Our man is now embarking on the fight of his life…
Compiled and Edited by Steven Solomon © 1992
January 5th, 1953
Dearest Evgeny Sergeivich,
What a lousy New Year's! Bambi is now completely bald over her entire body... she hates me... the hell with her, I say! The Boys in the Company have been on my back, complaining about my lack of attention to "serious" research... bah! They wouldn't know serious research if it came up and bit them on the testicles, assuming that these western brats have any... the hell with them all, I say! To hell with those bastards!!!
Yours in the Foulest of Foul Moods,
Then, weeks later…
February 14th, 1953
Dearest Evgeny Sergeivich,
I have fled; I could take no more! Those bastards with the CIA lied to me at every turn. Even Bambi had turned on me. Ah, poor Bambi; she perished during a hair restoration experiment gone horribly awry. I will miss her, but her glands, safe for now in a Thermos® jug, will live on in my continuing work. I'm going freelance!
Yes, my good friend, I am on the run and seeking self-employment as an undercover neuropharmacologist. In my brief time with the Company, I picked up quite a few tricks... how to create a new identity utilizing make-up and disguise, subterfuge, espionage, and best of all, the covert transaction of large amounts of cash and contraband... radio-isotopes, dope, human body parts, what have you. I plan to put these new skills to use on my own behalf. I've already spread my wings in that regard, effecting escape from the hands of those clods, those bastards.
They promised me all the specimens and any equipment that I required, and vowed no interference in my work. But, when it came down to it, they had some very specific ideas in mind. They began to telling me what to do with my time and boundless curiosity; meager, boorish inquiries into chemically assisted interrogations, neurochemicals to keep soldiers awake for days on end and allowing them to move their two eyes independently, pharmaceuticals to repress fear and potentiate extreme violence, a medicine to help a certain elderly and rum-soaked Paraguayan general maintain a hard-on. Kids stuff; Bah!!! To hell with them, I say!
No, there are greater things in store for me. I believe that I am close to achieving the True Grail; Super-enhanced Human Intelligence through Better Neurochemistry. Just think of it! Behold the doors that will open; telepathy, kinesthesia, precognition at last within reach of the ordinary man. Why, if my theories are correct, within the next few years, we will see the creation of The Ultimate Human Brain, capable of mental and sensory feats previously unimaginable; seeing through walls, hearing the sound of a butterfly flapping her wings on the other side of the planet, factoring pi to the millionth decimal in the time it takes to play a hand of gin rummy... while playing a hand of gin rummy! Ho-ho... I am very excited!
Of course, as a True Man of Science engaged in the Adventure of Real Discovery, I shall continue to test my experimental chemicals on my own brain. As you can no doubt tell, they are already having some effect.
Well, in any case, it is good to be out from under the boot heel of my former task-master. I made my escape as they watched me go into the neighborhood liquor store, ostensibly to purchase a gallon of what passes for wine around here. I cannot presently provide too many details, but suffice it to say that the death of the store's proprietor was an unanticipated tragedy. So it goes. I was, however, grateful for the opportunity to pick up some much needed currency, ID, and a late-model Buick Road Master.
Someday, the world will remember poor Emmet Groster as a True Hero of the Neurological Revolution. Certainly, his survivors will be duly proud of his unique contribution, paid for, albeit inadvertently, with his lamentable and foreshortened life.
Today, I am on the run, and have yet another identity. I like this game. It is exhilarating. I've met some nice people on the road, and have stolen their cars and money. I am now in the company of a sweet young lady; she was hitchhiking as I happened by. Her name is Sara Jane Kowalski, she's seventeen, run away from home in Missouri, and quite drunk on that jug wine. I smell romance in the air!
I cannot tell you of my next stop, other than to say that Sara Jane and I will probably find a comfy motel and turn in for the evening. From there, I will venture toward my next connection and a situation where the extradition laws are favorable. Before then, I'll have to figure out how to lose Miss Kowalski, of course. She can't go with me, and I'm afraid to leave her behind. Oh well, I'll figure something out.
Alright, my friend. I must close now. I hope that this correspondence makes it to you. I have attempted to arrange secure transmission, but one never knows, aye.* I shall be writing again, as soon as circumstances permit.
Ever in Pursuit of Knowledge,
*Evegeny Sergeivich Nedo never received the preceding letter; it was intercepted by Soviet GRU, military intelligence. He was immediately arrested and imprisoned, and is most likely to have perished in a labor camp. The fate of his family is unknown, although a middle aged woman claiming to be his daughter has recently filed suit both against the former Soviet regime and Professor Saurian, seeking damages for wrongful imprisonment and death. As this volume goes to print, the case is in litigation and her claimed identity is still unproven. Ed.