The Potter of Firsk and Other Stories (67 page)

“I’ve heard lots of ’em,” said Rakowsky. “By and large it’s simpler to postulate an after-life. Especially,” he glanced impishly around the room, “since that’s what we all want to believe. Including Mr. Berwick.”

Don nodded. “Including me.” He turned to the tape recorders. “I’ll give you another theory as soon as we finish tonight’s work.” He looked at his list. “Question Three: ‘What does our world look like?’”

Berwick turned on recorder No. 1. The voice of the observer asked the question; the rich heavy voice of Kochamba responded, as different from Henry Bose’s dry husky tones as honey from vinegar. “We have left your world behind,” said Kochamba. “We rejoice up here at the feet of the disciples.” He said no more.

“Now,” said Don, “Sir Gervase Desmond, on No. 2.”

“
Your
world?” drawled Sir Gervase in contempt and astonishment. “Well, I must say I haven’t turned back a second glance. I assume it’s still there—but I assure you, old fellow, I haven’t a farthing’s worth of interest. ‘What do you look like?’ There you have me. I’ve never thought to notice…Ugly chap, now that I look. Face like a sick lizard.”

Molly, speaking through Ivalee Trembath, was kindlier. “Why, just as it’s always looked. And Ivalee herself—why, I hear her pretty voice; it comes to me along the vibrations, as they say, and the first thing I know I’m talking with strangers.”

Such was the pattern for Question 3.

Don paraphrased Question 4: “‘Is ex-President Franklin D. Roosevelt there? Can you see him, feel him? What does he think of the present administration?’” He looked around the faces. “The reason for the question is obvious. We want to find if a number of the controls can contact the same man simultaneously—and if they can, if they bring back identical messages from him.”

“Still proves nothing, one way or the other,” Godfrey Head pointed out. “Nothing is proven until we can rule out telepathy. Which is hard to do, if not impossible.”

Cogswell laughed. “If we ever turn up evidence that satisfies you—then we’ll know we’re on solid ground.”

Head said doggedly, “We can’t pretend to be scientists if we lapse into mysticism.”

“I quite agree,” said Cogswell ponderously.

“No argument on that point,” said Don. “Well—let’s listen to the answer…”

He played the tapes. The responses were confused. Sir Gervase Desmond damned Alec Dillon’s eyes for his insolence; other controls mumbled and muttered; Ivalee Trembath’s equable Molly said that she saw him once in a while, off in the distance, wearing a black cloak, usually sitting at a desk or in a chair.

“Is he still crippled?” the observer asked.

“He’s a great man,” said Molly. “Full of power.”

None of the controls reported Roosevelt’s opinion of the current administration, nor showed any willingness to inquire.

The remainder of the tapes were played back, the data organized. Sometime after midnight the job was finished. The table was littered with beer-cans, ash-trays were full.

Don wearily took up the compilation, leaned back in his chair. “In outline here’s what we’ve got. ‘Is Hitler in the after-world?’ Yes. According to two reports he appears as a shape of great solidity. Apparently he’s being punished. Kochamba says he’s in good old-fashioned Hell. Wetzel says he wanders the outer regions like a lost soul.”

“Contradiction,” muttered Head.

“Unless part of the time he’s in Hell, and part of the time he wanders,” Rakowsky pointed out. “Not impossible.”

Don continued. “Question Six: religious leaders. Jesus is seen sometimes as a light of great radiance, sometimes as a man of great stature. He’s wise, kindly, a great teacher. Mohammed, Buddha are also there, and seen in much the same manner. Gandhi the same. Now for Stalin the arch-atheist. There’s two versions of Stalin apparently. One benign—the other evil. The benign shape, according to that little fragmentary sentence of Pearl’s, is fading, dwindling; the evil shape is growing more solid. He seems to be enduring punishment, like Hitler.” Don looked around the room. “I consider this significant. In fact, with the answers to the next question, it corroborates a suspicion that’s been growing on me…”

Rakowsky, Cogswell, Head and Kelso looked speculatively at him; Jean smiled faintly into her beer.

“Suspicion?”

“I have a theory regarding the after-life which I’ll presently expound.”

“Theories are cheap,” said Rakowsky.

