A TRICK OF THE MIND

Paul Donovan was sitting at a bar when he learned the trick. He had reached out to lift his martini glass when his hand stopped in mid-air—stood rigid—refused to move.

Paul stared at it. Sweat broke out on his forehead. Thoughts of paralysis raced through his mind. The hand and arm seemed things apart and he had a feeling of not possessing them—of complete divorcement from these members. Then he realized his whole body was frozen and his mind—there was something new about it—something alien; as though it floated above his head and looked down at him in amusement.

Panic flared, then subsided, as he became aware of a strange newness within himself; vague and undefinable, this newness, but it was definitely a change; something he had never felt before.

Think, he told himself fiercely. There's nothing wrong with you. You aren't drunk. This is only your second martini. Stop this nonsense and pick up that glass.

The order was given with every ounce of his brain power behind it. And the order was obeyed—but in a completely illogical manner. His body instantly became lax and docile, but the offending hand dropped to the bar as the martini glass—seemingly of its own volition—moved across the bar, levitated to his lips, tilted, and poured the drink into his mouth. The martini went smoothly down his throat after which the glass returned to its former position.

Paul snatched out a handkerchief and wiped his lips as he glanced guiltily up and down the bar. Had anyone been watching? Apparently not. Then Paul saw a small man with an ingrown chin get shakily off his stool.

The little man gulped as he eyed Paul in terror. Then he looked back at his own beer glass as though it had turned into a cobra. Now he threw down a quarter and headed for the door.

Paul grinned. Not interested in questioning or analyzing his new power, he was satisfied in being happy with it, in examining its possibilities.

He ordered another drink. The barkeep set it before him, turned away, and another miracle was performed, as slowly, steadily, the martini glass moved across the polished bar.

At the edge, it rose evenly in the air. The martini glided smoothly down Paul's throat. Empty, the glass returned to the table.

Paul tingled all over, thoroughly enjoying the new thrill, the new sense of power. It was far more intoxicating than the martinis themselves.

With a marked sense of superiority he again looked up and down the bar. The first flash of fear gone, he now regarded the other drinkers with patronizing contempt.

That fat fellow there at the end for instance. Drinking a manhattan. Trying to look like a banker. Trying to impress the people. Pompous ass! Maybe I can fix his wagon, Paul thought.

The man raised his glass with an exaggerating sweep of his hand. Paul concentrated and the poor unfortunate poured its entire contents over his immaculate shirt front.

The barflies snickered as the man fumbled a bill onto the bar and fled.

It worked, Paul gloated.

A waiter passed carrying a tray of appetizers. Paul closed his eyes, "thought" one into his mouth and tasted the sharp salty flavor of anchovy. This was fun!

Next he noticed a glossy dame sitting near the center of the bar pushing out her front until it reminded him of twin cannons. So she thought she could scrounge another drink from the guy next to her, huh? Why didn't she just pick his pocket and be done with it?

Why not indeed? Effortlessly the man's wallet flew out of his hip pocket and arced down into her low-cut bodice. The girl angled her popping eyes downward. Paul chuckled to himself as she slipped off the stool and headed for the ladies' room.

It was all so easy.

If he could manipulate his new-found power so cleverly, why not do something truly epic? Like dropping a brick on his boss's head. Or—come to think of it—how about putting some money into his own pocket?

The cashier at the end of the bar rang up a sale. Then with the cash drawer still open his attention was attracted by a waiter. Opportunity! With hardly any effort at all Paul transferred a ten-dollar bill from the drawer into his shirt pocket. It crackled excitingly as he pressed it flat with a casual hand.

Pure excitement swept him. He could do anything! Move into the really spectacular. He could—could even rob a bank!

Thus when the armored truck pulled up across the street his mind was conditioned for its arrival. Through the window he saw the rear door open. Then two armed guards emerged. Bored by the routine, one of them actually yawned as a third guard appeared from the theatre entrance in front of which they were parked. He was carrying a satchel.

As he handed it into the truck Paul's mind worked automatically. Then he watched as the guards vanished inside the truck and closed the door. The truck spouted a white exhaust and pulled away.

Paul was trembling now, suddenly aghast at what he had done. This wasn't a parlor game anymore, and he told himself it hadn't happened; told himself this in quick desperation; that this whole thing had been nothing more than an idle daydream, a moment's relaxation along with a few drinks.

