by Hal Clement
The stock of data which the psychologist had brought with him was growing low; the study was nearing the end of its planned course. There were a few of the human mind’s highest capabilities to be included—constructive imagination, artistic appreciation and ability, and similar characteristics; and these were making more trouble than all the earlier problems together. Without the practice furnished by those earlier jobs, Vainser and Rudd would probably never have succeeded in preparing this last material for use. Wren himself was little help; he was spending most of his time with the most recent of the answer sheets. They wrestled with the business for an entire week, Vainser letting subordinates handle the routine administrative work of the station instead of taking time out to do it himself; and in the end they were only half satisfied with the result.
They pried the psychologist forcibly away from the sheet which had been absorbing his entire attention, and put him to work with them; and only after three more days did the men feel that the thing could be given to the machine. Surprisingly enough, the material had boiled down sufficiently to make possible its presentation to a single eye. The previous total sheet alone was placed beneath another.
In consequence, the arrangement was practically identical with that which had caused the disturbance a fortnight earlier; and Wren felt slightly uneasy as Rudd shuttered the room lights and pressed the button activating the eye. Each run of the past half-dozen had taken slightly longer than its predecessor, since each represented all the previous work plus the new subject material: so no one was surprised at the two or three seconds of silence which followed the activation of the computer. Then the wavering green hairline on the screens of the status indicators steadied and straightened, and Rudd, at Vainser’s nod, desensitized the eye, opened the shutters, and removed the answer sheet from its frame. With a slight bow, which looked rather ridiculous from a man who was hanging in midair rather than standing on his feet, he handed the month’s work to Wren and remarked, “There, my friend, is your brain. If you can make that machine, we’d be interested in a model. It would probably be a distinct improvement on this thing.” He waved a hand at the walls around them as he spoke.
“Brain?” queried Wren in some surprise. “I thought I had made the matter clearer than that. I have no reason to suppose that this diagram represents what goes on in the human mind. The study was to determine whether the mental processes we know of can be duplicated mechanically. It would seem that they can, and there is consequently no need to assume the existence of anything supernatural in the human personality. Of course, the existence of such a thing as the soul is by no means disproved; but it is now possible for psychology and spiritualism to avoid stepping on each other’s toes—and the spiritualists will have to find something besides the ‘Taute de mieux’ argument to defend their opinions. As for making such a machine as is here indicated, I should hate to undertake the task. You may try it, if you wish; but some of the symbols in this diagram have evolved during the course of our work here to the meaning of rather complex chemical and mechanical operations, as I recall, and at a guess I should say you have several lifetimes of work ahead of you in such a task. Still, try it if you like. I must now attempt to understand this mass of lines and squiggles, in order to turn the whole study into publishable words. I thank you gentlemen more than I can say for the work you have done here. I trust you have found it of sufficient interest to provide at least a partial recompense for your efforts. I must go now to look this thing over.” With a farewell nod that already bore something of the abstraction in which the man would shortly be sunk, he left the room.
Vainser chuckled hoarsely as the psychologist disappeared. “They’re all that way,” he remarked. “Get the work done for them, and they can think of nothing but what comes next. Well, it’s the right attitude, I guess. His work certainly gave us a lot of worthwhile hints.” He cast a sideways glance at his companion. “Do you plan to build that machine, Rudd?”
The other reactivated the eye, producing another copy of Wren’s solution from the data which still lay on the tables, and examined it closely. “Might,” he said at last. “It would certainly be worthwhile doing it; but I’m afraid our friend was right about the time required. Any of several dozen of these symbols would have to be expanded to represent a lot of research.” He tossed the sheet toward a nearby table, which it did not reach. “Let’s relax for a while. I’ll admit that was interesting work, but there are other things in life.” Vainser nodded agreement, and the technicians left the room together.
They saw almost nothing of Wren for the next several days. Once Rudd met him in the dining hall, where he replied absently to the big man’s greeting; once Vainser sent a messenger to the psychologist to ask if he planned to leave on the next supply rocket. The messenger reported that the answer had consisted of a single vague nod, which he had taken for assent; Wren had not lifted his eyes from the paper. Vainser had the data packed away in the original cases, ordered and packed the sheets which resulted from their investigations, and forbore to disturb Wren further. He knew better.
And then the rocket came. It glided gently up to the great sphere, nuzzled the outer screen softly, and came to rest as the grapples seized it. Vainser, notified of its arrival, sent a man to inform the psychologist, and forgot the matter. For perhaps three minutes.
The messenger must have returned in about that time, though his voice preceded him by some seconds. He was calling Vainser’s name, and there was no mistaking the alarm in his tones even before he burst through the doorway into the chief technician’s room.
“Sir,” he panted, “something’s wrong with Dr. Wren. He won’t pay any attention to me at all, and . . . I don’t know what it is!”
“I’ll go,” replied Vainser. “You bring the doctor to him. It might be some form of gravity sickness; he was a ground-gripper before he came here.”
“I don’t think so,” replied the man as he turned to carry out the order. “You look for yourself!”