“There may be a critical experiment to test this one. Well—let’s go on. The Egyptian scribe. No one knows him. No one can produce him—if we discount Lula’s vague and rather facetious remarks.

“Eighth question. It arouses amusement in those who gave an answer. ‘Of course we’re persons! Just like you!’

“Ninth question: ‘How do you know when the medium is trying to make contact?’ It’s just like someone calling their name, so say Dr. Gordon Hazelwood, Molly and Pearl. Sir Gervase just knows.”

“Superior son-of-a-gun.”

“Tenth question—they need nothing, want nothing.” Don was scanning the compilation rapidly.

“Eleven. Now they’re starting to fold up. We rely on Molly and Wetzel mostly. They say that they rest, sleep; that they have houses. Molly lives in an old ranch-house, Wetzel lives in a cabin; sometimes he camps in the wilderness. It seems that they live much as they lived in life on Earth. Eating isn’t important—not a routine affair—but they seem to eat on occasion. Bodily processes they aren’t clear on…Pearl giggles. Molly is shocked and offended.

“Twelve. No agreement. Apparently there’s both darkness and light. Molly says it’s always day. Wetzel says there’s day and night. Marie Kozard says the time’s always more or less evening.

“Thirteen: ‘Does investigation annoy you? Is it wrong for you to answer our questions? Do you want to help us learn more about the after-life?’ No clear response. Molly says it’s okay; she’ll help. Wetzel doesn’t want to be bothered; Kochamba thinks it’s bad.”

“Too bad Joanne Howe isn’t a better medium,” Cogswell grumbled. “We could learn a lot from Hazelwood. He’s the most intelligent one of the lot.”

Don threw the compilations down on the table. “That’s it.”

“By and large,” said Cogswell heavily, “an impressive mass of evidence. We’ve had excellent luck.”

Rakowsky grunted. “It tells us nothing new…There’s neither striking divergence nor agreement.”

“Well,” said Don, “I’m newer to this game than any of you—maybe a disadvantage, maybe not. It seems to me that we turned up all kinds of significant material—assuming, of course, that our mediums are honest.”

Cogswell eyed him patiently, Head shrugged. Rakowsky said, “What’s this theory you were talking about?”

Don settled himself in his chair, looked from face to face. “You’ve all read Jung, naturally?”

“Naturally,” said Dr. Cogswell.

“You’re all acquainted with the idea of the collective unconscious.”

“Yes.”

“Jung uses the term to describe the reservoir of human symbols and ideas. I want to expand this phrase to take in all of human thought, memories, ideals, and emotions.”

“That’s your privilege,” said Rakowsky. “It’s your theory.”

“I suggest,” said Don, “that the so-called after-life is identical to the collective unconscious of the human race.”

XIII

The faces wore different expressions. Godfrey Head pulled his chin thoughtfully; Rakowsky blinked half-angrily; Cogswell’s heavy mouth was twisted into a skeptical S; Kelso appeared saturnine and disappointed.

“In that case, you definitely presume the absence of an independent after-life!” said Rakowsky.

Don grinned. “I knew I wouldn’t get any applause.”

Cogswell said sourly, “Your ‘theory’ is on its face illogical.”

Don’s grin became a little pained. “This ‘theory’ explains spiritualistic phenomena without recourse to personal immortality. Does that make it illogical? Are we trying to delude ourselves? Or are we trying to get at the truth, no matter how cheerless it may turn out to be?”

“We want the truth, of course,” said Rakowsky. “But so far—”

Cogswell interrupted. “I maintain that the simplest explanation is the best—the usually accepted theory—”

Head said impatiently, “Let’s hear Mr. Berwick out.”

They all looked at Don, faintly hostile.

Don laughed. “Any theory that doesn’t go to prove after-life runs into trouble. Let’s be frank with ourselves. Most of us can’t swallow religious dogma—but we still want to believe in after-life. That’s why we’re mixed up in this kind of research. We’re trying to
prove
something to ourselves—not disprove it. It’s pretty hard to be dispassionate. But if we’re not—if we don’t lean over backwards, we’re not scientists. We’re mystics.”

“Go ahead,” growled Rakowsky. “Let’s hear some details to this theory of yours.”

