Too close to the forest

                     By Bryce Walton & Al Reynolds

              The dazzling difference between failure and
                success hung from a spidery thread. And
               established a barrier no ESP could sever.

    _We roll out the red carpet for Bryce Walton and Al Reynolds. New
    to us--but not to you. Their's is the delicate tale of a sensitive
    mind, the mind of Dr. Marsten who tried frantically to reach his
    colleagues. Only to prove that over-familiarity with a subject,
    reiteration of detail, may obliterate the essential vital point to
    success of a great scientific experimentation._

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                     Fantastic Universe July 1954.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


I won't forget that evening of the big experiment. If the truth is ever
known about that evening maybe the world will never forget it either. I
got there first, and went into the hall they'd let Dr. Marsten have for
the evening on the Revere University Campus. Dr. Marsten was sitting
there alone behind a table with a few papers in front of him. A single
lamp burned that spotlighted his face like some old classic sculpture
in a gallery.

That's the way I remember him. Small, with delicate yet lined features,
and his hair, still dark, and his eyes bright and even darker from
peering beyond the frontiers of the human mind.

I never saw him again after that night, not in any way I want to
remember.

He offered his hand. It was hot and damp and shaking a little. Tension
had drawn his mouth tight, even when he managed to smile at me and
indicate a chair. I sat down.

"I'm so glad you're here, Max," he said. "It is right that you share in
this triumph." I could feel the tension behind his words. It was the
climax of his life. He would either vindicate himself or go, disgraced,
into oblivion.

He didn't have to explain any of this to me. I guess I was closer to
Dr. Marsten than anyone had ever been, except his wife, of course. She
had died ten years before. From that time on he lived for his work in
experimental psychology. Until finally, much to everyone's shock and
disbelief, he turned to _para_psychology. And I worked with him against
the heartbreakingly rigid demands of the scientific method.

I was only a graduate student working for my Doctor's degree at the
time. A term paper I'd done had impressed Marsten and he had gotten me
a scholarship. During the four years after that I was his assistant and
confidant.

That is, I was until he got completely wrapped up in parapsychology,
Extra Sensory Perception. At that point he abruptly dismissed me.

I knew why. I argued about it but he was adamant. He knew what
experiments in a field tinged with mysticism and the supernatural might
do to my scientific professional career. As it finally did to his. He
didn't want to involve me.

He was ostracized, dismissed from the University as a faculty member.
The scientific world depends on its open mind, within the bounds of
its own techniques. But the unknown worlds of the human mind are
sometimes very hard to fit into the rigid scientific disciplines and
methodologies.

Rhine's experiments satisfy those who want desperately, many of them
for highly personal reasons and needs, to believe in Extra Sensory
Perception. It doesn't satisfy the scientific mind. Its "scientific
validity," based on averages greater than those of "chance," are not
adequate for the scientific method. Too many variables. But Marsten had
told me he had gone much further than Rhine or his disciples. And now
he'd ask me to be here for the culmination of his ten years of work.

"My theories will now be proven," he'd written me. "I want you to see
the proof I shall offer on the opening of new worlds of the human
mind...."

He'd published books on the subject but the world of science labeled
them pseudo-science, stuff for the psychic research societies and those
who take photographs of ectoplasm.

I believed in Marsten to an extent. But at the same time I doubted
that he could prove his contentions. I knew he was staking everything
on his faith in himself tonight. The biggest men in science--men who
had respected Marsten as a scientific mind until he went off the deep
end, they thought--were going to appear, allow him to use them in his
experiment to prove his theories.

They were big men in heart as well as reputation. But Marsten had
done some remarkable work in experimental psychology in the past
and I guess no one, outside of myself, wanted to see him regain his
professional respect and reputation as much as did those men: De Vaca,
Professor of English Literature; H. Morrison, Professor of Biology; M.
Borinsky, Professor of History and specialist in the History of Russia;
Billingsley, Professor of Theosophy; Marian Adler, Psychology Professor
who happened to have the same surname as Freud's disciple, and there
were others.

They had all agreed to Marsten's request to be a part of his final
experiment to prove the existence of mental telepathy.

"I'll prove mental telepathy tonight so they'll have to believe it,"
Marsten said softly. "And think what that will mean. New fields of
research will open the gates to human freedom and escape from man's
sad mental limitations. It will bring official, legalized scientific
research into the mind that will end the ills of mankind!" He leaned
forward and gripped my wrist. His forehead was wet. His voice was
hoarse. "It'll work tonight, Max!"

"And if it doesn't?" I asked.

