A TRICK OF THE MIND By WILLIAM P. SALTON _The average person uses about ten percent of his mind. The rest lies dormant. But Donovan's whole brain suddenly went into action. This posed an interesting question. Can a man think his way out of jail?_ [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Fantastic January 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Paul Donovan was sitting at a bar when he learned the trick. He had reached out to lift his martini glass when his hand stopped in mid-air--stood rigid--refused to move. Paul stared at it. Sweat broke out on his forehead. Thoughts of paralysis raced through his mind. The hand and arm seemed things apart and he had a feeling of not possessing them--of complete divorcement from these members. Then he realized his whole body was frozen and his mind--there was something new about it--something alien; as though it floated above his head and looked down at him in amusement. Panic flared, then subsided, as he became aware of a strange newness within himself; vague and undefinable, this newness, but it was definitely a change; something he had never felt before. _Think_, he told himself fiercely. _There's nothing wrong with you. You aren't drunk. This is only your second martini. Stop this nonsense and pick up that glass._ The order was given with every ounce of his brain power behind it. And the order was obeyed--but in a completely illogical manner. His body instantly became lax and docile, but the offending hand dropped to the bar as the martini glass--seemingly of its own volition--moved across the bar, levitated to his lips, tilted, and poured the drink into his mouth. The martini went smoothly down his throat after which the glass returned to its former position. * * * * * Paul snatched out a handkerchief and wiped his lips as he glanced guiltily up and down the bar. Had anyone been watching? Apparently not. Then Paul saw a small man with an ingrown chin get shakily off his stool. The little man gulped as he eyed Paul in terror. Then he looked back at his own beer glass as though it had turned into a cobra. Now he threw down a quarter and headed for the door. Paul grinned. Not interested in questioning or analyzing his new power, he was satisfied in being happy with it, in examining its possibilities. He ordered another drink. The barkeep set it before him, turned away, and another miracle was performed, as slowly, steadily, the martini glass moved across the polished bar. At the edge, it rose evenly in the air. The martini glided smoothly down Paul's throat. Empty, the glass returned to the table.