And it was. Red brick buildings, lots of grass, lots of pine trees—like a little college carved out of the forest. Only about a fraction as big as Columbia University, if you look at the pictures, but cozy and sort of homey if that’s what you’re looking for. Not the sort of place you’d expect to go if you were someone with big ambitions.
“These are the labs,” Professor Whitfield said, leading me toward one of the long buildings closest to the parking lot. He opened the outside door, and his dog Bess came in with us, too. Probably another thing that’s different from Columbia—somehow I doubt Professor Hawkins lets you bring a dog into his lab space.
“We’ll start at the botany wing,” the professor said. “Work our way to mine.”
He opened a door off of the hallway, and we went inside.
The air was humid in there, moist—a lot like Halli’s greenhouse. And there was an easy explanation for that, since the whole place was filled with plants: rows of shelves along every wall, all of them holding plants with wires coming out of them.
“What are those?” I asked, pointing to the wires.
“Some of them are hooked up to polygraph machines, some to other kinds of sensors—it varies.”
“Polygraph machines,” I repeated. “As in lie detectors?”
“That’s right,” Professor Whitfield said.
“You’re testing to see if they’re lying,” I said.
“No, not exactly—here,” the professor said, indicating a young woman in a lab coat who was making notes on her laptop. “Hannah, why don’t you explain.”
“Sure, Dr. Whitfield.” She got up from her desk and came over to introduce herself. “Hannah Trong,” she said, shaking my hand.
“Hannah’s a grad student,” the professor said. “Did her undergrad here, too, didn’t you?”
“Part of it,” Hannah said. “I transferred in from Princeton. Here,” she told me. “Let me show you what we’re doing.”
She led the professor and Bess and me down one of the rows of plants, back to the corner where some philodendrons sat in pots near the windows. The leaves of the plants had small electrodes attached to them. The electrodes led to computerized monitors that recorded what was going on with the plants.
“Have you ever heard of Cleve Backster?” Hannah asked me. I shook my head. “He was a specialist in lie detectors—he taught people in the FBI and CIA how to use them. One day back in the 1960s he got the strange idea to hook a polygraph up to the plant in his office. Then he tried a little experiment.
“I don’t know if you know,” Hannah said, “but polygraphs don’t really test for lies, they test for fluctuations in stress levels—it’s an indication of human emotions. So Backster wondered if he might be able to test for the same kind of thing in his plant.”
“But plants don’t have emotions,” I said, “do they?”
“Well,” Hannah said, “you tell me. First Backster gave the plant some water, and the needle on the polygraph moved. But it moved downward, like it was relaxing—not stressed.”
“Really?” I said.
“Really,” Hannah answered. “Then he decided to try dipping one of the leaves in the cup of hot coffee he had in his hand. Nothing.”
“No stress?” I asked.
“None. But then,” Hannah said, “the most incredible thing happened. Backster just had the thought—he didn’t say it out loud, he didn’t take any kind of action toward it—but he just had the thought, ‘I wonder what would happen if I burned one of the leaves.’ And right then, the needle on the polygraph went wild.”
“You’re kidding,” I said.
“Not kidding,” she answered.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Are you saying the plant read his mind?”
“Seemed that way,” Hannah answered. “So then a lot of other scientists who heard about that experiment decided to start coming up with some of their own. I think my favorite one is the botanist in California who handed out sealed envelopes to all of his lab assistants, and in one of the envelopes was the note, ‘You are the killer.’ The scientist didn’t know which person got that envelope, and none of the other lab assistants did, either.
“So the instructions were that whoever got that note should sneak back into the plant lab that night, leave all the lights out, and take one of the plants off the shelf. The person should smash it to the ground, step on it—really brutally murder the thing.”
“That’s awful!” I said.
“I know,” Hannah agreed, “but totally fascinating.”
“So what happened?” I asked.
I noticed Professor Whitfield was greatly enjoying this whole story.
“So the next day,” Hannah said, “the scientist had each of the lab assistants walk one at a time through the plant lab, while he watched the sensors hooked up to the plants. And one by one the people came in, and the plants didn’t react. But as soon as the killer walked in—” Hannah swung her hand up and down through the air. “Huge spikes in the sensors. The plants were going nuts. It’s like you could almost hear them screaming.”
“So they recognized the killer?” I asked.
“Recognized him,” Hannah said, “remembered him, and could pick him out of a lineup. Better than some human witnesses to a crime.”
“That’s . . . incredible,” I said.
“I know!” Hannah said. “Do you see why I got interested in botany?”
She looked at Professor Whitfield. “Of course, when I first heard about those stories while I was at Princeton, the professor who told us thought it was all a big laugh. ‘This is what some so-called scientists are doing out there,’ he said, and everyone acted like it was a big joke.
“But I didn’t think it was funny,” Hannah said. “I thought I’d finally figured out what I wanted to do with my life. When I told my professor—well, let’s just say he wasn’t very encouraging. I believe his words were something like ‘career suicide.’ But I didn’t care. I found a place that would let me do it.” She swept her hand across the lab. “Stayed here ever since.”
