ALAN PORTER FOLDED HIS GOLIATH FRAME into an oversize leather chair, crossed his legs, put his glasses on the desk and smiled at me.

"Okay," he said, "let's have it. Take your time." It was Monday night. I'd regained consciousness on Frank and Elizabeth's living room couch, Anne bending over me concernedly. My first reaction had been to stare, then to smile sheepishly. Before we left we told Frank and Elizabeth I hadn't been feeling well all day. It wasn't much of an explanation but they were polite enough to accept it. At least Elizabeth was; Frank didn't look very convinced.

We went home and, after a short, pointed discussion, I'd phoned Alan. He'd told us to come to his office that night. We were there now, Anne waiting tensely in the outer office, me with Alan. Elizabeth was baby-sitting for us.

"Well, you've had a time of it," Alan said after I'd finished my story.

"You remain, as always," I said, "a master of the understatement.''

He smiled. "Quite so." Then he shook his head and clucked.

' "The fantastic potential of the human mind," he said.

I didn't reply. I didn't think I was supposed to.

Alan straightened up in his chair.

"Well, to start," he said, "you're not, of course, losing your mind." I hadn't thought I was either but a tremor of relief went through me to hear verification from such authoritative lips.

"Which begs the question," I said.

"What is it," he asked, "exactly?" He knit his fingers together and flexed them a moment.

"As far as the hypnosis goes," he said, "it couldn't of course, have bestowed any unique power on you. What it might have done is, shall we say, released an already latent power.

"Which is not to say," he went on, raising a hand as I began to speak, "that this is anything unnatural. It's doubtless a case of what psi investigators choose to call the supernormal-as distinguished from the old hackneyed term, supernatural. It's a lot easier to deal with proceedings which fit into the natural scheme of things than it is to deal with beyond-the-pale marvels. Miracles are out of fashion."

"No ghosts then," I said, "no powers of divination." He smiled.

"I think not," he said. "No matter how apparently weird the occurrence, there's a relatively natural explanation for it. I say relatively because there are, of course, basic predications to be accepted-such as the existence of telepathy and its supplements-clairvoyance, psychometry, et cetera. The so-called para-or beyond- normal abilities of the human mind."

"But... me?" I said. "Why should I have them?" I hadn't told him about my father. Somehow that minor parlour trick seemed inconsequential now.

"You or anyone," Alan said, slowly. "This goes beyond particular heredity." He looked amused.

"Which makes me, I might add, something of a rebel in my profession; luckily for you. There are those of my colleagues through whose minds, I fear, the term schizophrenia might well be running now in regard to you."

"I wouldn't blame them," I said. "Now that I look back, I've behaved rather weirdly this past week."

"I'd say so," Alan said.

He shifted in his chair.

"Well, now," he said, "before tackling details it might be well for me to pass along a few generalizations I think would be of interest to you."

"Shoot."

"You see," he began, "mental evolution has followed a definite pattern. Formlessness first. Struggling consciousness. Instinct. Little individuality of function; much collectively. The primitive mental state.

"Next came a deletion of broadening response. Maximum limitation in exchange for maximum direction and power. In a word - focus. The state we're pretty much existing in at the moment. We're absolute masters of technique and, conversely, absolute fumblers at self-knowledge.

"The final step, the step yet to come or, perhaps, already in the making, is this: To retain the values of rationality, of objectivity; yet-at the same time-to re-plunge back into the formless irrational again. What will appear to be a step backward will actually be a step forward into subjective speculation. The step toward self-direction. Toward, in short, awareness."

He smiled.

"Such a mouthful," he said. "You get the drift, though."

"Sort of," I said. "Are you-leading up to saying that... what happened to me was a sort of mechanical speed-up of this evolutionary trend?"

"Not exactly," he said, "although I think the hypnosis-or, more accurately, the faulty extraction of your mind from hypnosis-did tap your latent powers of dissociation. Or, putting it in another way, unlocked your psychical double jointedness. Your psi."

I must have looked confused for he said, "I've used that word twice now. Probably it throws you. What it's accepted as meaning is simply this: the mental function by which paranormal cognition takes place."

"I say 'oh,' " I said.

He grinned briefly.

"Which brings us to a particular," he said. "A tangential point accepted by only a few; among them, me."

