Off The Main Sequence

by Robert A. Heinlein

  “Hell, no. I’ve tried everything but tapping his skull with a bungstarter. I don’t believe there’s any brain there to hypnotize."

  “Don’t be pettish. Let’s try again. How do you feel, Ben?"

  “All right, but wide awake." I’m going out of the room this time. Maybe I’m a distracting factor. Now be a good boy and go sleepy-bye." She left them.

  Five minutes later Huxley called out to her, “Come on back in, kid. He’s under."

  She came in and looked at Coburn where he lay sprawled in her big easy chair, quiet, eyes half closed.

  “Ready for me?" she asked, turning to Huxley.

  “Yes. Get ready." She lay down on the couch. “You know what I want; get in rapport with Ben as soon as you go under. Need any persuasion to get to sleep?" No.

  “Very well, then — Sleep!"

  She became quiet, lax.

  “Are you under, Joan?"

  “Yes, Phil."

  “Can you reach Ben’s mind?"

  A short pause: “Yes."

  “What do you find?"

  “Nothing. It’s like an empty room, but friendly. Wait a moment — he greeted me."

  “Just a greeting. It wasn’t in words."

  “Can you hear me, Ben?"

  “Sure, Phil."

  “You two are together?"

  “Yes. Yes, indeed."

  “Listen to me, both of you, I want you to wake up slowly, remaining in rapport.

  Then Joan is to teach Ben how to perceive that which is not seen. Can you do it?"

  “Yes, Phil, we can." It was as if one voice had spoken.

  Chapter Four

  Holiday

  “Frankly, Mr. Huxley, I can’t understand your noncooperative attitude." The President of Western University let the stare from his slightly bulging eyes rest on the second button of Phil’s vest. “You have been given every facility for sound useful research along lines of proven worth. Your program of instructing has been kept light in order that you might make use of your undoubted ability. You have been acting chairman of your sub-department this past semester. Yet instead of profiting by your unusual opportunities, you have, by your own admission, been, shall we say, frittering away your time in the childish pursuit of old wives’ tales and silly superstitions. Bless me, man, I don’t understand it!"

  Phil answered, with controlled exasperation, “But Doctor Brinckley, if you would permit me to show you —"

  The president interposed a palm. “Please, Mr. Huxley. It is not necessary to go over that ground again. One more thing, it has come to my attention that you have been interfering in the affairs of the medical school."

  “The medical school! I haven’t set foot inside it in weeks."

  “It has come to me from unquestioned authority that you have influenced Doctor Coburn to disregard the advice of the staff diagnosticians in performing surgical operations — the best diagnosticians, let me add, on the West Coast."

  Huxley maintained his voice at toneless politeness. “Let us suppose for the moment that I have influenced Doctor Coburn — I do not concede the point — has there been any case in which Coburn’s refusal to follow diagnosis has failed to be justified by the subsequent history of the case?"

  “That is beside the point. The point is — I can’t have my staff from one school interfering in the affairs of another school. You see the justice of that, I am sure."

  “I do not admit that I have interfered. In fact, I deny it."

  “I am afraid I shall have to be the judge of that." Brinckley rose from his desk and came around to where Huxley stood. “Now Mr. Huxley — may I call you Philip? I like to have my juniors in our institution think of me as a friend. I want to give you the same advice that I would give to my son. The semester will be over in a day or two. I think you need a vacation. The Board has made some little difficulty over renewing your contract inasmuch as you have not yet completed your doctorate. I took the liberty of assuring them that you would submit a suitable thesis this coming academic year — and I feel sure that you can if you will only devote your efforts to sound, constructive work. You take your vacation, and when you come back you can outline your proposed thesis to me. I am quite sure the Board will make no difficulty about your contract then."

  “I had intended to write up the results of my current research for my thesis." Brinckley’s brows raised in polite surprise. “Really? But that is out of the question, my boy, as you know. You do need a vacation. Goodbye then; if I do not see you again before commencement, let me wish you a pleasant holiday now."