“Thank you for the recruiting lecture,” Professor Whitfield said with a smile.
“Are you thinking of going here?” Hannah asked me.
“No, um . . . I’m applying to Columbia.”
“Oh,” Hannah said. “Well, I’m sure that will be nice, too. Good luck with it.” She sounded sincere.
The small monitor hooked up to the philodendron made a little beeping noise. “Hey,” Hannah said to us, “you want to look? Last five minutes of results.”
She changed the display on the monitor to show a graph of recent activity. For a while the line was steady, then it suddenly shot up into spikes.
“What happened?” I asked.
Hannah pointed at the dog. “Most of the plants in here already know Bess, but this philodendron is new. That’s why I wanted to show it to you—I figured it would have a problem.”
“Why?” I asked.
“We’ve found house plants in general get stressed around cats and dogs,” she said. “Although they seem to hate cats worse.”
“Why’s that?” I asked.
Hannah leaned over and whispered. “Cats tend to chew on them and pee on them a lot more.”
“Thank you, Hannah,” Professor Whitfield said with a laugh. “I think we’d better let you get back to work.”
“Sure,” she said. “Nice meeting you.” Then she went back to fiddling with the monitor.
As we neared the door, Hannah called out to me.
“You might want to rethink Columbia,” she said. “Those big schools aren’t always what you think.”
“Okay . . . thanks,” I said, and followed the professor into the hall.
“All of that can’t be true,” I said to the professor, “can it? About the plants?”
“Of course it’s true,” he answered.
“They have . . . emotion?”
“Of a type,” he said. “Backster called it ‘primary perception.’ There’ve
been a lot of studies since then—you should talk to Hannah some more if we have time. As you can see, she loves telling the stories.”
I glanced back at the door to her lab. What a cool life. If I were interested in plants at all, I’d definitely want to go to school here and do what she’s doing all day.
“Ready to see more?” Professor Whitfield asked.
“Definitely,” I said.
53
As we walked down the corridor I thought about what Hannah said about her experience at Princeton. I’m sure there are different teachers everywhere—you can find good ones and bad ones at every school. I felt sorry for her about what her professor said, but it all worked out in the end. She’s obviously happy where she is now. The same way I know I’ll be happy at Columbia, studying under Professor Hawkins. You just have to find the right mentor.
Although I will confess, I had a moment there.
Okay, so let’s just get it out of my system. Sometimes I like to do “what ifs.” What if I decided not to apply for early decision at Columbia. The thing about early decision is that if you get in, you have to commit to going there, and it becomes like a contract you can’t get out of. By applying that way, you’re saying that Columbia is your first and only choice, and you’re not going to change your mind.
So let’s say I didn’t do that, for whatever reason. Instead I just put in my application there at the regular time, by January 1st, like everybody else. The downside is I might lose the advantage of showing my enthusiasm and commitment to Columbia, and I also wouldn’t know until March or April (a) whether I got in, and (b) whether I could get financial aid. So that sucks. It makes it impossible to plan.
The only upside is that if I apply the regular way, I can also apply to other schools at the same time. And so if the worst happens and Columbia doesn’t accept me after all, at least maybe another few schools will. And maybe one of those schools would be Mountain State.
But can you see me going to a dinky little school like that? I mean, it’s pretty there and all, but it’s hardly Columbia. And Professor Hawkins obviously doesn’t respect it—or respect Dr. Whitfield—which might ultimately affect my career as a physicist. Just like Hannah Trong’s professor said to her. So I guess that’s what it comes down to: my future as a physicist, or my future for just the next few years. Yes, it might be fun to do the wacky kind of research Hannah is doing, except with physics instead of plants, but is it really worth it for me in the long run?
It has to be Columbia. Nothing has changed. I like Professor Whitfield, his college seems like a nice place, but I have to stay focused on what’s right for me.
“Here’s where you’ll be this morning,” Professor Whitfield said. “Shall we have a look inside?”
It was a small, white-walled room, just big enough for two chairs and a table. One of the chairs was big and cushioned, like something you’d have in your living room. The other one was just a regular desk chair.
“It’s sound-proof,” Professor Whitfield said. “We have two cameras mounted in the ceiling, and sound recorders in the walls. You’ll be here by yourself most of the time. We’ll be monitoring you from a nearby room.”
I sat in the fluffy chair to test it out. It seemed pretty comfortable.
“Who will be watching?” I asked.
“I will,” he said, “and a few of my graduate students. No one will disturb you, though. We want to make it as relaxing for you as possible.”
Somehow I’d pictured myself lying flat on a gurney in something that looked like a hospital room, wires and needles sticking out of my body. I was relieved it would be just me sitting in a chair. I could handle that.
“We’ll have you try a few 30-minute sessions,” Professor Whitfield said, “over there and back, several times this morning. We’ll see if we record any noticeable change in your vitals—heart rate, respiration, brain function—all of that.”
It sounded serious. “Do you think it’ll show anything?” I asked. “Like whether it’s safe or not?”
“If we see something that looks wrong, we’ll stop the test,” he said. “It’s as simple as that. Sound all right?”