He sat back, shook his head. "It will," he said. "I know because I've
proven it to myself. But--but if it doesn't--" He shrugged. "I'm
through. It will be the end of the road for me."

The way he said it, more than the words, frightened me. I knew how
intense he was, how much his work meant to him. And when he spoke like
that I knew--I feared--that Marsten had become emotionally unbalanced.

"That's ridiculous," I said. "You can go ahead with your work,
regardless. Some of the greatest scientific advances have been made
against the popular grain. In fact, most scientific work! Remember
Galileo, Newton...."

He shrugged. "Matter of temperament. I know my own limitations, my
weaknesses. But I _know_ this experiment tonight will work! Listen,
Max--I don't care about publicity. I've invited no reporters. I want
only these scientists to know, that's all. They're the ones who have
to be convinced. To give the field of parapsychology respectability so
that the vast resources and brains of science can be turned loose on
it, that's all I want."

He looked at me intense, earnest. "Max," he whispered, "the rumors
that are circulating about me--I've heard about them. They think I'm
unbalanced mentally! You've heard that?"

I was embarrassed. I had heard. Everyone had. I said, "You're respected
as an honest and scholarly man, a genius in the field of psychology.
These men, if they speculate at all along that line, think you've
deluded yourself by the 'will to believe' in your own experiments.
Wishful thinking, some call it. I don't believe anyone thinks your
capabilities in normal psychological work have diminished. If anything,
they're probably stronger."

He managed a thin laugh. "Well," he said. "Tonight will prove
something, anyway."

I remember the greetings when the other scientists arrived, the
slightly embarrassed attempts at conviviality. Within half an hour all
of the nine men arrived and were seated before Marsten's table. All his
former co-professors at the University where Marsten no longer taught.
I could see that Marsten was obsessed almost as much with proving that
these men's lack of faith in him was wrong, as he was in proving his
own theories right.

I felt apprehensive as Marsten started to talk. But as his
self-confidence, his obvious faith in himself began to show, I felt
better. His enthusiasm and confidence was so contagious that it even
affected the nine scientists so that they, too, became more interested
than embarrassed.

"Gentlemen," Marsten was saying, "you know from my letters why you have
been asked here. Needless to say, I am grateful beyond words that you
came to be shown proof of what you've refused so far to believe--and
with good cause. Tonight I shall demonstrate scientifically the
existence of mental telepathy. I shall prove to all of you in an
interrelated and undeniable way so that there will be no doubt
concerning my facts. No doubt whatsoever."

No one else said anything. Feet shuffled and there was a cough or
two. All of them knew what this would mean if Marsten could prove his
theories; what it would mean to him if he failed.

Marsten went on. "If I show that _you_ can read _my_ mind, that should
prove my theories to your satisfaction. I shall do this without any
hypnotic suggestion.

"I have not told anyone of the techniques which I've worked out over a
period of years, not even Max Reinach here. This will be my first group
demonstration of my theories. Until I was ready to give conclusive
scientific proof I did not confide fully to anyone, even to Max, my
closest associate."

He had told me a little, that is true. So little, in fact, that I
knew not much more about his theories than the rest of the scientists
gathered here tonight.

"... and so, gentlemen, I shall get the experiment over with as quickly
as possible. There are two rooms, as you see, one at each end of the
hall. I shall go into one room and lock the door. It is impossible for
me to see or hear anything that goes on outside that room. Before the
experiment starts I shall ask you to examine that room yourselves, in
any way you like."

De Vaca and Dr. Morrison went into the room, examined it thoroughly.
Then one of them stayed inside while the other came out, closed the
door, tested for sound. Finally, Morrison said, "We agree--it is a
sound-proof room. It is bare inside. There is no opening other than
this door."

"Thank you," Marsten said. "Max, will you hand each of these gentlemen
one of these cards and a pencil." I took the cards and pencils from his
table and handed them out.

"Now," Marsten said, "one by one, you will go, in any sequence you
desire, into that other room and lock the door. I will be locked in
this room that you checked. A bell in the room you are in will ring.
That will be the signal for you to leave the room and for someone else
to go in.

"During the time each of you is in that room, please keep your minds
open, receptive for a thought impression you will receive from me.
That's all there is to the experiment. Excepting this--" he lifted
a sealed envelope from the table. "This contains proof which will
verify the success of this experiment. I leave it here. You will, as a
committee, lock it in the safe upstairs in the business office. Take it
from the safe only after the experiment is over."

So the experiment started. I sat over by the wall, watching their
faces. I observed the way each man, in his own highly personalized way,
got up and played his part in an experiment which he believed to be
ridiculous.

