Crosstalk

by Connie Willis

  Trent put his hand on the door to prevent it from shutting. “How long do you think you’ll be?”

  Just long enough to get Aunt Oona away from C.B., she thought. “Five minutes. Ten at the most. Now go, before someone sees us.”

  “All right,” Trent said, taking his hand from the door. “But—” And the door mercifully closed.

  Briddey immediately pushed the button, waited impatiently while the elevator made its descent, and the second the door opened onto the icy sub-basement, shot out of the elevator and down to C.B.’s lab.

  It was even colder than before. C.B. was on his knees in a corner, dismantling the heater. Hi, he said without looking up.

  “Where’s my aunt?” Briddey demanded.

  Over there, he said, pointing at a metal cabinet. I chopped her up and stuck her in a drawer. Because I’m—he made Charla’s twirling gesture next to his head—you know.

  “I’m serious! And stop thinking at me. Talk out loud.”

  “Oh, right, I forgot. God forbid you’d reinforce our neural pathway. Where do you think your aunt is? She left. She had to go to Maeve’s school for a counseling session or something.” He stood up with a piece of the heater in his hand. “It was too bad. We were having a nice conversation.”

  Oh, God. “What did you say? You didn’t tell her about us, did you?”

  “Me?” he said. “You’re the one who keeps wanting to tell people. I’m the one who keeps trying to talk you out of it.”

  “Then what was this ‘nice conversation’ about?”

  “Maeve mostly, and how grateful she was that I helped her.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you’d been working with Maeve on her science report?”

  “I assumed she’d already told you. And if you’ll recall, the two of us had other things to talk about. Like why you shouldn’t have the EED.”

  She ignored that. “And Maeve is all you and Aunt Oona talked about?”

  “No, we talked about you, too. She thinks you need to dump Trent and find yourself a ‘foine Irish lad.’ ”

  Wonderful. “And what did you say?”

  “I agreed. She also told me about Kathleen’s internet-dating plans. And she had some dating advice for me.”

  “What did she say?” Briddey asked apprehensively.

  “That’s between me and Aunt Oona.”

  “You didn’t say anything about taking me to the Marriott or bringing me home from the hospital?”

  “Nope, just dating and your family. Who are really nice, by the way. A little overprotective, maybe, but they’ve got your best interests at heart. You’re lucky to have them.”

  Lucky?

  “Yeah. Not everybody has a family who worries about them, you know. Me, for instance.”

  “Well, you can have mine. You’re sure you didn’t talk about anything else? My having the EED or—”

  “Nope,” he said, walking over to the lab table and picking up a screwdriver. “We talked a little about Sean O’Reilly. And about the Daughters of Ireland.” He went back over to the heater, squatted down, and began unscrewing a side panel. “Oh, and we discussed premonitions.”

  “You asked her about her premonitions?”

  He finished unscrewing the panel before answering. “No, she brought it up. She was talking about my helping Maeve, and she mentioned she’d had a ‘premonition’ that Maeve needed help, and it had turned out to be true, so I asked her what that was, and she told me all about ‘the Sight,’ which she described as a kind of clairvoyance, but which I think is probably a combination of cold reading and guessing.” He looked up at Briddey. “Don’t worry. She didn’t suspect anything.”

  He picked up a screw. “I take it since you’re still keeping your EED secret, you haven’t connected to Trent yet?”

  You know perfectly well I haven’t.

  “Not even any whispers? Or fragrances, or pattering rain? Saint Deoch always heard ‘divers sweet waftings of song’ from heaven before she heard her voices. You hear any angelic songs? ‘Hark, the Herald Angels Sing’? ‘Angels We Have Heard on High’? ‘Teen Angel’?”

  “No,” she said, “but we’re not to the forty-eight-hour mark yet. I’m certain we’ll connect by then.”

  “Sure.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? You don’t think we’re going to connect at all, do you?” Briddey said accusingly. “Why not? Are you doing something to see that we don’t?”

  “Like what, for instance?”

  “Blocking me somehow,” she said. She looked at the dismantled heater. “Interfering with the wiring.”