  When a stout door separated him from the president, Huxley dropped his pretense of good manners and hurried across the campus, ignoring students and professors alike. He found Ben and Joan waiting for him at their favorite bench, looking across the La Brea Tar Pits toward Wilshire Boulevard.

  He flopped down on the seat beside them. Neither of the men spoke, but Joan was unable to control her impatience. “Well, Phil? What did the old fossil have to say?"

  “Gimme a cigaret." Ben handed him a pack and waited. “He didn’t say much — just threatened me with the loss of my job and the ruination of my academic reputation if I didn’t knuckle under and be his tame dog — all in the politest of terms of course."

  “But Phil, didn’t you offer to bring me in and show him the progress you had already made?"

  “I didn’t bring your name into it; it was useless. He knew who you were well enough — he made a sidelong reference to the inadvisability of young instructors seeing female students socially except under formal, fully chaperoned conditions — talked about the high moral tone of the university, and our obligation to the public!"

  “Why, the dirty minded old so-and-so! I’ll tear him apart for that!"

  “Take it easy, Joan." Ben Coburn’s voice was mild and thoughtful. “Just how did he threaten you, Phil?"

  “He refused to renew my contract at this time. He intends to keep me on tenterhooks all summer, then if I come back in the fall and make a noise like a rabbit, he might renew — if he feels like it. Damn him! The thing that got me the sorest was a suggestion that I was slipping and needed a rest."

  “What are you going to do?"

  “Look for a job, I guess. I’ve got to eat."

  “Teaching job?"

  “I suppose so, Ben."

  “Your chances aren’t very good, are they, without a formal release from Western?

  They can blacklist you pretty effectively. You’ve actually got about as much freedom in the matter as a professional ballplayer."

  Phil looked glum and said nothing. Joan sighed and looked out across the marshy depression surrounding the tar pits. Then she smiled and said, “We could lure old Picklepuss down here and push him in."

  Both men smiled but did not answer. Joan muttered to herself something about sissies. Ben addressed Phil. “You know, Phil, the old boy’s idea about a vacation wasn’t too stupid; I could do with one myself."

  “Anything in particular in mind?"

  “Why, yes, more or less. I’ve been out here seven years and never really seen the state. I’d like to start out and drive, with no particular destination in mind.

  Then we could go on up past Sacramento and into northern California. They say it’s magnificent country up there. We could take in the High Sierras and the Big Trees on the way back."

  “That certainly sounds inviting."

  “You could take along your research notes and we could talk about your ideas as we drove. If you decided you wanted to write up some phase, we could just lay over while you did it."

  Phil stuck out his hand. “It’s a deal, Ben. When do we start?"

  “As soon as the term closes."

  “Let’s see — we ought to be able to get underway late Friday afternoon then. Which car will we use, yours or mine?"

  “My coupe ought to be about right. It has lots of baggage space."

  Joan, who had followed the conversation with interest, broke in on them. “Why use yo
ur car, Ben? Three people can’t be comfortable in a coupe."

  “Three people? Wha’d’yu mean, three people? You aren’t going, bright eyes."

  “So? That’s what you think. You can’t get rid of me at this point; I’m the laboratory case. Oh no, you can’t leave me behind."

  “But Joan, this is a stag affair."

  “Oh, so you want to get rid of me?"

  “Now Joan, we didn’t say that. It just would look like the devil for you to be barging about the country with a couple of men —"

  “Sissies! Tissyprissles! Pantywaists! Worried about your reputations."

  “No, we’re not. We’re worried about yours."

  “It won’t wash. No girl who lives alone has any reputation. She can be as pure as Ivory soap and the cats on the campus, both sexes, will take her to pieces anyway. What are you so scared of? We aren’t going to cross any state lines."

  Coburn and Huxley exchanged the secret look that men employ when confronted by the persistence of an unreasonable woman.