Vainser lost no time in proceeding to Wren’s room; and once there, he felt himself compelled to agree that something other than gravity sickness was wrong. The doctor, entering a minute or two later, agreed, but he could offer no suggestion as to what might actually be the trouble.
Wren was hanging in midair, relaxed, with the answer sheet that had cost so much work held before his face as though he were reading. There was nothing wrong with his attitude; anyone passing the open door and giving a casual glance within would have assumed him to be engaged in ordinary study.
But he made no answer when his name was called; not a motion of the eyeballs betrayed awareness of anything around him but that piece of paper. The doctor worked it gently from his grasp; the fingers resisted slightly, and remained in the position in which they were left. The eyes never moved; the paper might still have been there before them.
The doctor turned him so that he was facing one of the lights directly, waved his hands in front of Wren’s face, snapped his fingers in front of the staring eyes, all without making the least impression on the psychologists’s trancelike state. At last, after administering a number of stimulants intravenously without effect, the medical man admitted defeat.
“You’d better wrap him in a suit and get him to Earth, the quicker the better,” he said. “There’s nothing more I can do for him here. I can’t even imagine what’s wrong with him.”
Vainser nodded slowly, and beckoned to the messenger and Rudd, who had come in during the examination. They took Wren’s arms and towed him out of the room toward the great airlock, Vainser and the doctor following. With some effort, his body was worked into a spacesuit; and the old technician watched with a slowly gathering frown on his forehead as the helpless figure disappeared toward the outside. The frown was still there when Rudd came back to meet him in his office.
For several minutes the two looked at each other silently. Each knew what the other was thinking, but neither wanted to give voice to his opinion. At last, however, Rudd brok
e the silence.
“It was a better job than we realized.” The other nodded.
“Trying to understand perfectly the workings of a brain—with a brain. We should have realized, especially after what happened a couple of weeks ago. Each thought image is a mechanical record in the brain tissue. How could a brain make a complete record of itself and its own operation? Even breaking the picture down into parts wouldn’t save a man like Wren; for, with the picture as nearly complete as he could make it, he’d think, What change is this very thought making in the pattern? and he’d try to include that in his mental picture; and then try to include the change due to that, and so on, thinking in smaller and smaller circles. He was conscious enough, I guess, so naturally the stimulants made no difference; and every usable cell of his brain was concentrated on that image, so none of the senses could possibly intrude. Well, he knows now how a brain works.”
“Then all his work was wasted,” remarked Rudd, “if everyone who understands it promptly loses the use of his mind. Maybe I’d better not build that machine after all. I wonder if there’s any possible way of snapping the poor fellow out of it?”
“I should think so. Simply breaking the line of thought enough for him to forget a little of it should do the trick. It can’t be done through his senses, as we learned, and stimulants are obviously the wrong thing from that point of view. I should simply deprive him of consciousness. Morphine should do it. I am enclosing a recommendation to that effect in his material, which will go back with him. I didn’t want to suggest it to our own doctor; even if he didn’t decide I was crazy, I wouldn’t want to saddle him with that responsibility. I might, of course, be very wrong. The boys on Earth will have to make up their own minds.
“But I’m afraid you’re right about the uselessness of his results. It was a doomed line of endeavor from the start, no matter what method of approach was used. As soon as you understand completely the working of the brain, your own is of no further use. Evidently all psychologists since the year dot have been chasing their tails, but were too far behind to realize it. Wren was brighter or luckier than the others—or perhaps, simply had better tools—and caught up with his!”
THE END.
1949
FIREPROOF
This yarn, gentlemen, introduces a brand new idea in the field of spaceship operation. There’s twenty years of discussion gone by—and this beautiful, simple, and exceedingly neat point has been totally missed! Before you reach the end, see if you can figure out the answer!
Hart waited a full hour after the last sounds had died away before cautiously opening the cover of his refuge. Even then he did not feel secure for some minutes, until he had made a thorough search of the storage chamber; then a smile of contempt curled his lips.
“The fools!” he muttered. “They do not examine their shipments at all. How do they expect to maintain their zone controls with such incompetents in charge?” He glanced at the analyzers in the forearm of his spacesuit, and revised his opinion a trifle—the air in the chamber was pure carbon dioxide; any man attempting to come as Hart had, but without his own air supply, would not have survived the experiment. Still, the agent felt, they should have searched.
There was, however, no real time for analyzing the actions of others. He had a job to do, and not too long in which to do it. However slack the organization of this launching station might be, there was no chance whatever of reaching any of its vital parts unchallenged; and after the first challenge, success and death would be running a frightfully close race.
He glided back to the crate which had barely contained his doubled-up body, carefully replaced and resealed the cover, and then rearranged the contents of the chamber to minimize the chance of that crate’s being opened first. The containers were bulky, but nothing in the free-falling station had any weight, and the job did not take long even for a man unaccustomed to a total lack of apparent gravity. Satisfied with these precautions, Hart approached the door of the storeroom; but before opening it, he stopped to review his plan.