  “I told you, brains don’t have wiring. And I thought interference was supposed to have caused our connection, not prevented yours and Trent’s.”

  “There are other ways of interfering. Like insisting on talking mind-to-mind. And interrupting me every time I try to connect to Trent so I can’t get through to him.”

  It doesn’t work like that, C.B. muttered.

  “You see? You’re doing it right now. You’re trying to reinforce our feedback loop so it’s too strong for me to erase!”

  “Oh, for…I am not blocking your boyfriend. I have better things to do with my time,” he said, going back over to the heater. “Like fixing this before I freeze to death. And don’t you have a meeting with your boyfriend or something?”

  She’d completely forgotten about Trent. She raced upstairs, hoping against hope he hadn’t gone ahead and called Dr. Verrick.

  He had, but hadn’t been able to reach him. “I told his receptionist it was urgent,” Trent told Briddey, “and she said he wasn’t in the office today and had me leave a message. A message! My secretary’s looking up the number of his office at the hospital.”

  “Should she be doing that?” Briddey asked nervously.

  “I told you, she’s the soul of discretion.”

  “But if Suki—”

  Ethel Godwin knocked and then opened the door. “I have that number for you, Mr. Worth,” she said.

  “Thank you,” Trent said, and called the hospital. “No, next week won’t work. We need to see him today….Well, when will he be back?…Is there a cellphone number where he can be reached?…Yes, it’s an emergency!”

  He hung up. “Dr. Verrick’s not there. He’s off somewhere doing an EED—they didn’t say where—and he may not be back till next week.”

  Thank heavens, Briddey thought, trying not to let her relief show in her face.

  “They wouldn’t give out his cellphone number,” Trent said. “He didn’t happen to tell you what it was, did he?”

  Yes, she thought, and wondered why he hadn’t given it to Trent, too. But thank goodness he hadn’t. “No.”

  “Damn. I’ll have Ethel see if there’s some other way to reach him, through his L.A. office or his nurse—”

  His phone pinged. “Sorry. It’s Hamilton. He wants to see me right away. I’ll text you when I’ve gotten in touch with him,” he promised, and left.

  Briddey started back to her office, feeling like the “luck of the Irish” that Aunt Oona was always talking about was actually with her. Dr. Verrick was safely off in Manhattan or Palm Springs, Trent had raced off without instructing Ethel to locate his nurse’s number, and C.B. had apparently been telling the truth when he said Aunt Oona hadn’t suspected anything, because there weren’t any outraged texts from her. And the ones from Kathleen and Mary Clare (which she read while waiting for the elevator) were, respectively, about whether Kathleen should join Sparks, HookUp.com, Cnnect, or all three, and which internet filter Mary Clare should install on Maeve’s computer.

  And the elevator arrived just in time for Briddey to avoid a conversation with Art Sampson, whom she heard saying, “Age discrimination’s supposedly against the law, but you watch. I’ll be the first to be laid off,” just as the door closed.

  Her luck continued to hold. Trent texted her at two that he was headed into a secure meeting that would probably last the rest of the day, which meant he wouldn’t b
e able to pursue calling Dr. Verrick till after office hours. Or call her in a panic when the forty-eight-hour deadline passed at three o’clock without them connecting. Which it did.

  Best of all, at three thirty she got an email saying that, due to “developments regarding the Hermes Project, all personnel are expected to work tomorrow from ten to four.”

  The email didn’t specify what those developments were, and the omission sent Commspan into such a speculative frenzy that no one thought about anything else the rest of the day (except Art Sampson, who promptly rescheduled their meeting for Saturday morning and whom Briddey heard lamenting possible layoffs as she went out to her car) and she was able to make it off the premises without anyone noticing her bandage or asking her about EEDs.

  Having to work Saturday also meant she wouldn’t have to take Maeve to lunch and face another family interrogation when she picked her up and dropped her off. I’ll call Mary Clare as soon as I get home, she thought, and then reconsidered. Mary Clare might suggest she come over tonight to talk to Maeve, and she needed to devote the evening to connecting with Trent.