  “Look out, Joan!" A big red Santa Fe bus took the shoulder on the opposite side of the highway and slithered past. Joan switched the tail of the grey sedan around an oil tanker truck and trailer on their own side of the road before replying. When she did, she turned her head to speak directly to Phil who was riding in the back seat.

  “What’s the matter, Phil?"

  “You darn near brought us into a head on collision with about twenty tons of the Santa Fe’s best rolling stock!"

  “Don’t be nervous; I’ve been driving since I was sixteen and I’ve never had an accident."

  “I’m not surprised; you’ll never have but one. Anyhow," Phil went on, “can’t you keep your eyes on the road? That’s not too much to ask, is it?"

  “I don’t need to watch the road. Look." She turned her head far around and showed him that her eyes were jammed shut. The needle of the speedometer hovered around ninety.

  “Joan! Please!"

  She opened her eyes and faced front once more. “But I don’t have to look in order to see. You taught me that yourself, Smarty. Don’t you remember?"

  “Yes, yes, but I never thought you’d apply it to driving a car!"

  “Why not? I’m the safest driver you ever saw; I can see everything that’s on the road, even around a blind curve. If I need to, I read the other drivers’ minds to see what they are going to do next."

  “She’s right, Phil. The few times I’ve paid attention to her driving she’s been doing just exactly what I would have done in the same circumstances. That’s why I haven’t been nervous."

  “All right. All right," Phil answered, “but would you two supermen keep in mind that there is a slightly nervous ordinary mortal in the back seat who can’t see around corners?"

  “I’ll be good," said Joan soberly. “I didn’t mean to scare you, Phil."

  “I’m interested," resumed Ben, “in what you said about not looking toward anything you wanted to see. I can’t do it too satisfactorily. I remember once you said it made you dizzy to look away and still use direct perception."

  “It used to, Ben, but I got over it, and so will you. It’s just a matter of breaking old habits. To me, every direction is in 'front’ — all around and up and down. I can focus my attention in any direction, or two or three directions at once. I can even pick a point of away from where I am physically, and look at the other side of things — but that is harder."

  “You two make me feel like the mother of the Ugly Duckling," said Phil bitterly.

  “Will you still think of me kindly when you have passed beyond human communication?"

  “Poor Phil!" exclaimed Joan, with sincere sympathy in her voice. “You taught us, but no one has bothered to teach you. Tell you what, Ben, let’s stop tonight at an auto camp — pick a nice quiet one on the outskirts of Sacramento — and spend a couple of days doing for Phil what he has done for us."

  “Okay by me. It’s a good idea."

  “That’s mighty white of you, pardner," Phil conceded, but it was obvious that he was pleased and mollified. “After you get through with me will I be able to drive a car on two wheels, too?"

  “Why not learn to levitate?" Ben suggested. “It’s simpler — less expensive and nothing to get out of order."

  “Maybe we will some day," returned Phil, quite seriously, “there’s no telling where this line of investigation may lead."

  “Yeah, you’re right," Ben answered him with equal sobriety. “I’m getting so that I can believe seven impossible things before breakfast. What were you saying just before we passed that oil tanker?"

  “I was just trying to lay before you an idea I’ve been mulling over in my mind the past several weeks. It’s a big idea, so big that I can hardly believe it myself."

  “Well, spill it."

  Phil commenced checking points off on his fingers. “We’ve proved, or tended to prove, that the normal human mind has powers previously unsuspected, haven’t we?"

  “Tentatively — yes. It looks that way."

  “Powers way beyond any that the race as a whole makes regular use of."

  “Yes, surely. Go on."

  “And we have reason to believe that these powers exist, have their being, by virtue of certain areas of the brain to which functions were not previously assigned by physiologists? That is to say, they have organic basis, just as the eye and the sight centers in the brain are the organic basis for normal sight?"

  “Yes, of course."

  “You can trace the evolution of any organ from a simple beginning to a complex, highly developed form. The organ develops through use. In an evolutionary sense function begets organ."

