Suite Mentale

Just about a year ago, two enthusiastic young men came to see me, and during the course of the visit announced that they were starting a campaign to make their living in science fiction—and also to become names in the best science fiction magazines. They planned to collaborate on some material, and write on their own as well, intending to make the grade both ways.
One of the pair was a well-known science fiction fan, who had appeared once or twice in the pro mags, as fans designate journals like this one. The other was Randall Garrett, who had previously sold a respectable number of stories to various magazines in the science fiction and fantasy field.
I shall not try to insult your intelligence by stating that I told them I knew they could do it; on the contrary, I larded doubt with sympathy. However, this story, and Robert A. Madle's Inside Science Fiction will show how wrong I was!
Illustrated by EMSH
Overture—Adagio Misterioso
THE NEUROSURGEON peeled the thin surgical gloves from his hands as the nurse blotted the perspiration from his forehead for the last time after the long, grueling hours.
They're waiting outside for you, Doctor, she said quietly.
The neurosurgeon nodded wordlessly. Behind him, three assistants were still finishing up the operation, attending to the little finishing touches that did not require the brilliant hand of the specialist. Such things as suturing up a scalp, and applying bandages.
The nurse took the sterile mask—no longer sterile now—while the doctor washed and dried his hands.
Where are they? he asked finally. Out in the hall, I suppose?
She nodded. You'll probably have to push them out of the way to get out of Surgery.
HER PREDICTION was almost perfect. The group of men in conservative business suits, wearing conservative ties, and holding conservative, soft, felt hats in their hands were standing just outside the door. Dr. Mallon glanced at the five of them, letting his eyes stop on the face of the tallest. He may live, the doctor said briefly.