He shifted in his chair and looked fixedly at me.

"You recall," he said, "that, a moment ago, when you asked why you? I said, you or anyone. This is a prime point. I believe that every single human being is, from birth, endowed with varying degrees of psychic perceptivity-and needs only a touch to its mechanism to use this perceptivity in responding to experience.

"Naturally," he went on, "this power is little suspected. The entire concept, for that matter, is pretty disreputable at the moment. And, because it is, not very much in evidence. Like many a human response, it needs loving attention to bring it out. The negative approach hurts it. It's not a measurable factor which can be examined whether one believes in it or not that's the tricky part of it. The part which makes it, scientifically, suspect. I do believe, however, that in time men will realize the existence of their psi, and in so realizing be able to reactivate their too-long unrealized potentialities."

"You know," I said, "that's odd. Because there've been times when I could have sworn that Richard knew' what I was thinking-and knew that I knew what he was thinking."

"More than possible," Alan said. "Until children acquire the power of verbal communication, they very likely make a more or less undirected use of their natural telepathic powers.

"Which," he went on, "also applies historically. I believe that, in primitive times, before verbal communication became established, these paranormal talents were commonplace. It stands to reason. Could all the human needs be conveyed by grunts and shoves?"

"Then, when people began speaking to each other," I said, "these abilities were lost?"

"Not so much lost, I think," he said, "as repressed. I believe they still exist in us, faint echoes of their former vitality."

He paused and looked at me in silence for a moment.

"As to your particular case," he said, "I think that the perceptivity released in you is more akin to that of the primitives than it is to that of the, shall we say, man of tomorrow. But don't feel too badly about that. Ninety-five per cent of the so-called mediums are in the same boat though they'd be double-damned before they'd admit it. Their actions prove it, however; the disorderly, directionless, pointless ramblings of their seances; the absurd contradictory results they so often get.

"Which is why," he continued, "these things which have been happening to you have come unexpectedly, without warning except for that occasional physical heightening-which heightening is also proof of its imperfection. The fully developed mediums don't have this depleting physical after effect you've been having. Their perceptivity is strictly mental. It comes, if we choose to put it this way, from the brain, not the guts. And in addition, of course, it is at all times under strict control. It doesn't creep up on them. They call all the shots."

"Well, I guess it's a sort of comfort," I said, "to know that there are others who've gone through the same things I have."

"Plenty of them," Alan said, "and, although they would likely call it a 'psychic gift,' I'd call it more an affliction. In its lack of self-direction and self-understanding, in its inchoate, disjointed functioning, it does far more harm than good."

"Amen to that," I said.

He smiled at the grim sound in my voice, then went on.

"Think of it this way," he said. "You-and the great majority of undeveloped mediums-are traversing a dark tunnel with a flashlight that goes on occasionally-completely beyond your control. You catch fleeting glimpses of what's around you, never knowing what you're going to see, never knowing when you're going to see it."

"Doesn't sound very promising," I said.

"It's a beginning," he said. "But, as to details: they all come down to one thing, I believe-telepathy or aspects of same. You knew when that can of tomatoes hit your wife on the head, because she transmitted the thought of pain to you-and you converted it back into physical sensation.

"You were tuned into the baby-sitter's mind and, in a sense, knew what she was going to do and acted on it. Similarly with your lady neighbor. You tapped her mind several times-then dreamed up a conclusion to her 'overhead' desires."

"But the housecoat," I said, "the pie pans."

"All known to you," he said. "Was that the first time she'd ever worn that housecoat?"

"No. I'd seen it before but-"

"Weil then, the chances of her wearing it were pretty high. And, as for the pie pans, well, they'd been borrowed; sooner or later they had to be gotten back. You also knew that."

"But Anne sending me for them," I said.

"Who made you stay home today," he asked, "Anne or you? You set it up yourself."

"She might have gone herself."

"Maybe she'd decided to ask you before you even dreamed what you did. So you knew she wanted you to go for them. Then, too, there's also the possibility that your mind is making what happens match the dream."

"Like that train wreck?" I challenged.

"Clairvoyance," he said, "another aspect of telepathy. You more than likely telepathized with someone present at the actual wreck. This very often happens when such a catastrophe occurs. And that telepathizing took the form of a quite vivid dream."

