ut of his chair over by the window staring out. All he did was
hunch up his shoulders. The girls were standing around trying to act
invisible.

"Hillary," I said trying to laugh. "Don't be playing gags on old George.
Where is it? Where's Oscar's play?"

"I--I'm afraid that's it," he said without turning his head.

"This--this fluff? This pablum?"

"Well--I thought I'd try something light to begin with."

"Light? This is no play. This is Pollyanna. It's been done. Where's your
conflict? Your problem? Your suspense? Dammit, where's your characters?"

"I'll get warmed up tomorrow," Hilliary said, but he didn't have much
conviction in his voice.

He tried. He really did. I heard him thrashing around for a whole hour
the next morning. By afternoon he was on his way to the hospital in an
ambulance with two men holding him down.

All I could get out of the doctors was, "complete nervous breakdown." I
finally found a hard-up intern and bribed him to spy for me. He reported
that Hillary had the whole staff stumped. He was acting more like a dope
addict with withdrawal symptoms or a drunk with the D.T.'s.

I got in touch with Hillary's sanitarium. The head psychiatrist was in
Europe, so I cabled him and flew him back. He took over, and pretty soon
I had the word I dreaded.

"Your wonder boy will recover," he told me, "but that's a wonder in
itself. I presume he told you of his experiments to achieve total
recall?"

I said yes.

"What he probably failed to tell you was that we all tried to dissuade
him."

"That he didn't mention, but I worried about it."

"Yes, well you might have. When Hillary Hardy succeeded in stripping
away the last remnant of protective insulation in his memory he exposed
himself not only to its full factual content, but also he lay naked
every past emotional upset, every pain, fear, dread and sorrow he had
ever experienced. It is no longer possible for him to recall an
experience and ponder it objectively. _He relives it._"

"Yes, I get that," I said, "but what's so--"

"Did you ever hit your thumb with a hammer?" the doctor with the
traditional, gray goatee interrupted.

"Sure, a couple of times."

"Ever lose a sweetheart or have a loved one die?"

I nodded.

"Suppose that to even think about such experiences you had to endure all
the actual physical or emotional pain of the original incident? The
crushing blow of the hammer? The heartache and tears of your loss? And
suppose furth