  If C.B. would leave her alone. But he must have taken her accusation of interfering to heart, or else he was still busy fixing his broken heater, because he didn’t cut in once the entire evening.

  Or maybe he wasn’t able to get it fixed, she thought, getting ready for bed, and he’s frozen to death.

  For your information, C.B. said, I’ve been doing some more research.

  About Bridey Murphy? Or Joan of Arc?

  Joan, he said. She didn’t hear just one voice. She started out hearing Saint Catherine and then, later on, picked up Saint Michael and Saint Margaret.

  Or else she couldn’t keep her stories straight, Briddey said. She could have been lying—

  Except she was willing to be burned at the stake rather than say she hadn’t heard them. I did some research on Dr. Rhine, too. You said you wanted a telepath who didn’t live in the Middle Ages, and I think I found one.

  Really? she said, and then thought, He’s just doing this to keep me from connecting with Trent. “I don’t want to hear it. Go away.”

  He ignored her. I read the accounts of the Zener tests he did, and his research was discredited for a good reason. He counted almost anything as a correct answer, and the Zener cards were so thin, you could see right through the backs of them…

  He’s just like my family, she thought, listening to him rattle on, barging in at all hours, meddling in my affairs, refusing to respect my privacy. No wonder he likes them.

  Which gave her an idea of how to shut him up. She called Kathleen and asked her how her internet dating was going. “So I decided to join Cnnect, OKCupid, and Sparks,” Kathleen said, “and to pick somebody on Sparks, you just tap their picture. So I tap this guy, and we go out for a drink, and we’ve only been there five minutes when he starts tapping other women! So I’m going to join something more serious, like JustDinner. Or Lattes’n’Luv.”

  Lattes’n’Luv? C.B. said. She’s kidding, right?

  Shut up, Briddey snapped. “Lattes’n’Luv?”

  “It’s for people who think a meal’s too big a commitment,” Kathleen said, “though if you’re not willing to even commit to dinner, are you really good boyfriend material? On the other hand, I’m positive Sean O’Reilly won’t be on it. I doubt if he even knows what a latte is. Or maybe I should join It’s Only Brunch. It’s like JustDinner, but with mimosas.”

  And you’re definitely going to need booze, C.B. commented.

  Go away, Briddey said.

  “But going out for coffee doesn’t last as long,” Kathleen mused, and proceeded to compare the merits of brunch versus coffee dates for the next hour, and the only good thing about it was that at some point C.B. gave up and went away.

  I wish I could, Briddey thought, yawning.

  Kathleen finally hung up at eleven. Briddey checked her phone for messages from Trent, but there was just one, saying he still hadn’t been able to reach Dr. Verrick, who was apparently in Morocco doing EEDs on a sheikh and one of his wives.

  Even better, Briddey thought, and went to bed. She hadn’t realized how tired she was. She fell asleep the minute her head hit the pillow, only to be awakened what seemed like moments later by the phone ringing.

  It was Trent. “Get dressed,” he said. “I finally got in touch with Dr. Verrick. We’ve got an appointment with him at midnight.”

  “You really don’t understand a word I tell you.”

  —French Kiss

  “Midnight?” Briddey repeated, sure she must have misheard him. “But I thought he was in Morocco.”

  “He is,” Trent said.

  “Oh, we’re having a conference call,” she said, finally understanding.

  “Yes, but he also said he might want to run some tests, which is why it needs to be at his office.”

  Some tests? Or some other kind of scan?

  “Here’s the address,” Trent was saying. “You’re going to need to leave right now to get there by midnight.” He hung up before she could think of an excuse why she couldn’t meet him. But if Trent was going to talk to Dr. Verrick, she needed to be there to keep Verrick from telling Trent that he’d never said they should keep apart and shouldn’t have sex. But what if Dr. Verrick wanted to do an fCAT? C.B. had said it mapped brain activity. Could it show that they were connected?

  C.B.! she called, getting out of bed and pulling on clothes. Are you there, C.B.?