“Hypothesis is probably a safer word. It makes a minimum number of assumptions, and it applies to supernatural phenomena the same rationale that we apply to the traditional sciences. We need no occult propositions about the ‘purpose of life’, ‘the pre-determined direction of evolution’, ‘the Ultimate Unknowables’. We can approach the problem with dignity, as self-determined men trying to systematize a mass of data, rather than humble seekers after an off-hand revelation or ‘divulgences’.”

“A fine speech,” grumbled Cogswell. “Go on.”

“Just one minute,” interposed Godfrey Head. “I want to say that I heartily agree with Mr. Berwick in one respect. I’ve read some of the psychic research literature and a lot of it rather turned my stomach. Other-world beings are always making statements like ‘this much I have been instructed to tell you—’, ‘you are not ready to learn more—’, ‘you are hardly at the threshold of knowledge’. I’ve always wondered, if they had any knowledge to impart, why they didn’t impart it.”

“Betty White described what she called ‘the unobstructed universe’,” said Rakowsky.

Head nodded. “So she did—with ostentatiously difficult terminology and ideas which she assured Mr. White were very, very difficult—and which Mr. White dutifully found difficult. They’re really not so difficult. When Mr. White asks after matters which Betty thinks he’s not entitled to ask about, he’s reprimanded and told to keep to the subject…Excuse me for side-tracking. But it’s a characteristic of spiritualistic writing which has always exasperated me.”

Don laughed. “Me too. Well, to proceed. What does the collective unconscious contain? First, the actual contemporary scene: our cities, roads, automobiles, airplanes, the current celebrities. Second, imaginary places or localities distant in time and place which we’re all more or less acquainted with: Heaven, Hell, Fairyland, The Land of Oz, the Greece and Rome of antiquity, Tahiti, Paris, Moscow, the North Pole. Third, famous men, or rather, stereotypes of famous men: George Washington as painted by Gilbert Stuart; Abraham Lincoln as on the dollar bill—or is it the five-dollar bill? Fourth, the concepts, conventions, symbols of the racial unconscious—as distinct from the collective unconscious. The American unconscious is naturally a part of the greater unconscious of the race. In turn it’s built up of smaller blocks. The California unconscious is different from the Nevada unconscious. The San Francisco unconscious is different from the Los Angeles unconscious. The unconscious of the six of us is different from that of six people next door. So—we have this fabric. From a distance it appears uniform—the collective unconscious of Genus Homo. As we approach, it becomes variegated, till at its limit we find the unconscious mind of a single man. When a single man becomes aware of a person, the person takes his place as an image in the man’s unconscious. The greater the number of men that know this person, the stronger their feelings toward him, the more intense becomes the image.

“Imaginary ideas become a part of the collective unconscious—such as ghosts, fairies. The images intensify with belief, until finally, under certain conditions, even people who don’t believe can see these imaginary concepts.

“When a person dies, he figures strongly in the minds of the people who have loved him. By virtue of their devotion and faith the unconscious image gathers strength; he materializes, sends messages, and so forth. But we’ve got to remember that the spirit image is only a function of the living minds who knew the dead person. It talks and acts as the persons still alive think it should talk.”

“But look here,” cried Cogswell, “there are a dozen authenticated cases of spirits giving information outside the knowledge of any living person!”

Don nodded. “I’m hypothesizing that the spirits—call them spirits for lack of a better name—that they act by the personalities the living persons endow them with. Let’s assume that John Smith is bad, in a hundred detestable secret ways. No one knows this. To his family and friends he poses as a man of benevolence and generosity. He dies; he’s mourned by all. Statues are erected to him; his spirit sends back messages. But do these manifestations show John Smith’s covert badness? No—they only corroborate John Smith’s overt goodness.”

Cogswell shuddered. “You picture a situation as detestable and incredible as the character of John Smith.”

Godfrey Head said with a grin, “Dr. Cogswell is equating ‘detestable’ and ‘incredible’.”

Cogswell started to sputter; Don held up his hand for peace. “We’ve got to be sure in our own minds why we’re engaged in psychic research. If it’s only to reinforce our hopes we’d better get out, go join a church. If we’re after the truth—”