Was it possible that the doddering old fool was so completely self-deluded that he could not observe anything that ran counter to his own preconceptions even when it happened directly under his eyes? Phil reached out with his mind and attempted to see what went on inside Brinckley’s head. He got one of the major surprises of his life. He expected to find the floundering mental processes of near senility; he found cold calculation, keen ability, set in a matrix of pure evil that sickened him.
It was just a glimpse, then he was cast out with a wrench that numbed his brain. Brinckley had discovered his spying and thrown up his defences—the hard defences of a disciplined mind.
Phil dropped back to the floor, and left the room, without a word, nor a backward glance.
From THE WESTERN STUDENT, October 3rd: PSYCH PROF FIRED FOR FRAUD . . . students’ accounts varied, but all agreed that it had been a fine show. Fullback ‘Buzz’ Arnold told your reporter, “I hated to see it happen; Prof Huxley is a nice guy and he certainly.put on a clever skit with some good deadpan acting. I could see how it was done, of course—it was the same the Great Arturo used in his turn at the Orpheum last spring. But I can see Doctor Brinckley’s viewpoint; you can’t permit monkey shines at a serious center of learning.”
President Brinckley gave the STUDENT the following official statement: “It is with real regret that I announce the termination of Mr. Huxley’s association with the institution—for the good of the University. Mr. Huxley had been repeatedly warned as to where his steps were leading him. He is a young man of considerable ability. Let us devoutly hope that this experience will serve as a lesson to him in whatever line of endeavor—”
Coburn handed the paper back to Huxley. “You know what happened to me?” he inquired.
“Something new?”
“Invited to resign—No publicity—just a gentle hint. My patients got well too fast; I’d quit using surgery, you know.”
“How perfectly stinking!” This from Joan.
“Well,” Ben considered, “I don’t blame the medical director; Brinckley forced his hand. I guess we underrated the old cuss.”
“Rather! Ben, he’s every bit as capable as any one of us, and as for his motives—I gag when I think about it.”
“And I thought he was just a were-mouse,” grieved Joan. “We should have pushed him into the tar pits last spring. I told you to. What do we do now?”
“Go right ahead.” Phil’s reply was grim. “Well turn the situation to our own advantage; we’ve gotten some publicity—we’ll use it.”
“What’s the gag?”
“Levitation again. It’s the most spectacular thing we’ve got for a crowd. Call in the papers, and tell ’em that we will publicly demonstrate levitation at noon tomorrow in Pershing Square.”
“Won’t the papers fight shy of sticking their necks out on anything that sounds as fishy as that?”
“Probably they would, but here’s how we’ll handle that: Make the whole thing just a touch screwball and give ’em plenty of funny angles to write up. Then they can treat it as a feature rather than as straight news. The lid’s off, Joan—you can do anything you like; the screwier the better. Let’s get going, troops—I’ll call the News Service. Ben, you and Joan split up the dailies between you.”
The reporters were interested, certainly. They were interested in Joan’s obvious good looks, cynically amused by Phil’s flowing tie and bombastic claims, and seriously impressed by his taste in whiskey. They began to take notice when Coburn courteously poured drinks for them without bothering to touch the bottle.
But when Joan floated around the room while Phil rode a non-existent bicycle across the ceiling, they balked. “Honest, doc,” as one of them put it, “we’ve got to eat—you don’t expect us to go back and tell a city editor anything like this. Come clean; is it the whiskey, or just plain hypnotism?”
“Put it any way you like, gentlemen. Just be sure that you say that we will do it all over again in Pershing Square at noon tomorrow.”.Phil’s diatribe against Brinckley came as an anticlimax to the demonstration, but the reporters obligingly noted it.