  What is it? C.B. said immediately. What’s happened? Did you hear somebody else’s voice?

  You mean, did I connect with Trent? No. She explained what had happened.

  What? What kind of doctor schedules appointments in the middle of the night?

  It’s probably daytime in Morocco, she said, putting on her shoes. I need to know—

  About Dr. Rhine? I was just doing some research on him.

  No, not about Dr. Rhine. Trent said Dr. Verrick might want to run some tests. If one of them’s an fCAT, could it show that I’m connected to you?

  No, he said promptly.

  I thought you said it could show brain activity.

  It can, but only in very general terms—memory in this part, language in that. It can’t tell what you’re thinking.

  What about the other one you mentioned?

  The imCAT? It can produce a more detailed map of synaptic activity, but I think that’s all.

  Can you find out for sure? Briddey asked, pulling on her coat. I’d look it up, but I have to leave now if I’m going to make it to the appointment on time—

  And if you try to research it on your phone while you’re driving, you’re liable to get yourself killed, he said. All right, I’ll see what I can find out. He went away, only to come back before she made it out to her car to ask, Where is this appointment? At the hospital?

  Why? Briddey asked anxiously. Does that mean there is such a scan, and the hospital has one?

  No, I’m just worried you and Trent might run into some nurse who’ll say, “Hey, weren’t you the patient who we found with her IV pulled out in that staircase the other night?”

  She hadn’t thought of that. No, it’s at Dr. Verrick’s office.

  In the middle of the night. Are you sure he’s not going to put you in a coma and steal your organs?

  I’m sure, Briddey said, thinking that actually might be preferable. At least she wouldn’t have to tell any more lies.

  She got in her car and started downtown, wondering if she could make it by midnight, but the streets were nearly empty, and she was almost there before C.B. cut in again, calling, Dawn Patrol to Night Fighter, come in, Night Fighter.

  What did you find out? Briddey asked.

  That you don’t have to worry. Dr. Verrick doesn’t even have a CT scanner at his office, let alone an fCAT or an imCAT.

  But he could make me go over to the hospital and have one done.

  Even if he did, it wouldn’t tell him you were telepathic. The imCAT can pinpoint s
ynaptic activity more exactly than the fCAT, but it’s still pretty primitive. It’s not like Google Earth, where every square inch has been mapped. If patients are given math problems to solve, a certain area of the frontal lobe lights up. If they play them a song, the auditory cortex does, but that’s as far as it goes. It still can’t tell the content of your thoughts.

  But wasn’t there something in the news recently about a scan that took pictures of your thoughts? They had the person think of an eagle, and the scan showed an image of it—

  You’re talking about the fMRI, C.B. said, but the images look more like inkblots than photos. You can see anything you want in them. But let’s say there was a scan that snapped perfect pictures of your thoughts. It still wouldn’t tell them what you were thinking.

  What does that mean? If—

  Take that eagle. You could be remembering one you saw at a zoo or thinking about the Philadelphia Eagles or the Boy Scouts or “The Eagle has landed.” And it certainly couldn’t tell them I’d told you about one telepathically.

  But if the same image showed up in both our brains at the same time, it would, Briddey said. And even with the imCAT, they could tell someone was talking to me. It would show up in the language and the hearing centers of the brain, and—

  I just won’t talk to you while they’re doing the scan, C.B. said. But even if I did, they’d just assume you were remembering a conversation you’d had before. Or were talking to yourself. So unless Verrick is specifically looking for evidence of telepathy—which he won’t be—he wouldn’t notice anything unusual. The only way he can find out you’ve been talking to me is if you tell him. You’ve got nothing to worry about. Except for the fact that he wants you to meet him at a mysterious address in the middle of the night.

  It’s not a mysterious address. And Trent will be there, she said, pulling into the parking lot.

  But there wasn’t a single car in it. Trent obviously hadn’t arrived yet. And no lights were on in the building. I’m telling you, black-market organ transplants, C.B. said. If I were you, I’d hightail it before the orderlies with the chloroform show up.