He must, of course, be near the outer shell of the station. Central Intelligence had been unable to obtain plans of this launcher—a fact which should have given him food for thought—but there was no doubt about its general design. Storage and living quarters would be just inside the surface of the sphere; then would come a level of machine shops and control systems; and at the heart, within the shielding that represented most of the station’s mass, would be the “hot” section—the chambers containing the fission piles and power plants, the extractors and the remote-controlled machinery that loaded the war heads of the torpedoes which were the main reason for the station’s existence.
There were many of these structures circling Earth; every nation on the globe maintained at least one, and usually several. Hart had visited one of those belonging to his own country, partly for technical familiarity and partly to accustom himself to weightlessness. He had studied its plans with care, and scientists had carefully explained to him the functions of each part, and the ways in which the launchers of the Western Alliance were likely to differ. Most important, they had described to him several ways by which such structures might be destroyed. Hart’s smile was wolfish as he thought of that; these people who preferred the pleasures of personal liberty to those of efficiency would see what efficiency could do.
But this delay was not efficient. He had made his plans long before, and it was more than time to set about their execution. He must be reasonably near a store of rocket fuel; and some at least of the air in this station must contain a breathable percentage of oxygen. Without further deliberation, he opened the door and floated out into the corridor.
He did not go blindly. Tiny detectors built into the wrists of his suit reacted to the infrared radiations, the water vapor and carbon dioxide and even the breathing sounds that would herald the approach of a human being—unless he were wearing a nonmetallic suit similar to Hart’s own. Apparently the personnel of the base did not normally wear these, however, for twice in the first ten minutes the saboteur was warned into shelter by the indications of the tiny instruments. In that ten minutes he covered a good deal of the outer zone.
He learned quickly that the area in which a carbon dioxide atmosphere was maintained was quite limited in extent, and probably constituted either a quarantine zone for newly arrived supplies, or a food storage area. It was surrounded by an uninterrupted corridor lined on one side with airtight doors leading into the CO2 rooms, and on the other by flimsier portals closing off other storage spaces. Hart wondered briefly at the reason for such a vast amount of storage room; then his attention was taken by another matter. He had been about to launch himself in another long, weightless glide down the corridor in search of branch passages which might lead to the rocket fuel stores, when a tiny spot on one wall caught his eye.
He instantly went to examine it more closely, and as quickly recognized a photoelectric eye. There appeared to be no lens, which suggested a beam-interruption unit; but the beam itself was not visible, nor could he find any projector. That meant a rather interesting and vital problem lay in avoiding the ray. He stopped to think.
In the scanning room on the second level, Dr. Bruce Mayhew chuckled aloud.
“It’s wonderful what a superiority complex can do. He’s stopped for the first time—didn’t seem to have any doubts of his safety until he spotted that eye. The old oil about ‘decadent democracies’ seems to have taken deep hold somewhere, at least. He must be a military agent rather than a scientist.”
Warren Floyd nodded. “Let’s not pull the same boner, though,” he suggested. “Scientist or not, no stupid man would have been chosen for such a job. Do you think he’s carrying explosives? One man could hardly have chemicals enough to make a significant number of breaches in the outer shell.”
“He may be hoping to get into the core, to set off a war head,” replied the older man, “though I don’t for the life of me see how he expects to do it. There’s a rocket fuel in hi
s neighborhood, of course, but it’s just n.v. for the torpedoes—harmless, as far as we’re concerned.”
“A fire could be quite embarrassing, even if it weren’t an explosion,” pointed out his assistant, “particularly since the whole joint is nearly pure magnesium. I know it’s sinfully expensive to transport mass away from Earth, but I wish they had built this place out of something a little less responsive to heat and oxygen.”
“I shouldn’t worry about that,” replied Mayhew. “He won’t get a fire started.”
Floyd glanced at the flanking screens which showed armored men keeping pace with the agent in parallel corridors, and nodded. “I suppose not—provided Ben and his crew aren’t too slow closing in when we give the signal.”
“You mean when I give the signal,” returned the other man. “I have reasons for wanting him free as long as possible. The longer he’s free, the lower the opinion he’ll have of us; when we do take him, he’ll be less ready to commit suicide, and the sudden letdown of his self-confidence will make interrogation easier.”
Floyd privately hoped nothing would happen to deflate his superior’s own self-confidence, but wisely said nothing; and both men watched Hart’s progress almost silently for some minutes. Floyd occasionally transmitted a word or two to the action party to keep them apprised of their quarry’s whereabouts, but no other sound interrupted the vigil.
Hart had finally found a corridor which branched away from the one he had been following, and he proceeded cautiously along it. He had learned the intervals at which the photocells were spotted, and now avoided them almost automatically. It did not occur to him that, while the sight of a spacesuited man in the outer corridors might not surprise an observer, the presence of such a man who failed consistently to break the beams of the photocell spotters would be bound to attract attention. The lenses of the scanners were too small and too well hidden for Hart to find easily, and he actually believed that the photocells were the only traps. With his continued ease in avoiding them, his self-confidence and contempt for the Westerners were mounting as Mayhew had foretold.