I remember how each of them looked and acted as they, one by one, went
into that room, locked the door, and came out later when the bell
rang. I studied closely their faces as each came out. They went in
embarrassed silence back to their chairs and sat down, each holding a
card upon which they had written the thought supposedly received from
Marsten.

I felt the terrific tension. The room seemed hot and stifling as
Marsten came out of his room finally and went over to the table. His
face was pale and moist. His hair was wet and stringy around his ears
and over his forehead.

The ticking of the clock suddenly sounded louder and louder. The
breathing of the nine men seated there got louder. I could hear my own
heart going like a turbine in my chest. Now we waited for Marsten to
speak.

He glanced at me, motioned to me. I got up and went over to the table.
His eyes were dark and bright. "Collect the cards will you please, Max,
and give them to me?"

I did that. I didn't want to give them to him. I had a crazy idea of
running out of there with the cards. Then it would be my fault that
Marsten had failed. I didn't believe in Marsten then. I wanted to.
I'd worked with him, knew his greatness, his integrity and sincerity.
I knew he might be emotionally unstable. I wanted to believe, but I
wasn't convinced at all. Man is ever credulous in the wrong place,
at the wrong time, about the wrong things. We swallow the emotional
screamings of demagogues, reject the quiet discoveries of great men who
only do not know the techniques of salesmanship, of propaganda.

But I put the cards on the table beside Marsten. Then, as he picked
them up I began to feel differently. I don't know why. Perhaps his
bravery, his courage and tenacity, his faith in his own beliefs,
overwhelmed me suddenly.

I was with him then. Somehow, all at once, I _knew_ he was right.
Suddenly I had all the old confidence and trust in his genius that I
had had years before when I'd worked with him so closely.

The silence in the room then was paralyzing, a thick binding tension.
The nine professors stood up as if sitting now was untenable.
Professors of English literature, Biology, Astronomy, Music, Medicine,
Psychiatry, History, Physical Education, Religion. They stood there
waiting for Marsten to check their written thoughts on the cards.

Marsten spread them out like a hand of bridge and looked at them. His
muscles jerked once, as from a galvanic reflex, like a man suddenly
touched with a high-tension wire.

He cried out, as from deep and wracking mental pain. The sound hit into
the room's silence like metal into flesh. He dropped the cards abruptly
and they spilled over the table. He stared at the floor between the
table and the nine men facing him.

His voice sounded far away, muffled. "Gentlemen, I've--failed.
I've--failed--miserably!"

He swayed. I ran around the table and caught him to stop his falling.
His muscles quivered under my hands.

He pushed me away. His eyes were hot and a little wild. Then he stood
up straight, like an old soldier at bay.

"I'm sorry you have had your valuable time imposed upon so inexcusably.
No need--no need now, I assure you, even to open the sealed envelope. I
missed--missed in every case except that of Professor Adler. My success
with him I attribute entirely to chance."

He took a step backward and whispered, "Goodnight, gentlemen. Goodnight
and--goodbye."

I called out, but he went on out the door. I ran after him into the
hall, but he had ducked out a side door. I followed him across the
darkening campus. But his car roared away before I could reach him. I
did not have a car so I could not follow.

I didn't talk to the others. I went home. And I began to phone, trying
to locate Marsten. I called every few minutes and I called the police
and everyone who knew him. The police said they would put out a dragnet
if he didn't show up within the next twenty-four hours. I had explained
he was in great distress, that I was afraid of what he might do.

I didn't sleep well that night. There was no word about Marsten's
whereabouts in the morning. I began to think that perhaps suicide was
the only way out for him now. I doubted that he would be able to face
the failure of that experiment he had planned for so long, and on which
he had staked all of what remained of his reputation.

       *       *       *       *       *

I managed to get three of the nine scientists to be with me when I
went to the office at the university and opened the safe and took out
that sealed envelope next morning. De Vaca, a small nervous man with
constant flighty gestures, Morrison, biology professor, a solemn, bald
little man, and Billingsley who had a jaw like a prizefighter, and was
big and gruff, but brilliant.

They, too, were worried about Marsten's disappearance, considering his
state of mind. Now we all wanted to know what that envelope contained.
Maybe its contents would assist us in helping Marsten--if we found him.

After examining the contents of the sealed envelope, we sat around the
table and no one said anything for what seemed a long time. Finally
De Vaca said, "He failed all right. But it was a wonderful plan, and
certainly we could no longer deny the existence of mental telepathy had
this idea worked out as he planned it."

