The President of the United States finished reading the sheaf of papers
before him, laid them neatly to one side, and looked up at the big man
seated across the desk from him.
"Is this everything, Frank?" he asked.
"That's everything, Mr. President; everything we know. We've got eight
men locked up in St. Elizabeth's, all of them absolutely psychotic, and
one human vegetable named Paul Wendell. We can't get anything out of
them."
The President leaned back in his chair. "I really can't quite understand
it. Extra-sensory perception--why should it drive men insane? Wendell's
papers don't say enough. He claims it can be mathematically worked
out--that he _did_ work it out--but we don't have any proof of that."
The man named Frank scowled. "Wasn't that demonstration of his proof
enough?"
A small, graying, intelligent-faced man who had been sitting silently,
listening to the conversation, spoke at last. "Mr. President, I'm afraid
I still don't completely understand the problem. If we could go over it,
and get it straightened out--" He left the sentence hanging expectantly.
"Certainly. This Paul Wendell is a--well, he called himself a psionic
mathematician. Actually, he had quite a respectable reputation in the
mathematical field. He did very important work in cybernetic theory, but
he dropped it several years ago--said that the human mind couldn't be
worked at from a mechanistic angle. He studied various branches of
psychology, and eventually dropped them all. He built several of those
queer psionic machines--gold detectors, and something he called a hexer.
He's done a lot of different things, evidently."
"Sounds like he was unable to make up his mind," said the small man.
* * * * *
The President shook his head firmly. "Not at all. He did new, creative
work in every one of the fields he touched. He was considered something
of a mystic, but not a crackpot, or a screwball.
"But, anyhow, the point is that he evidently found what he'd been
looking for for years. He asked for an appointment with me; I okayed the
request because of his reputation. He would only tell me that he'd
stumbled across something that was vital to national defense and the
future of mankind; but I felt that, in view of the work he had done, he
was entitled to a hearing."
"And he proved to you, beyond any doubt, that he had this power?" the
small man asked.
Frank shifted his big body uneasily in his chair. "He certainly did, Mr.
Secretary."
The President nodded. "I know it might not sound too impressive when
heard second-hand, but Paul Wendell could tell me more of what was going
on in the world than our Central Intelligence agents have been able to
dig up in twenty years. And he claimed he could teach the trick to
anyone.
"I told him I'd think it over. Naturally, my first step was to make sure
that he was followed twenty-four hours a day. A man with information
like that simply could not be allowed to fall into enemy hands." The
President scowled, as though angry with himself. "I'm sorry to say that
I didn't realize the full potentialities of what he had said for several
days--not until I got Frank's first report."
* * * * *
"You could hardly be expected to, Mr. President," Frank said. "After
all, something like that is pretty heady stuff."
"I think I follow you," said the Secretary. "You found he was already
teaching this trick to others."
The President glanced at the FBI man. Frank said: "That's right; he was
holding meetings--classes, I suppose you'd call them--twice a week.
There were eight men who came regularly."
"That's when I gave the order to have them all picked up. Can you
imagine what would happen if _everybody_ could be taught to use this
ability? Or even a small minority?"
"They'd rule the world," said the Secretary softly.
The President shrugged that off. "That's a small item, really. The point
is that _nothing_ would be hidden from _anyone_.
"The way we play the Game of Life today is similar to playing poker. We
keep a straight face and play the cards tight to our chest. But what
would happen if everyone could see everyone else's cards? It would cease
to be a game of strategy, and become a game of pure chance.
* * * * *
"We'd have to start playing Life another way. It would be like chess,
where you can see the opponent's every move. But in all human history
there has never been a social analogue for chess. That's why Paul
Wendell and his group had to be stopped--for a while at least."
"But what could you have done with them?" asked the Secretary. "Imprison
them summarily? Have them shot? What _would_ you have done?"
The President's face became graver than ever. "I had not yet made that
decision. Thank Heaven, it has been taken out of my hands."
"One of his own men shot him?"
"That's right," said the big FBI man. "We went into his apartment an
instant too late. We found eight madmen and a near-corpse. We're not
sure what happened, and we're not sure we want to know. Anything that
can drive eight reasonably stable men off the deep end in less than an
hour is nothing to meddle around with."
"I wonder what went wrong?" asked the Secretary of no one in particular.