“Oh,” replied the performer, softly. “Then what are you doing on this planet?”
The hypnotist paused, saying nothing, and began to smile at Jamie Forbes. A murmur of laughter from audience—what was going to happen to this poor subject?
Just now the subject felt sorry for the entertainer, thought better of walking off-stage, and decided that he might as well play along. He had warned the man, but there was no cause to embarrass him in front of a thousand paying customers.
“What is your name, sir?” the hypnotist asked, loud enough for all to hear.
“Jamie.”
“Jamie, have we met?” he asked. “Have we ever seen each other before this evening?”
“No sir, we have not.”
“That is correct. Now Jamie,” he said, “let's you and me take a little walk in our minds. You see these seven steps ahead of us, we'll go down the steps together. Together we'll go down the steps; down, down, deeper, deeper . . .”
Jamie Forbes didn't notice the steps at first. They must have been plastic or balsa wood, painted to look like stone, and he walked them down with the hypnotist, step by step. He wondered how the audience could see the show when the volunteer was going to wind up practically underneath the stage, but concluded that was Blacksmyth's problem. He must have some scheme with mirrors.
At the bottom of the steps was a heavy wooden door. Blacksmyth asked him to step through, and when he did, closed the door behind him. His voice came clearly through the walls, describing for the audience what Jamie saw before him: an empty stone room, no doors, no windows, yet plenty of light.
The room wasn't square but round, and when he turned to see where he entered, the door had disappeared. Disguised, probably, to match the stone.
Seems like stone, he reminded myself. Painted cloth to look like irregular squares of granite, some medieval fortress.
“Look around you, Jamie,” said Blacksmyth from outside, “and tell us what you see.”
He chose not to say what he knew, that it was cloth. “Looks like a stone room,” he said, “inside a castle tower. No windows. No doors.”
“Are you sure it's stone?” came the hypnotist's voice.
Don't push me, he thought. Don't count on me to lie for you. “Looks like stone. I'm not sure.”
“Find out.”
It's your reputation, Mr. Blacksmyth, he thought. He walked to the wall, touched it. It felt rough and hard. He pushed, gently. “It feels like stone.”
“I want you to be sure, Jamie. Put your hands on the stone and push as hard as you can. The harder you push, the more solid it will become.”
What an odd thing to say. As hard as I can push is pretty hard, he thought, and there's going to be wood blocks all over your stage. He pushed gently, at first, then harder, then harder still. It was solid, all right. This may be more a magic show, he thought, than mind stuff. How did Blacksmyth build a stone room under the stage, and how does he move it from theater to theater?
He looked for the door behind its disguise, but everywhere was stone. He pressed against the wall, kicked it here and there, walked around a room no more than ten feet in diameter, straining against the granite, kicking it hard enough to dent, if it were balsa wood or plastic.
It was frightening but not much, as he knew Blacksmyth would have to set him free some time soon.
“Jamie, there's a way out,” said the showman. “Can you tell us what it is?”
I could climb it, he thought, if the spaces between the stones were wider. Looking upward, he saw a ceiling of the same stuff, solid blocks. On one part of the wall was a scorched blackened place, as though there had been a torch placed there for light. Now the torch and the fitting that held it were gone.
“I can't climb it,” he said.
“You say you cannot climb the wall,” said Blacksmyth, loud and theatrical. “Jamie, have you tried?”
He took that for a hint, that there may be hidden handholds.
Not. He stepped on the edge of the first course of stone, his shoe slipped off at once.
“There's no climbing it,” he said.
“Can you tunnel under the wall, Jamie?”