Morrison said, "But we must find Marsten before he kills himself. He
should be institutionalized, now, his mental unbalance treated...."

The others agreed. They began to discuss where to begin the search for
Marsten.

I thought about what we had found in that sealed envelope. Marsten
had had a great idea all right. Although the professors had selected
their own order of going into the testing room, Professor Marsten had
arbitrarily numbered each of them from 1 to 9. Using the subjects
which they taught instead of their names, he expected to prove mental
telepathy. In the envelope he had left this list:

    _1. Thackeray----Professor of English Literature_
    _2. Evolution----Professor of Biology_
    _3. Lungs----Professor of Anatomy_
    _4. Elgar----Professor of Music_
    _5. Phenobarbital----Professor of Medicine_
    _6. Adler----Professor of Psychology_
    _7. Trotsky----Professor of Russian History_
    _8. Hockey----Professor in Physical Education_
    _9. Yuletide----Professor in Theology_

Each participant was to have received a specific word or name which was
directly connected with his field of teaching. The first letter of each
word, formed an acrostic reading down which spelled out:

                           T-E-L-E-P-A-T-H-Y

The cards the professors had handed in were also there beside us on
the table. I went through those cards again, slowly, while De Vaca and
Morrison and Billingsley debated as to the best way of locating Marsten.

I wanted to do more than just find Marsten. I wanted to be able to help
him when he was found. The cards the professors had handed in listed
what they thought they had received from Marsten via mental telepathy.
This is what they had written:

    _1. Shakespeare----Professor of English Literature_
    _2. Darwin----Professor of Biology_
    _3. Kidney----Professor of Anatomy_
    _4. Debussey----Professor of Music_
    _5. Opiate----Professor of Medicine_
    _6. Adler----Professor of Psychology_
    _7. Stalin----Professor in Russian History_
    _8. Golf----Professor in Physical Education_
    _9. Xmas----Professor in Theosophy._

Each professor had written something _similar_ in meaning to what
Marsten had tried, through mental telepathy, to put into their minds.
Except in the case of the Professor of Psychology. And in that one case
there was a direct hit, as Marsten had said.

Oddly enough, Marian Adler had the same surname as the great
psychoanalyst, Alfred Adler, whom Marsten had chosen for one of his
projected thoughts. To me, the results did not seem the complete
failure Marsten thought them. But of course Marsten had wanted to hit
it one hundred percent. Nothing less would have satisfied a scientific
mind like his in such an experiment.

The acrostic: S-D-K-D-O-A-S-G-X formed by the words apparently received
by the Professors in that locked room was merely a jumble of letters,
spelling out nothing of any meaning.

Finally, we parted to go our separate ways. I took the envelope and
cards and went home. The others, with cars, would search for Marsten.
I'd forgotten my work, my thesis, everything. I wanted to figure
out something, but I didn't even know what it was. I had a most
unscientific idea--a hunch!

All day I thought and sweated over that envelope's contents, the cards,
the two acrostics:

                           T-E-L-E-P-A-T-H-Y
                                  and
                           S-D-K-D-O-A-S-G-X

I worked all that day and through the night, but I could make no
connection between the two acrostics.

Meanwhile, the search continued for Marsten, but there was no sign of
him or his car. I sweated it out, trying to convince myself that he
wasn't already dead, that when he was found I, meanwhile, would have
found something in the remains of that experiment to give him new zest,
new hope.

But I didn't know the technique he had used. I kept thinking of that
one successful hit in the case of Doctor Adler. Here, I thought
desperately, might be the clue to his technique.... I stayed up and
worked at it another day, and into another night. If I could only prove
that the experiment hadn't failed completely, then that information
could be broadcast, televised, and maybe Marsten would see or hear, if
he still lived, and then would want to keep on living.

It was odd how positive I was that there was something there that
would prove Marsten right. Maybe we're all aware of much more than we
think we are--and could have greater awareness if we could only raise a
few mental curtains....

I pounded my brains out on that Adler angle. She was the only woman in
the group. Maybe that had meaning. I went through some of Marsten's
notes, but there weren't enough of them, and they weren't the basic
ones. I skimmed through books on Extra Sensory Perception. But I didn't
get anywhere....

And then the phone rang and I answered it. It was Police Lieutenant
Walters, at the local precinct station. He had promised to let me know
at once if they found any trace of Marsten.

"We found him," Walters said tersely. "He's on a ledge outside a window
of the Loeb Building at Fifth and Pinehurst!"

I said, "My God!" Then, "Will you pick me up?"

