehook for more than it's worth. They'll hold you to the contract. And youcan't get your equity out if you don't protect it by keeping up yourpayments. You have a wonderful start, and if you just fill the contractsI have on file now you can pay it off and have plenty left to retire on.But right now you aren't so solvent, boy."
Well, he finally came out of his trance long enough to agree to fulfillthe commitments I'd made for him, and I thought that once he got startedthere would be no holding him.
Just to make sure I did something on my own. I let his identity andwhereabouts leak out.
It was a sneaky thing to do to him, but I figured that once he got areal taste of the fame that was waiting him he would never let go of it.
The papers splashed it: "Mystery Genius Is Lad of 19!"
They swamped him. They swarmed over him and plastered him with honoraryliterary degrees, domestic and foreign. They Oscared him and Nobelledhim. They wined, dined and adored him into a godhead of the arts.
The acting, publishing, TV, radio and movie greats paid homage to hisgenius by the most hysterical bidding for his talents their check-bookscould support. I kept waiting for the Secretary of the Treasury topresent him with the key to Fort Knox.
* * * * *
Meanwhile, I waited patiently--having no choice, since I started thepublicity nightmare myself--for the earthquake to settle down. As hisagent I was holding off all new c
ommitments until he fulfilled the oneson hand.
Six months passed, and Hillary was still wallowing in glory, too busysopping up plaudits to bother turning a hand.
Finally I sent a goon squad after him and dragged him to my office. Hearrived in a four-hundred dollar suit and a fifty-dollar tie. Each cuffwas decorated by a diamond link and a Hollywood starlet. I shooed outthe excess and came to the point.
"Recess is over," I said gently. "Now we settle down for a few months ofpatty-cake with your secretaries. They're here in my offices now where Ican keep an eye on things. Okay?"
He grinned his old happy smile, and some of the dewey glaze seemed topeel from his