John Brunner: The Whole Man

“Good heavens, no!” said Jay, staring. “What do you think I make myself out to be — a second Michelangelo ? I’m a glorified interior decorator, that is all.”

“And even if he did make himself out to be a genius,” said Charma with mock grimness, “I’d cure him of the delusion quick enough. Thanks a million, Gerry — I’d practically given up hope of any return from these wet fireworks of his.”

Then she looked directly at Howson.

“What about you? What have you got out of all this? It wouldn’t be fair if there wasn’t anything.”

“Me?” Howson chuckled. “I’ve got just about everything. The mere fact that I’ve had it for years without realizing doesn’t make me any less pleased. You see… Well, Rudi, so to speak, has just given his first public performance. I think I might go ahead and give mine.”

He had been looking forward to this moment; indeed, he had had difficulty containing himself so long. He reached out gently with his mind and began to tell a story.

How could he have been so blind ? How could he have failed to realize that the solution to his problem was here, under his nose?

He — Gerry Howson — had more power behind his telepathic voice than anyone had ever had, even Ilse Kronstadt. So why should he have to lock himself and his audience away into a catapathic grouping to prevent the outside world breaking the flow of pleasurable fantasy? All he needed was a degree of concentration about as deep as people achieved of their own accord when they were carried away by brilliant acting or great music.

Moreover, he wasn’t so disillusioned with reality that he needed to hide from it. What he craved wasn’t the exercise of unbridled power, or any of the other unfeasible yearnings which a telepathist had to retreat into fugue to let loose. He wanted acceptance. He wanted to wipe out the legacy of twenty years during which he was only a runt with a gammy leg, and people judged him entirely on that basis. Put at its simplest, he wanted to make friends with the world that had been hostile to him.

And he could.

He conjured up a simple fantasy, a fairy-tale, with sights, sounds, smells, tactile sensations, emotions — all drawn from the vast store of unreal and real memory with which his intimate knowledge of so many minds besides his own had armed him. It was only a trial run, of course. One day there would be something more. But for now, this was enough.

His audience came slowly back to reality, eyes shining, and he knew he had won.

And now — ?

Maybe a trip around the world to add a knowledge of reality to his knowledge of other people’s dreams and nightmares and imaginings, drawing here a little and there a little from the consciousness of Asians, Europeans, Americans, Australasians… The whole world lay open to him now.

He smiled, and poured himself more wine.

As usual the stadium had been packed to capacity. The very rarity of the occasions on which Gerald Howson invited people to hear him “thinking aloud” ensured that all available accommodation went as soon as it was advertised — he never allowed this to conflict with his work at the Ulan Bator therapy centre. But whenever he got the opportunity, he would notify some city with a suitable arena or hall, and people would travel a thousand miles if they could manage it. In two years he had achieved a reputation on every continent.

Tonight he had coped with his biggest audience yet — almost five thousand. Now they were wistfully filing from the exits, and Howson was receiving — and largely ignoring — the inevitable wave of congratulations from distinguished listeners. As always, he had to keep denying that he was tired after his efforts; perhaps he should explain as a coda to the performance that he did this at least in part to refresh himself after a tough period of work. He never felt so relaxed and happy as after one of these rare public appearances.

Tonight he had skipped from idea to idea, now telling his audience of his work, now telling them the thoughts of a normal happy person, in India, in Venezuela, in Italy, in many other places where he had garnered his material. It had become a virtuoso achievement; often he improvised on the reactions of the members of the audience, leaving those who were lonely and unhappy proud to have been singled out. And always, if there was anyone present labouring under an intolerable problem, he found someone else, generally an influential official, and left the suggestion that something be done to right matters.

Ilse, Ilse! If you had stumbled on this you would not have died so burdened with regret!

“Gerry,” said Pandit Singh softly through the babble of voices. “Gerry, there’s someone here whom you ought to see.”

Hullo, Rudi — I knew you were there. Just give me a chance to get rid of these so-and-so’s!

A silent suggestion that the onlookers should take their leave, and he was free to come and shake Rudi’s hand. Clara was with him, and he greeted her affectionately.

How are you?

Fine! You’ll be seeing a lot of me from now on — I start training as a therapy watchdog at Ulan Bator next month.

Delight!

“Hullo, Gerry,” said Rudi, unaware of this mental exchange. He seemed almost embarrassed. “You were wonderful.”

“I know,” said Howson, smiling; Rudi could hardly recognize him as the same person, so greatly had his new self-assurance transfigured him. “When are you going to join me in show business ?”

“I’m giving my first performance in a few weeks. Mainly, I came to invite you and make sure you can be there. If you can’t, I’ll postpone it — I’m determined to have you in on the first night.”

“Congratulations! You may be sure I’ll come — emergencies permitting.”

Rudi glanced sidelong at Pandit Singh. A slight flush coloured his cheekbones. “Gerry — I’ve been talking with Dr. Singh here, about you, and I’ve been finding out quite a lot about your—uh — your disability. I don’t know much about either medicine or telepathy, but I seem to have come up with an idea that’s not as foolish as I thought it might be. Ah — as I understand it, the trouble is that some part of your brain which ought to look after the repair and upkeep of your body has been sacrificed to your telepathic organ.”

“Roughly,” confirmed Howson. He searched Rudi’s face keenly, but the evident tension there held him back from forestalling his next words. In his own mind he felt a taut premonition.

“Well, what I was thinking was… If you can transfer practically anything from another person’s mind to your own — couldn’t you sort of borrow the necessary part of my mind to make up for what you haven’t got?” The last part came in a rush, and Rudi looked at once hopeful and excited. “You see, I owe you everything, including my life, and I’d like to do something equally valuable in return.”

The world was spinning around Howson. He stared at Pandit Singh, mutely inquiring whether this thing could be.

“I’ve hardly had a chance to think it through,” Singh said. “But at first sight I don’t see any reason why it shouldn’t be tried. It might mean that your bodily appearance would tend towards Mr Allef’s, but it also holds out the hope of our being able to operate on you and give you a chance of healing normally. It might even mean you growing in height. I’ve warned Mr Allef that it would mean lying in a hospital bed as long as was required, unable to do anything and enduring as much pain as if he himself had been operated on, and that with no sure promise of success—”

“And I still insist on being allowed to do it,” said Rudi firmly.

Howson closed his eyes. He could do nothing else but accept, of course — but even as he uttered grateful words he felt it was unnecessary. Whether or not this hope was granted, whether or not the operations were successful, was of little account. For in the moment when Rudi made his offer, he, Gerald Howson, had become a whole man.