Suite Mentale | Page 5

I do for you, sir?"
"I have some news for you, Mr. President," the younger one said.
The old man smiled wryly. "I haven't been President for fourteen years.
Most people call me 'Senator' or just plain 'Mister'."

* * * * *
The younger man smiled back. "Very well, Senator. My name is
Camberton, James Camberton. I brought some information that may
possibly relieve your mind--or, again, it may not."
"You sound ominous, Mr. Camberton. I hope you'll remember that I've
been retired from the political field for nearly five years. What is this
shattering news?"
"Paul Wendell's body was buried yesterday."
The Senator looked blank for a second, then recognition came into his
face. "Wendell, eh? After all this time. Poor chap; he'd have been better
off if he'd died twenty years ago." Then he paused and looked up. "But
just who are you, Mr. Camberton? And what makes you think I would
be particularly interested in Paul Wendell?"
"Mr. Wendell wants to tell you that he is very grateful to you for
having saved his life, Senator. If it hadn't been for your orders, he
would have been left to die."
The Senator felt strangely calm, although he knew he should feel shock.
"That's ridiculous, sir! Mr. Wendell's brain was hopelessly damaged; he
never recovered his sanity or control of his body. I know; I used to drop
over to see him occasionally, until I finally realized that I was only
making myself feel worse and doing him no good."
[Illustration]
"Yes, sir. And Mr. Wendell wants you to know how much he
appreciated those visits."
* * * * *
The Senator grew red. "What the devil are you talking about? I just said
that Wendell couldn't talk. How could he have said anything to you?
What do you know about this?"

"I never said he spoke to me, Senator; he didn't. And as to what I know
of this affair, evidently you don't remember my name. James
Camberton."
The Senator frowned. "The name is familiar, but--" Then his eyes went
wide. "Camberton! You were one of the eight men who--Why, you're
the man who shot Wendell!"
Camberton pulled up an empty lawnchair and sat down. "That's right,
Senator; but there's nothing to be afraid of. Would you like to hear
about it?"
"I suppose I must." The old man's voice was so low that it was scarcely
audible. "Tell me--were the other seven released, too? Have--have you
all regained your sanity? Do you remember--" He stopped.
"Do we remember the extra-sensory perception formula? Yes, we do;
all eight of us remember it well. It was based on faulty premises, and
incomplete, of course; but in its own way it was workable enough. We
have something much better now."
The old man shook his head slowly. "I failed, then. Such an idea is as
fatal to society as we know it as a virus plague. I tried to keep you men
quarantined, but I failed. After all those years of insanity, now the chess
game begins; the poker game is over."
"It's worse than that," Camberton said, chuckling softly. "Or, actually,
it's much better."
"I don't understand; explain it to me. I'm an old man, and I may not live
to see my world collapse. I hope I don't."
Camberton said: "I'll try to explain in words, Senator. They're
inadequate, but a fuller explanation will come later."
And he launched into the story of the two-decade search of Paul
Wendell.

CODA--ANDANTINO
"Telepathy? Time travel?" After three hours of listening, the
ex-President was still not sure he understood.
"Think of it this way," Camberton said. "Think of the mind at any
given instant as being surrounded by a shield--a shield of privacy--a
shield which you, yourself have erected, though unconsciously. It's a
perfect insulator against telepathic prying by others. You feel you have
to have it in order to retain your privacy--your sense of identity, even.
But here's the kicker: even though no one else can get in, you can't get
out!
"You can call this shield 'self-consciousness'--perhaps shame is a better
word. Everyone has it, to some degree; no telepathic thought can break
through it. Occasionally, some people will relax it for a fraction of a
second, but the instant they receive something, the barrier goes up
again."
"Then how is telepathy possible? How can you go through it?" The
Senator looked puzzled as he thoughtfully tamped tobacco into his
briar.
"You don't go through it; you go around it."
* * * * *
"Now wait a minute; that sounds like some of those fourth dimension
stories I've read. I recall that when I was younger, I read a murder
mystery--something about a morgue, I think. At any rate, the murder
was committed inside a locked room; no