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THE ALTERNATE PLAN
By GERRY MADDREN
_The operation was a very serious one and Bart Neely was willing to put himself into Dr. Morton's hands. But if things turned out badly, Bart was going to teach them a lesson. He was going to refuse to die._
Bart Neely was fighting the hypo. They'd slipped that over on him. Nowhe had to struggle to keep his brain ready for plan B. The alternateplan. He nodded feebly at his reflection in the mirror over the whiteenamel dresser. This throat-trouble wasn't going to lick him. He layback on the cool white pillow. Medical men always thought theirs was thefinal answer; well, psychologists like himself knew there was a broaderview of man than the anatomical. There was a vast region of energy atman's disposal; the switch to turn it on, located in the brain.
Rubber-soled shoes squished across the bare floor as Dr. Jonas Mortoncame into Bart's room. His hair was hidden by a sterile cap, his armsbare to well above the elbows.
Looks like a damned butcher, thought Bart.
"Bart, I want you to reconsider the anesthetic. I think you ought to beout for this one, completely out." The doctor's voice became a shadeless professional. "I don't tell you how to run your perceptionexperiments, I think you ought to let me judge what's best in thesurgical area."
"No," Bart whispered hoarsely. It was hell squeezing the words out.Lifting his voice these days was harder than lifting a half-ton truck."Must be conscious, able to decide." Jonas had to lean down to catch allthe words. "Not going to let you take my voice while I'm unconscious ...helpless ..."
Dr. Morton shook his head. "You're the boss."
"How soon?"
"Twenty minutes." The professional tone became pronounced again. "Yourwife's outside waiting to see you. Don't get emotional, I don't wantyour endocrine system in an uproar." The doctor stepped out into thecorridor.
* * * * *
Emotional. He mustn't think about it. He might weaken, consent to lingeron, an invalid, just to be with Vivian a few extra years. Extra years ofindignities calculated to twist the man-woman relationship into an uglydistortion. How romantic it would be, he and Vivian locked in anembrace, the silky softness of her hair falling across his arm, thepressure of her fingers on his back. And then, instead of placing hismouth against her ear and whispering the familiar intimacies, he wouldswitch on the light, disengage himself so that he could whip out a padand pencil and ...
His heart skipped at the sound pattern of high heels on the corridor.Vivian, Vivian. Her perfume pricked his senses and it took effort toshut out the emotional response. "Remember the need for an alternateplan," he reminded himself fiercely and then looked up into his wife'sclear green eyes. Without a word she bent down and lay her face next tohis. He was struck with the warmth of her. He gently pushed her headaway. "Vi." (My Lord, his eyes were wet ... what a schoolboyperformance!) "Vi, you know I don't want to go on here ... if radicalsurgery is necessary. I want you to remember me as a whole man, nota ... dummy."
"Bart, oh Bart." There was a frown of apprehension on her forehead. Shesighed heavily and whispered, "Can it make so much difference when Ilove you Bart?"
"But don't you see, Vi? It may not be Bart Neely they wheel back hereafter the operation." He motioned for her to bend closer for the soundof his voice was becoming weaker. "In my field I've seen a lot of crazyreactions to loss of basic ability. Personality reversals brought aboutby loss of hearing, impotency, or even the inability to bear a child."He stroked the back of her hand with his finger. "Bart Neely without avoice-box might be a stranger. I'm not sure you'd like him. I don'tthink I'd even like him."
An intern backed into the room followed by a gurney. Bart shot a look atVi. "This is plan A."
Vi's eyebrows arched in a question.
"Exploration and ..." he paused; the nurse tucked a dark gray blanketall around him. He raised his thin white hand and crossed two fingers ..."and we hope, a negative biopsy."
* * * * *
There was no pain. Whatever the anesthetist had worked out was doingnicely. The overhead light, however, was giving him a headache and theoperating room was damned cold. Jonas and Holsclaw weren't talkingmuch, and what they did say wasn't loud enough for Bart to get. Hestudied their faces. "I'll know by their faces," he assured himself,"and if it's widespread malignancy I'll proceed with plan B."
The sweat was heavy on Jonas' forehead. The sterile mask hid his noseand mouth, but his eyes, behind the lenses of his glasses, looked moistand tired. The surgeon's gloved fingers manipulated, probed, cut.Finally, he turned to a waiting nurse.
"Get this analyzed right away." That was it, the tissue ... was itcancerous or not? The atmosphere grew heavy. Bart watched the secondhand on the large wall-clock swing slowly around its perimeter, and thenaround again and again. The nurse reentered and spoke softly to thedoctor. The two doctors whispered, explaining to each other with handmotions what they were going to do.