Like hell it was! Regardless of how he figured it he was now a bigtime thief. Bigtime? How much is bigtime? How much money was now stuffed in the briefcase beside his stool? He reached down surreptitiously and hefted the bag for weight. Plenty!

He ordered another drink and gave it no chance to play tricks, snatching the glass firmly by the stem and lifting it the old fashioned way. It didn't help much.

Then real panic welled up as a heavy hand dropped on his shoulder, and he turned and saw the goggle eyes of the little fat man; saw a pudgy finger pointed accusingly.

"I tell 'ya officers this is the guy. And he's nuts. Stark raving nuts, I'm telling 'ya. He gets his drinks without even lifting them. They bounce right off the bar."

There were two policemen, a rather bored oldster with signs of breakfast on the front of his uniform and a spruced up young patrolman not yet disillusioned.

The older cop dropped his hand from Paul's shoulder and spoke with a certain deference. "This is no charge, mister. Just a routine look-in. Our friend here is all excited about something and—well, you know how it is."

"That's okay, officer," Paul croaked, striving to control his voice. The younger cop, taking a cue from his superior's manner, threw a stern look at the discomfited fat man. "Do you want to prefer any charges, mister?"

The fat man took an involuntary backward step, banged his heel against Paul's briefcase and instantly both policemen were staring at the floor.

Paul's eyes followed theirs. A chill went deep into his bones. That faulty catch. He'd meant to get it fixed. Now it was his undoing as a heap of banded banknotes spilled out on the floor.

The elder cop broke the silence. "Maybe there'll be some charges—maybe not—but I think we'll take a walk to the station all the same."

Paul clawed at his mind for a retort. "Any law against carrying money?" he asked trying to make it sound light.

"No law against it—no. But you've got to admit this is pretty unusual."

"Do you think I stole this money?"

The officer tipped his cap back and scratched his ear reflectively. "No, but I got a hunch it doesn't belong to you. I don't think you got any right sitting here in this bar with it. I think maybe you got a boss somewhere that might have sent you to a bank or something and he could be real nervous wondering why you don't get back. We'll just take a little walk to the station and no offense to anybody, okay?"

Paul's mind was numb as he stood between the officers at the call box. He could not force his brain to function even normally, let alone execute any mental tricks discovered in the bottom of a martini glass. A squad car pulled up and he climbed docilely in the back seat and sat like a man in a trance between the two silent policemen. At the station there was the added chill of feeling like a man alone, a criminal involved in a terrible experience that was merely routine to the tormentors who walked by his side.

It was one of the older stations with a well-worn floor marked by the scuffing footsteps of many an unhappy wrongdoer. The desk sergeant had a sagging disillusioned face and a pair of eyes that had given up all hope of Utopia. He turned them on Paul and grunted, "What's the gripe?"

The senior officer did the talking. "We don't exactly know, Sergeant, but we got a lead on this character, found him sitting in a gin mill with enough dough in his ketch to pay off the national debt. It seemed a little out of line somehow."

The desk sergeant stretched his scrawny neck and peered down at the offending briefcase. "The dough in there?"

"Right."

"Let's have a look."

The younger officer lifted the bag as though it contained the secret to every unsolved crime on the books and deposited it triumphantly on the desk.

"Pretty battered leather to lug around real dough in," the sergeant commented. He lifted the flap and reached inside. Then he scowled at the accusing cop and tipped the briefcase upside down.

A sheaf of white papers fell out; a pack of new lead pencils Paul had lifted from the supply shelf that afternoon and a copy of Lurid Sex he had bought at the corner newsstand. That was all.

The desk sergeant slammed the briefcase down on the desk and glowered at the trio before him. "What kind of a rib is this? You jerks think I got nothing more to do than sit here and let you bounce your gags off me? Besides this isn't even a gag. It's got no point. Let's have the snapper, I'm listening."

The elder cop turned pale with amazement. The younger one, obviously of different metabolism, had turned beet red. After a thick pause they found their voices simultaneously.

"I'll swear on the Bible that there was money in that damn briefcase when we first looked into it...."

Paul passed up the bus, preferring to walk the ten blocks to his apartment. He needed the air and the sense of freedom was glorious. Thank heaven his mind had come unstuck that last moment and now the sheaf of money was back where it belonged—in the satchel of the armored car guard. Humbled, completely chastened and not a little scared, Paul hoped he had caused no one any inconvenience.

And strong indeed were his resolutions: no more mental transference. In fact no more martinis. From now on he would get his money the hard way. In the end that would turn out to be by far the easiest.

THE END