The Whole Man by John Brunner Page A

cancerous tissue spreading beneath her brain. She looked very small and old lying among the machinery of the, bed, and although she had not told him directly, he knew she was afraid.
    “We’re ready, Ilse,” he said in the levelest tone he could manage.
    Without opening her eyes, she answered, “Me, too. You can keep quiet now.”
    Then, with no further warning, she let herself go. How it could be perceived, Singh had never been able to work out, but it was unmistakable: one second, she was conscious and aware of her body; the next, it was a shell, and she was in another universe.
    He kept his aching eyes on the pale face of the watchdog, and was dismayed after only a couple of minutes to see a shock of surprise reflected there. In the same instant Ilse stirred.
    “Strong …” she said in a faraway voice
    The alarmed audience oozed tension almost tangibly. She licked her lips and went on, “I have the picture of his fantasy now. He’s the great hero, defender of Athens, darling of the gods and idol of the people. … I can’t break in, Pan! Not without making myself so obvious he’ll summon all his will to resist.”
    “Take your time,” Singh said reassuringly. “There’s bound to be a chance to form a covering role in the fantasy. It may take time to develop, but it’ll come.”
    “I know.” The voice was faint, almost ghostly. Singh wondered how much of it he was actually hearing, how much experiencing telepathically. The bloodless lips scarcely moved. “He has fabulous control, Pan. The schizoid secondaries are unbelievably contrasted. And he’s got them from the reflectives as well as from himself.”
    Singh bit his lip. Only superb powers of self-deception could create the schizoid secondary personalities—individuals acting their part in the drama whose thoughts and reactions were only observable, not controllable, by the telepathist’s ego. Without seeming to pause, however, he uttered new comfort.
    “That ought to make it easier, surely! He won’t be surprised at the appearance of an intruder.”
    “He hasn’t left room for intruders!” The objection was a shrill cry. “It’s like a flower unfolding—it’s complete and all it has to do is spread out and be perfect!”
    No matter how desperately he wanted to, Singh could find no reassuring counter to that. A fantasy so elaborate must have been Phranakis’ companion for years, nurtured in his subconscious, polished and perfected until he could unreel it like a movie film, without any of the hesitations or doubts which would afford an entry for the therapist, disguised as a mere mental pawn.
    Thickly he said, “Well, have patience, Ilse. When the situation looks hopeful, we’ll disturb his brain rhythms and let you in.”
    No answer. Why should there be? Other, lesser therapists had resorted to such crude devices; Ilse Kronstadt had never needed to. Already, even before the job was under way, there was a sour smell of defeat in the room.
     
    Alice Through the Looking Glass: a path that always turned back on itself, no matter how you struggled to reach your goal.
    A concept from relativity: the twisting of space itself.
    An image from a science-fiction movie: a barrier of force glowing blue with brush discharges.
    A fragment of legend: a wall of magic fire enclosing the place where an enchanted maiden slept away the centuries.
    So frightened by the mystery of what was happening that he could not tear himself away from it, Howson snatched these and other mental pictures from the minds of those engaged in the attempt to cure Phranakis. They were clues, no more: they were the personal labels that had been hung on catapathic grouping by people who found unlabeled concepts intolerable. Previously he had accepted Waldemar’s explanation. He hadn’t thought that the reality would be so far beyond preconception, the sun beside the moon, the continent beside the map.
    He had probed the minds of conscious telepathists. There he had found the