"What about the comb then," I asked, "the poker?"

"As for the comb this is another adjunct of telepathy. It's called psychometry. An ability whereby the medium holds an object belonging to the person he telepathizes with and 'learns' things about that person. The object, somehow, acts as an aid to thought-transference. In this case it was a comb. The death idea you got was clearly Elizabeth's-I think you said that was her name. Pregnant women often have this conscious or subconscious fear all through gestation-for themselves, for their unborn child.

"And, as for the poker, well the same thing-except that we don't know whose mind you were beginning to pick. Or what connection the poker had with them. If you wanted to find out you'd have to pick it up again."

"Not me," I said, shaking my head, remembering the jolt of nausea it had brought.

"Can't say I blame you," he said, "although that would be the only way."

"What about knowing Anne's mother had-died?"

"Telepathy," he said, "or maybe, in this case, pure coincidence. Your wife had, after all, just told you that her mother was ill. You knew her mother was old and had been ill several times in the past year. No mystery for you to believe she might be dead. The phone call only added to the intrigue."

"But-"

"Or, as I said," he continued, "it might have been telepathy. From Anne's father-or from her dying mother. Both are possible."

"And... seeing my neighbour on the floor of his living room?"

"You told me that, at that party, there was a comment made about Elizabeth shooting her husband. That was in your mind. You also know about her husband's secret affair. A simple thing for a stimulated mind to put these two together and come up with a vision of your neighbour shot."

"What if it happens, though?" I asked.

"It will prove nothing except that Elizabeth has shot her husband. It will be no more prophecy on your part than if you predicted the death of three hundred people on July fourth and they obliged by killing themselves in traffic accidents. Here you're dealing with percentages, which is a very different matter. And, offhand, I'd say that the percentages of Elizabeth shooting her husband are rather high-especially if they have a gun in the house. Do they?"

I stared at him a moment.

"Frank has a Luger," I said. "He got it in Germany."

"Let's hope it's been inactivated," Alan said.

"Well..." I shook my head. "Which of their minds was I reading then in seeing what I did?"

"Elizabeth's perhaps," he said, "or, since you don't think that she knows about her husband's affair, her husband's mind. The fear of guilt. He thinks about his wife shooting him for revenge. You pick it up and your aggravated mind composes a scene in which that very thing has occurred. You 'see' this scene." I leaned back in the chair.

"It all sounds so damned simple," I said.

"Not at all," Alan said. "You've been the intimate witness to some wonderful things, Tom-itemized proofs of telepathy and its several manifestations. This is no little thing." I sat silently a few moments, trying to come up with something. It seemed impossible that all that terror, all that incredible experience could be so easily explained, so quickly written off. Maybe I was a little disappointed. On the surface I agreed with him; it was more harm than good. Underneath there was still that childish, half longing for it to be something unusual. Something magic.

"And the woman?" I said.

"Telepathy," he said, "which, doubtless, came from this woman-what's her name?"

"Helen Driscoll."

"Exactly. You're probably right in your assumption that she wishes she were in that house again and you're picking up the desire. Then, too, it is just possible she left in the house a sort of energized memory which you've tapped. But that's only a shot in the dark. The other answer is much more feasible."

"No ghosts then," I said, smiling wryly.

"No ghosts," he said.

I sighed. I confessed to him that I had, for a short time, believed that I'd come across proof of life after death. Alan, smiled.

"It would be comforting," he said, "if such proof existed. Unfortunately, it doesn't-no matter what our avid spiritualist friends claim. Telepathy is still the answer as far as I'm concerned. For all paranormal phenomena."

He leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head.

"Yes," he said, "it would be very nice to believe in a simple, contiguous pattern. A continuous life force existing in an endless cyclic phase between latency and activity, action and withdrawal, incarnation and non-incarnation, life and-as we put it-death. Nice to think that the word is a misnomer." He shrugged.

"We can't do that, I'm afraid," he said. "Not, that is, with assurance, not with scientific honesty. It may seem a beautifully unencumbered theory, simple and right. But that doesn't make it provable." He smiled.

"It isn't provable," he said.

He took down his hands and picked up his glasses again.

"Now," he said, "let's hypnotize you again and get those bugs out of your head." I repeat: Famous last words.

P/S: Copyright -->www_novelfreereadonline_Com

***