I could see that I'd have to figure out something else.
I nodded grimly.
As I went about fussing with the mind-radio to gain time to think of something, Gibson began to mumble half-aloud.
"I'll show that state marshal a thing or two," he snarled to himself. "I'll make him run his car over the Cadron Pass. He'll be there just about now, on his way to have a talk with me, like he told me by telephone.
"And there's a couple other men in this town who are due to learn that Horace Gibson pulls the strings in this burg!"
I strapped the metal cap that was connected to the mind-radio by coils of wire down on his bushy black head.
I shuddered involuntarily. To think that my lifetime of work was about to be used for malignant purposes, by this small town racketeer. I gritted my teeth, fiddling with the minute controls.
Gibson waited, his mouth twitching evilly.
Ten minutes passed.
"Nothing"s happening," he hissed suspiciously.
"That's strange," I said in pseudo-bewilderment. "You should be getting the sensation of lightness, as though you were floating over a vast misty sea. . . ."
Gibson snorted, and yanked off the metal cap.
"Find out what's wrong!"
I nodded, frowning. But I knew why there hadn't been any reaction. I had purposely neglected to release the most important control of all—the Tree of Life juice.
"I'll try it out first," I said, strapping the cap on my own head. "I'm used to it. It'll be easy for me to then locate the trouble."
"No tricks, Tyme!" Gibson growled.
I twirled the controls hastily.
My mind began to drift, my consciousness to diffuse. The lab, Gibson's unbeautiful face, and the whole world, receded in an out-of-focus blur.
Then everything else cleared, and I felt myself floating gently over a great grey ocean of mist, as I had several times before. Below me were innumerable tiny holes in the mist, that I knew were mind-openings.
Some super-knowledge that the Tree of Life drug gave me told me which hole led to Horace Gibson's mind-part.
I moved down effortlessly, and slipped in. . . .
What I found there shocked me. Horace Gibson's mind-part was diseased, rank with a great foulness. His every crafty thought was spawned out of lust and contempt for his fellow man.
His present thoughts, the thoughts that he was thinking now, flashed on and off like a neon signboard.
"Mark Tyme, you're a goner," the sign read. "As soon as you've fixed the mind-radio, and taught me how to operate it, you'll be a dead duck. You're too smart to let live. I want a clear field when I start twisting my hands around the World's throat and making it holler Uncle!"
"HORACE!" I cried out to his mind. My consciousness quivered in desperation. There was only one thing to do. . . .
Gibson's physical body resisted my intrusion. His mind fought me. But I was already in, and in I stayed.
My consciousness directed his body.
"Do what I tell you!" I said to it. "Go to the wall shelf. There you will find rows of bottles. Take down the two bottles on the highest shelf."
He fought. I could sense his bulky body shivering in an attempt to shake