This is it. Bart was certain. Well, he'd fool the hell out of theknow-it-all doctors. He closed his eyes and thought. The years he hadspent sharpening his perception, his ability to transfer his thoughts,were just the groundwork for this greatest experiment of all. He hadtransferred thought waves in all forms to all corners of this world withthe highest percentage of accuracy. Now Plan B, the alternate plan, wasto transfer himself! He was willing himself out of his own body. Hecould feel the perspiration trickle down his arms with the effort. Ithad to work. He had to cheat them out of their mutilation. No, hecouldn't fail. He strained against the confines of his body, burdeninghis brain with thought, and suddenly he was free. Bart wanted to shriekwith laughter. He'd outwitted them. There stood gray-faced Jonas workingover that shell, not even realizing that it was an empty body. It waslike a television play or something; everyone clustered around a poorstiff on the operating table, repeating the litany of the saw-bones."Scalpel ... sponge ... clamps ..."
* * * * *
Bart mentally chuckled and fluttered himself upwards; above thesquare-shaped hospital with its rows of tiny windows. Beyond thepolluted air of the city. Up and up, until there was nothing to lookback on. Nothing.
Now Bart perceived something ahead. It appeared to be a body of land. Itlooked marvelously appealing, dark greens, bright yellows, and all theshades in between. He hurried forward, eager to explore what lay ahead.But as he drew closer, becoming more excited over its possibilities, hestruck a cold hard surface which repelled him. It was like glass andthrough it Bart could see a poorly defined figure some distance away.Bart was intrigued. This was a mental barrier thrown up by the fellow onthe other side. Well, he'd give the guy some competition. Bartconcentrated on cracking the wall, building a visual picture of thebreak-through in his mind.
* * * * *
"It's useless. You can't enter here."
"Why do you oppose me?" Bart tested the unseen wall, but found noweakness in its structure.
"We don't care for your sort."
"Is that so. And how have you classified me?"
"As a coward. A suicide. A man of meager resources."
"I'm nothing of the kind. In the first place, I did not commit suicide."Bart wished he could kick at the invisible wall. "I willed myself awayfrom an imperfect shell. I severed the mind from the body."
"Why?"
"Because I had cancer of the larynx, and I'd never have been able totalk again. I'd be less than a man."
"You are less than a man now." There was a long period of no exchange.Bart decided he had not made himself clear. "I didn't want to livewithout being able to communicate wi
th other men and women."
"Communicate. Communicate. There are a million ways to communicate.Michelangelo communicated, Bach, Beethoven, yes, Elvis Presleycommunicates. Hemingway, Martha Graham, actors, dancers, even a babycommunicates!"
"But speech ..."
"Speech is the least dependable method of all. Few people can explaintheir love, their pain, their innermost feelings in words. And often aman speaks his thoughts, and having spoken them, finds he really thinksthe opposite. No, this is second-rate expression and my opinion of youhas not been altered by your feeble argument."
The other fellow's thoughts came over the wall, pounding against Bart'ssub-conscious. "You consider yourself a man of great intelligence," itwent on, "but your lack of imagination makes you less than mediocre. Andas for your mind-power, well, you see you cannot cross my mentalbarrier."
"That's not entirely conclusive. There may be a catalyst here in thisarea which works in conjunction with your thought-processes and notmine. You're familiar with conditions here, while I only know theearth."
"You are hardly a challenge to me. However, to satisfy you that you havepractically no control, let us make a test on your home ground."
"All right. You propose the test."
"Let us see ... if you can re-enter your former body while I am willingyou to stay here, on the other side of that wall."
"Ahah. You're trying to trick me."
"I knew before I proposed my plan you would make exactly that excuse inorder to escape my challenge. Even in excuses you lacked imagination."
"Okay, it's a deal." Bart was mad. "Start concentrating. I'll show youthe power of my mind, both now and after I resume that shell." Bart wasfurious. He tried to leave the place by the wall. He seemed stuck. Therewere waves like laughter vibrating against the glass. Bart strained andsaw that he had come away a little. He tried again and again. There wasa little more distance gained. He tried to build the picture of theoperating-room in his mind and while he was doing this a flash of Vivianexploded his mind. With that quick image, he felt himself free to driftdownward.
There indeed was the hospital. Bart hurried to the operating-room,hovering near the ceiling light, watching the operating team below.
"He's gone, doctor." The anesthetist looked at Jonas. "Respiration'sstopped altogether."
_No_, thought Bart. _Don't close me out now._
"Let's open the chest and massage the heart."
_Yes. Yes._
"I think it's futile, doctor."
"We can try."
_Good old Jonas._ Bart floated to the table and forced himself into theshell which lay white and unmoving under the penetrating light fromabove. It wasn't easy, Bart tried to move the heavy hand, but it wasquite numb.
"Not a thing. Might as well quit."
_Holsclaw's in a hurry. Damn him._
"I'll massage a little longer."
Bart pushed at the leaden eyelid. No go. _Come on, come on._ He felt aconvulsive chill, a throbbing in his head.
"I'm getting a pulse." Jonas' voice was excited.
Bart knew there was a searing pain in his throat, but shutting it out ofhis consciousness was the steady, thumping beat of his own heart.
THE END
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from _Amazing Science Fiction Stories_ September 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note.