Just about a year ago, two enthusiastic young men came to seeme, and during the course of the visit announced that they werestarting a campaign to make their living in science fiction—andalso to become "names" in the best science fiction magazines.They planned to collaborate on some material, and writeon their own as well, intending to make the grade both ways.
One of the pair was a well-known science fiction fan, who hadappeared once or twice in the "pro mags," as fans designatejournals like this one. The other was Randall Garrett, whohad previously sold a respectable number of stories to variousmagazines in the science fiction and fantasy field.
I shall not try to insult your intelligence by stating that Itold them I knew they could do it; on the contrary, I lardeddoubt with sympathy. However, this story, and Robert A.Madle's "Inside Science Fiction" will show how wrong I was!
SUITE MENTALE
by Randall Garrett
Illustrated by EMSH
Overture—AdagioMisterioso
THE NEUROSURGEON peeledthe thin surgical glovesfrom his hands as thenurse blotted the perspirationfrom his forehead for the lasttime after the long, gruelinghours.
"They're waiting outside foryou, Doctor," she said quietly.
The neurosurgeon noddedwordlessly. Behind him, threeassistants were still finishing upthe operation, attending to thelittle finishing touches that didnot require the brilliant hand ofthe specialist. Such things assuturing up a scalp, and applyingbandages.
The nurse took the sterilemask—no longer sterile now—whilethe doctor washed anddried his hands.
"Where are they?" he askedfinally. "Out in the hall, I suppose?"
She nodded. "You'll probablyhave to push them out of the wayto get out of Surgery."
HER PREDICTION was almostperfect. The group of menin conservative business suits,wearing conservative ties, andholding conservative, soft, felthats in their hands were standingjust outside the door. Dr.Mallon glanced at the five ofthem, letting his eyes stop on theface of the tallest. "He maylive," the doctor said briefly.
"You don't sound very optimistic,Dr. Mallon," said theFBI man.
Mallon shook his head."Frankly, I'm not. He was shotlaterally, just above the righttemple, with what looks to melike a .357 magnum pistol slug.It's in there—" He gesturedback toward the room he hadjust left. "—you can have it, ifyou want. It passed completelythrough the brain, lodging onthe other side of the head, justinside the skull. What kept himalive, I'll never know, but I canguarantee that he might as wellbe dead; it was a rather nastyway to lobotomize a man, but itwas effective, I can assure you."
The Federal agent frownedpuzzledly. "Lobotomized? Likethose operations they do on psychotics?"
"Similar," said Mallon. "Butno psychotic was ever butcheredup like this; and what I had todo to him to save his life didn'thelp anything."
The men looked at each other,then the big one said: "I'm sureyou did the best you could, Dr.Mallon."
The neurosurgeon rubbed theback of his hand across his foreheadand looked steadily into theeyes of the big man.
"You wanted him alive," hesaid slowly, "and I have a dutyto save life. But frankly, Ithink we'll all eventually wishwe had the common human decencyto let Paul Wendell die.Excuse me, gentlemen; I don'tfeel well." He turned abruptlyand strode off down the hall