It could never have been done without hypnosis. Within broad limits,
the human body is capable of doing just exactly whatever it _thinks_ it
is capable of. But the human body could hardly be blamed if convention
had long since decided that exertion was bad, that straining to the
limit of endurance was unhealthy, that approaching--even obliquely--the
margin of safety of human resiliency was equivalent to approaching
death with arms extended. That convention had so declared was well
known to the researchers at the Hoffman Center.
But it was also known that the human body under the soothing suggestion
of hypnosis could be carried up to that margin of safety and beyond.
Indeed, it could be carried almost to the actual breaking point without
stir, without a flicker of protest, without a sign of fear.
And these were the conditions that were critically needed in testing
for the Mercy Men. Yet, though hypnosis was necessary, the men who
came to the Mercy Men without fail rejected hypnosis. Always they
held the fear of divulging some secret of their past. Whether because
of distrust of the doctors and the testing in the Center, or plain,
ordinary malignance of character--no one knew all the motives. But
those who needed hypnosis the most rejected it the most vehemently.
This forced the development of techniques of hypnosis-by-force.
It would have annoyed Jeff, if he had known. Indeed, it would have
driven him to the heights of anger, for Jeff, among other things, was
afraid. But he need not have been, and it made little difference that
he was. Now Jeff was not suffering from his fear. His mind was in a
quiet, happy haze, and he felt his body half-lifted, half-led across
the room to the first section of the testing room.
Even now there was a tiny, sharp-voiced sentinel hiding away in a
corner of his mind, screaming out its message of alertness and fear to
Jeff. But he laughed to himself, sinking deeper into the peacefulness
of his walking slumber. Dr. Gabriel's voice was in his ear, his
voice smooth and soothing, talking to him quietly, giving simple
instructions. Quickly, he took him through the paces of a testing
series that would have taken long, hard days to complete. It would
have left him in psychotic break at the end, if he had not had the
recuperative buffer of hypnosis to help him.
First, he was dressed in soft flannel clothing and moved into the
gymnasium. Recorders were attached to his legs and arms and throat.
Then he was formally introduced to the treadmill and quietly asked to
run it until he collapsed. He smiled and obliged, running as though the
furies were at his heels. He ran until his face went purple and his
muscles knotted. At last he fell down, unable to continue.
This happened after ten minutes of top-limit running. Then came five
minutes of recuperation under suggestion: "Your heart is beating
slower. You're breathing slowly and deeply ... relaxing ... relaxing."
Someone took his arm and he was off again, this time on the old,
reliable Harvard Step-Test, jumping up on the chair and back down. He
did this until once again he lay panting on the floor, hardly able to
move as his pulse and respiration changes were carefully recorded.
Next in line came a lively handball game. He was handed a small,
hard-rubber ball, and asked to engage in a game of catch with a machine
that was stationed at the end of a cubby. The machine played hard,
spinning the ball around and hurling it at Jeff with such incredible
rapidity that he was forced to abandon all thinking. Instinctively,
he reached out to catch the ball. His fingers burned with pain as he
caught it and passed it in, only to have it hurled back out again,
twice as fast. Soon he moved as automatically as a machine, catching,
hurling, his mind refusing to accept the aching and swelling in his
fingers, as the ball struck and struck and struck....
Then a small ladder was rolled in. He listened carefully to
instructions and then ran up and down the ladder until he collapsed off
the top. He was rested gently on the floor while blood samples were
taken from his arm. Then he sat, staring dully at the floor. A voice
said, "Relax, Jeff, take a rest. Sleep quietly, Jeff. You'll be ready
to dig in and fight in a minute. Now just relax."
Several people were about; one brought him a heavy, sugary drink,
lukewarm and revolting. He drank it, gagging, spilling it all down
his shirt front. Then he grinned and licked his lips while further
blood samples were drawn. And then, he was allowed to take a drink of
cool water. He was left staring at his feet for five whole minutes of
recuperation before the next stage of the testing commenced.
* * * * *
The lights were in three long columns. They extended as far as Jeff
could see to the horizon. Some were blinking; some shone with steady
intensity, while others were dark.
"Call the columns one, two and three," said Dr. Gabriel, close by, his
voice soft with patience. "Record the position of the lights as you
see them now. Then when the signal sounds, start recording every light
change you see in all three columns. Do it fast, Jeff, as fast as you
can."
The eye is a wonderful instrument of precision, capable of detecting
an infinitude of movement and change. It is delicate enough to
distinguish, if necessary, each and every still frame composing the
motion picture that flickers so swiftly before it on the white screen.
Jeff's fingers moved, his pencil recorded, quickly moving from column
one to column two, and on to column three. The pencil moved swiftly
until the test was over.
Then on to the next test....
Electrode leads were fastened to each of his ten toes and each of his
ten fingers.
"Listen once, Jeff. Right first toe corresponds to left thumb; right
second toe to right index finger. (Wonderful stuff, hypno-palamine,
only one repetition to learn) When you feel a shock in a toe, press the
button for the corresponding finger. Ready now, Jeff, as fast as you
can."
Shock, press, shock, press. Jeff's mind was still, silent, a blank, an
open circuit for reactions to speed through without hindrance, without
modulation. Another round done and on to the next....
Doctor Schiml's pale face loomed up from some distant place.
"Everything all right?"
"Going fine, fine. Smooth as can be."
"No snags anywhere?"
"No, no snags. None that I can see--yet."
* * * * *
"I want a smoke."
Dr. Gabriel relaxed, offered Jeff a smoke from a crumpled pack,
extended his lighter and smiled. He noticed that Jeff's wide eyes
missed their focus, could not see the extended flame. "How do you feel,
Jeff?"
"Fine, fine--"
"Still got a lot to do."