He said, "Yes. Maybe you can talk him out of it. You were close to him.
We've sent the emergency squads over. Never know when they'll jump when
they're like that. One move at the wrong time and that makes them jump.
I'll be there in five minutes...."

I felt sick with panic and hopelessness. Then, in that moment, out of
nowhere, came the flash--the key--it shone there before me all at once,
the answer I'd been looking for! I knew it had been there all along
and my mind had gone around it time and again. And suddenly it was
there, conscious and clear.

I arranged it all in my mind as we rode over to Fifth and Pinehurst,
the police lieutenant intent on driving speedily through the heavy
traffic.

If I could get to Marsten in time, I could save him! I'd had the
explanation all along--I'd read it in a scientific journal, in reports
I'd skimmed through on ESP. Marsten would understand--if I could get to
him in time! He hadn't been wrong. And I could give him proof....

A big crowd was gathered in the early dawn, standing silently in the
street, staring upward at the small figure on the ledge. The wind was
cold and steady and in the early morning greyness I saw Marsten, thirty
stories up, hunched against the side of the building. He wasn't a man
to exhibit himself for melodramatic recognition. Therefore, I knew he
must be very far out of his normal mind.

I am sure he went up there to jump immediately. But he had been there
an hour, now. Perhaps, I thought, he was trying to figure, in a last
desperate moment, where his experiment had failed. Trying to find in
the mysterious, senseless chaos of embryonic human thought, a reason
why he should not die....

The police got me through the crowd, inside the building and into an
elevator. I ran down the hall of the thirtieth floor to the room where
policemen were working with ropes and steel hooks. I heard one of them
say, "We can't reach him. It's no use."

I stuck my head out the window, called Marsten's name. But the wind
tore the words away, sent them in the opposite direction. He didn't
turn his head. I could barely make out his features, dead white and
void of expression.

"Don't jump, for God's sake!" I called over and over. "Professor,
_you were right! The experiment was a success! Listen to me! It was a
success!_"

I could see the uplifted faces down below, a blanket, a net they had
stretched down there, both looking no bigger than a checker square.

Marsten didn't seem to hear me, but I kept yelling, trying to make him
hear. I fought the wind, and whatever barrier there was between Marsten
and myself. But he didn't turn, didn't seem to hear me, seemed unaware
of me, of anything that went on around him.

I shouted the explanation to him of what I'd suddenly realized:

In these ESP tests the receiving impressions are the symbols on the
various cards in a deck. Basically, the tests in ESP experiments all
come down to one thing--the participants try, without seeing the
cards, to identify the symbols on each card in a deck as they draw them
from the pack.

In reviewing the results of these tests, it often happens that
participants, extra-ordinarily gifted with what is called 'psychic
ability,' have long runs of picking exact cards. But these runs are
sometimes on the cards--_before the one that is being turned, or on the
one after the one turned_.

In other words, if cards A-B-C-D-E-F-G have been turned, many times the
participant will call B when C is turned, C when D is turned, E when F
is turned, and so forth. There are various theories for the cause of
this factor. It is a factor that comes up time and again. Marsten knew
that. But in that intense moment he must have overlooked it. It hadn't
occurred to any of the others there, either. We were all too close to
the forest to see the trees....

And I screamed at the Professor against the wind and the morning:
S-D-K-D-O-A-S-G-X form an acrostic, and they are all one letter in the
alphabet _before_ the letters that spell out T-E-L-E-P-A-T-H-Y! Except
in the letter A, for Adler. There could not be a letter before A in the
alphabet. So, there was no displacement factor on Adler's card.

"Marsten, listen to me! Can you hear? Can't you understand? The
_displacement factor, Marsten_! The _Displacement Factor_--"

He never saw me, never heard me of that I am certain. Everything seemed
too late for Marsten. I saw him lean forward, drop off the ledge.
My words followed him crazily down as he fell: "_The displacement
factor_--"

Maybe before he struck the concrete down there he realized that he had
been right, that the experiment had not failed. I hope so. But I think,
in view of his tragic death, that Professor Marsten deserves this
explanation, this proof that his work was not in vain. And because of
what his hypothesis may mean to scientists of the future.

It isn't conclusive enough for the strictly disciplined scientific
method. But though others may think his experiment inconclusive, I
_know_ that Professor Marsten proved the existence of Mental Telepathy.

So I'm going to take up where Marsten ended his experiment--and his
life--and I'm going to do it even though it may mean the end of my
career in orthodox science.

And maybe if I keep working at it, and thinking about it long enough
and steadily enough, Marsten will receive my thought. Then, wherever he
is now, if he doesn't already know, maybe I'll be able to tell him that
he didn't fail....