  “Yes. That’s elementary."

  “Don’t you see what that implies?"

  Coburn looked puzzled, then a look of comprehension spread over his face. Phil continued, with delight in his voice, “You see it, too?" The conclusion is inescapable: there must have been a time when the entire race used these strange powers as easily as they heard, or saw, or smelled.

  And there must have been a long, long period — hundreds of thousands, probably millions of years — during which these powers were developed as a race.

  Individuals couldn’t do it, anymore than I could grow wings. It had to be done racially, over a long period of time. Mutation theory is no use either — mutation goes by little jumps, with use confirming the change. No indeed — these strange powers are vestigial — hangovers from a time when the whole race had 'em and used 'em."

  Phil stopped talking, and Ben did not answer him, but sat in a brown study while some ten miles spun past. Joan started to speak once, then thought better of it.

  Finally Ben commenced to speak slowly.

  “I can’t see any fault in your reasoning. It’s not reasonable to assume that whole areas of the brain with complex functions 'jest growed’. But, brother, you’ve sure raised hell with modern anthropology."

  “That worried me when I first got the notion, and that’s why I kept my mouth shut. Do you know anything about anthropology?"

  “Nothing except the casual glance that any medical student gets."

  “Neither did I, but I had quite a lot of respect for it. Professor Whoosistwitehell would reconstruct one of our great grand-daddies from his collar bone and his store teeth and deliver a long dissertation on his most intimate habits, and I would swallow it, hook, line, and sinker, and be much impressed. But I began to read up on the subject. Do you know what I found?"

  “Go ahead."

  “In the first place there isn’t a distinguished anthropologist in the world but what you’ll find one equally distinguished who will call him a diamond-studded liar. They can’t agree on the simplest elements of their alleged science. In the second place, there isn’t a corporal’s guard of really decent exhibits to back up their assertions about the ancestry of mankind. I never saw so much stew from one oyster. They write book after book and what have they got to go on? — The Dawson Man, the Pelkin Man, the Heidelber
g Man and a couple of others. And those aren’t complete skeletons, a damaged skull, a couple of teeth, maybe another bone or two."

  “Oh now, Phil, there were lots of specimens found of Cro-Magnon men."

  “Yes, but they were true men. I’m talking about submen, our evolutionary predecessors. You see, I was trying to prove myself wrong. If man’s ascent had been a long steady climb, submen into savages, savages to barbarians, barbarians perfecting their cultures into civilization … all this with only minor setbacks of a few centuries, or a few thousand years at the most … and with our present culture the highest the race had ever reached … If all that was true, then my idea was wrong.

  “You follow me, don’t you? The internal evidence of the brain proves that mankind, sometime in its lost history, climbed to heights undreamed of today. In some fashion the race slipped back. And this happened so long ago that we have found no record of it anywhere. These brutish submen, that the anthropologists set such store by, can’t be our ancestors; they are too new, too primitive, too young. They are too recent; they allow for no time for the race to develop these abilities whose existence we have proved. Either anthropology is all wet, or Joan can’t do the things we have seen her do."

  The center of the controversy said nothing. She sat at the wheel, as the big car sped along, her eyes closed against the slanting rays of the setting sun, seeing the road with an inner impossible sight.

  Five days were spent in coaching Huxley and a sixth on the open road. Sacramento lay far behind them. For the past hour Mount Shasta had been visible from time to time through openings in the trees. Phil brought the car to a stop on a view point built out from the pavement of U.S. Highway 99. He turned to his passengers. “All out, troops," he said. “Catch a slice of scenery."

  The three stood and stared over the canyon of the Sacramento River at Mount Shasta, thirty miles away.

  It was sweater weather and the air was as clear as a child’s gaze. The peak was framed by two of the great fir trees which marched down the side of the canyon.

  Snow still lay on the slopes of the cone and straggled down as far as the timberline.