I nodded.
I was feeling more nervous by the minute. I could use a little distraction. “Can we see some of the other labs?”
“Sure.” The professor checked his watch. “We need to get you prepped soon, but I’ll show you one more on the way.”
He led me back into the hall, and down another few doors. He opened it just so I could look in.
There were machines at various stations, and a few people sitting in front of them with headphones on.
“Random number generators,” Professor Whitfield said, “remote stimulus machines—we’ll take a look at all this later if we have time.”
“Are all of these labs part of one department?” I asked.
“No, it’s a cooperative venture,” Professor Whitfield said, resuming our walk down the hallway. “We all pool our grant money to do more together than we could alone.”
“Is that unusual?” I asked.
“Very. Usually it’s very cut-throat when it comes to lab allocations. You leave the room to refill your cup of coffee, and come back to find someone’s moved into your space.”
“Really?” I said.
“Not that bad,” he said, “but close. It’s very competitive out there—even within the same university department. There’s only so much grant money and lab space to go around, and everyone’s hungry for it.”
“Then why is it different here?” I asked.
Professor Whitfield smiled. “Because we’re rebels.”
As we reached the end of the hallway, Bess hurried her pace. She obviously knew where we were going.
“And here’s my particular workshop,” Professor Whitfield said. He opened up another set of double doors and led me through.
There were students all around. Most of them looked a little older than I am—maybe Hannah Trong’s age. And there were a few really older people, more like my mom’s and the professor’s age. All of them were standing around, not really doing anything, just waiting. And what they were waiting for was me.
“Everyone,” Professor Whitfield said, “this is Audie Masters.”
Some people gave a little wave, some said, “Hi,” a few even clapped for me. It was weird. And unsettling. I don’t usually like that much attention.
“This is Albert,” Professor Whitfield said, introducing me to a guy in sweatpants and a lab coat. “He’s going to be assisting us today.”
“Hi, Audie,” he said cheerfully. “Ready to get hooked up?”
My stomach felt queasy. “Sure,” I said. This was no time to chicken out. I was here now, everyone was waiting—it was time for me to perform.
As Albert led me down the hall, back to the sound-proof booth, he explained some of the sensors he’d be attaching: an EKG for my heart, an EEG to monitor my brain waves, something called a pulse ox to test my oxygen level—all sorts of gadgets and equipment.
He didn’t even talk about the other testing Professor Whitfield had mentioned before—trying to see whether anything changed about the room. Whether I was creating some sort of energy field or something.
“Will you be watching?” I asked. “I mean, along with Professor Whitfield?”
“Sure will,” Albert said. “We’ll all be in the room next door.”
“How many of you?” I asked. Professor Whitfield had said it would be him and a few of the grad students. I wondered how many was a “few.”
“All of us,” Albert said.
“What do you mean, all of you?”
“Everyone you just met back there.”
“All of those people?” I asked. “Everyone’s here to see me?”
Albert seemed confused by the question. “Audie, you’re a rock star.”
54
I sat in the big wide chair while Professor Whitfield and Albert fussed with some wires.
“Try to relax,” Professor
Whitfield told me.
“I’m trying,” I said. He had attached little sticky patches to my head, my chest, my legs and my arms, and wires led from all of those to a cable that snaked through the wall to the room next door. It was a long way from just sitting alone in my bedroom, leaning up against my pillows. For one thing, here I was fully dressed.
We’d decided that since I was only going over there for short periods, I might as well dress for the weather now, instead of wearing the clothes that Halli always kept for me. So in addition to my jeans and sneakers and the navy blue Mountain State sweatshirt Professor Whitfield gave to me this morning, he had one of his students lend me a nice ski jacket to replace the warm coat I usually get from Halli. I could pop over and back in the same outfit all morning. No more need for Red to get his face in my way while I tried to lace up my boots.
“Did you bring your meditation CD?” the professor asked.
“I don’t need it anymore,” I said. “Halli and I can do it by ourselves now.” At least we could before all this. Maybe I should have brought it anyway, just as backup. It was foolish to leave it at home.
“We’re going to keep the lights on,” Professor Whitfield said, “so we can observe you, but Albert has a nice selection of eyeshades for you to block it out—see whichever one feels most comfortable.”
I tried a few of them on, and ended up with a padded black eyeshade made of some sort of satiny material.
“Okay, Audie,” the professor said, “looks like we’re all set here. Do you need anything else to feel comfortable?”
Yes! My mommy, my pillow, my own bed, solitude, privacy—
“No,” I said. “I’m fine.”
I had the eyeshade on, but I felt his hand on my arm. “How are you feeling?”
“Like someone is about to burn one of my leaves.” My little attempt at a joke. “I mean, stressed.”
“We’ll leave you alone in just a minute,” he said. “Then take as long as you need. You’re not under any pressure here, Audie. This time is for you. Try to forget everything else and just do what you normally do.”
Ha! As if that were possible.
“Good luck,” Albert told me. Then I heard them both leave and close the door.
Parallelogram Omnibus Edition Page 20
