The Reincarnation of Peter Proud by Max Ehrlich Page B

no more problems. Do you still hear my voice?”
    “I hear you.”
    “You cannot open your eyes. Try to open your eyes.” The voice was calm. It was serene, soothing. He did not even try to open his eyes. He did not want to.
    “You are asleep now. You will not awaken till I wake you. And you will answer all my questions without waking. Do you understand?”
    “I understand.”
    Suddenly the faraway voice seemed close in his ear.
    “All right. You can open your eyes. You will awaken now.”
    He opened his eyes. Hall Bentley was sitting in the same chair, watching Peter as before. But now he was in his shirtsleeves. The ashtray next to him was full of butts.
    “How do you feel?”
    Peter stretched. He was deliciously relaxed. “I feel great. It’s all over?”
    “Yes.”
    “How did I do?”
    “I’ll say this much, You were a good subject. Very responsive. At least to hypnosis.”
    “What happened? What did I say?”
    Bentley did not answer at once. His face was expressionless. He went to the window and opened the blinds. The sunlight came flooding in. Peter blinked in its glare. He lay back on the couch limply. He felt marvelously rested, as though he had slept around the clock.
    “Well? What did I say?”
    “You might as well hear it from the tape. Verbatim.”
    Bentley turned on the tape recorder. First, the parapsychologist’s voice asked Peter a few routine questions. His name, address, age. His interests outside of teaching. Then, suddenly:
    “Now, Pete, you are still asleep. Deep asleep. Now we are going to turn back. We are going to move back through time. And throughspace. When I speak to you next, you will be eight years old. You will be eight years old, and you will be able to answer my questions. Now you are eight years old. You go to school now, don’t you?”
    “Yes.”
    “What school?”
    “Larkin School.”
    “Who sits in front of you?”
    “A girl. A girl with black hair.”
    “What is her name?”
    “Elizabeth.”
    “Elizabeth what?”
    “Rhodes.”
    “And who sits next to you?”
    “A boy.”
    “His name?”
    “Ernie. Ernest Harris.”
    “Who is your teacher?”
    “Miss Ellis.”
    “What does she look like?”
    “Red hair. Fat. And she has a wart on her cheek.”
    “What is your favorite subject?”
    “Indians.”
    “You like to study Indians?”
    “Yes.”
    Peter listened to the tape, startled—not only because he was able to remember these long-forgotten details, but because his voice had changed. It was that of an eight-year-old boy—high, a little squeaky. He shivered a little.
    The tape went on.
    “Now, Pete, when did you first learn to play tennis?”
    “When I was seven.”
    “We are going back, Pete. When I talk to you next, you will be a year younger. You will be seven. You understand?”
    “Yes.”
    “Now you are seven.”
    “Yes.”
    “How are you learning to play tennis?”
    “I take lessons.”
    “Who is giving you lessons?”
    “A tennis instructor.”
    “What is his name?”
    “Corrigan. Mr. Corrigan.”
    “Do you play well?”
    “Very well.”
    “How well?”
    “The tennis instructor was surprised. He said he couldn’t believe it.”
    “Did he say anything else?”
    “He said it was—uh—there was a word he used.”
    “What was the word?”
    “Incredible.”
    “You mean, he was surprised at how well you learned?”
    “Yes.”
    “Whom did he say this word to?”
    “My father.”
    “Can you tell me what else he told your father?”
    “He told my father that my form was terrific. He asked my father whether I had ever played before.”
    “And what did your father say?”
    “He said no, it was my first time.”
    “And then what did Mr. Corrigan say?”
    “Well, he shook his head. He used this word—incredible. He said I must have been born with a tennis racket in my hand.”
    “He said that? Those were his exact words?”
    “Yes.”
    Pete glanced at Bentley. He had no memory of this conversation. He remembered Corrigan only