Astounding British Edition, Vol. 6, No. 8 — page 28: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

_— 26 said. “You'd got a thought-reading machine.” , “Much more than that. When we tested it the other day, one of my assistants stepped up the polarity-reversal of the field —that is, the frequency—by accident... I Was acting as analyst and the subject was under narcosis. “Instead of ‘hearing’ the dull incoheren- cies of his thoughts, I became part of them. I was inside that man’s brain. It was a nightmare world. He wasn’t a clear thinker. _ I was aware of my own individuality. ... When he came round, he went for me bald- headed. Said I’d been trespassing inside his ead. “With Marsham itll be a different | matter. The dream world of his coma is detailed, as real as he used to make dream worlds to his readers.” “Hold it,” I said. “Why don’t you take a peek?” Steve Blakiston smiled and gave me a high-voltage shot from his big gray eyes. “Three good reasons: I’ve soaked in the sort of stuff he dreams up, and there’s a danger that I sould become identified too closely with him. What he needs is a salu- tary dose of common sense. You're the man for that, you cynical old whiskey- hound. “Secondly, if my mind gave way under the impress of his imagination, I wouldn’t be around to treat myself; and thirdly, when—and if—he comes round, he'll want to kill the man who been heterodyning his dreams. You can scram. But I want to stay and see the results.” “Sorting that out, I gather there’s a pos- sibility that I shall wake up as a candidate for a bed in the next ward?” “Not unless you let your mind go under. And you won't. You’ve got a cast-iron non-gullibility complex. Just fool around in your usual iconoclastic manner. Your own imagination’s pretty good, judging by some of your fight reports lately.” I got up, bowed politely, said: “Thank - you, my friend. That reminds me—I’m covering the big fight at the Garden to- morrow night. And I need sleep. It’s late. So long.”. Steve unfolded and reached the door ahead of me. “Please,” he said, and argued. He can argue. And I couldn’t duck those big eyes of his. And he is—or was—my pal. He said it wouldn’t take long—(just like a dentist)}—and he smacked down every “if” I thought up. | Ten minutes later, I was lying on a twin bed next to that occupied by a silent, white- faced Marsham Craswell. Steve was leaning over the writer adjusting a chrome-steel bowl like a hair-drier over the man’s head. An assistant was fixing me up the same way. » ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION Cables ran from the bowls to a movable arm overhead and thence to a wheeled machine that looked like something from the Whacky Science Section of the World’s Fair, A.D.- 2,000, | I was bursting with questions, but the only ones that would come out seemed eee irrelevant. “What do I say to this guy? ‘Good morning, and how are all your little com- plexes today?’ Do I introduce myself?” “Just say you're Pete Parnell, and play it off the cuff,” said Steve. “You'll see what I mean when you get there.” _ Get there. That hit me—the idea of mak- ing a journey into some nut’s nut. My stomach drew itself up to softball size. “What’s the proper dress for a visit like this? Formal?” I asked, At least, I think I said that. It didn’t sound like my voice. “Wear what you like.” — “Uh-huh, And how do I know when to draw my visit to a close?” Steve came round my side. “If you haven't snapped Craswell out of it within an hour, Ill turn off the current.” He stepped back to the machine. “Happy dreams.” I groaned. It was hot. Two high summers rolled into one. No, two suns, blood-red, stark in a brazen sky. Should be cool underfoot —soft green turf, pool table smooth to the far horizon. But it wasn’t grass. Dust. Burning green dust— The gladiator stood ten feet away, eyes glaring in disbelief. All of six-four high great bronzed arms and _ legs, knotted muscles, a long shining sword in his right hand. But his face was unmistakable. This was where I took a good hold of myself. I wanted to giggle. “Boy!” I said. “Do you tan quickly! Couple of minutes ago, you were as white as the bed sheet.” The gladiator shaded his eyes from the twin suns. “Is this yet another guise of the magician Garor to drive me insane— an Earthman here, on the Plains of Istak? Or am I already—mad?” His voice was deep, smoothly-modulated. My own was perfectly normal. Indeed, after the initial effort, I felt perfectly normal, except for the heat. I said: “That’s the growing idea where I've just come from—that you’re going nuts.” ~ You know those half-dreams, just on the verge of sleep, in which you can control your Own imagery to some extent? That’s how I felt. I knew intuitively what Steve was getting at when he sajd I could play it off the cuff. I looked down. Tweed suit, brogues—Naturally. That’s what I was wearing when I last looked at myself. I had no reason to think I was wearing— Eomichooksaco