INTERVENTION

by May, Julian; Dikty, Ted

  "Ooh, Minou," Lucille crooned aloud. And to the cat: Let's do it baby you and me let's do it together again ... together Minou!

  The kitten's large ears swiveled and its pupils widened as it stared fixedly at the shielded balance platform. It saw the image in Lucille's mind and it knew what she was trying to accomplish.

  So it helped.

  "Minou, Minou, ooh-ooh," sang Lucille.

  The little animal's whiskers cocked forward in anticipation. It uttered a barely audible trilling sound, the hunting call of the Abyssinian breed, and its black-tipped tail twitched. Except for its relatively large ears and eyes, its conformation and color were almost exactly those of a miniature puma.

  "Ooh-ooh-ooh." Here it comes kitty here it comes...

  The insubstantial image, brought forth from Lucille's memory.

  [Amplified by kittenish predatory lust. Oh, fun!]

  A smudgy cloud had begun to form above the center of the ceramic balance pan. It was ovoid, smaller than an egg, with a pointed anterior and a humped posterior.

  "Ooh!"

  [JumpjumpNOW!]

  Impatiently, the kitten darted forward and batted the glass dome. The psychocreative image shimmered as woman and cat faltered in their mental conjunction, then sharpened as they drew together again.

  "Ooh-ooh, naughty Minou, not yet wait until we're through." Good baby yes work with me sit still help MAKE IT keep it under the glass don't let it get away until it's here stay stay work with me...

  [Mouse!]

  Yes.

  [MOUSE!]

  The form was still translucent, in the early stage of materialization that Vigdis Skaugstad had called "ectoplasmic Silly Putty." But the mousy shape was entirely plausible and becoming more detailed with passing seconds. Snaky little tail. Jet-bead eyes. Tiny ears and whiskers—shadowy, yet, but placed where they belonged. (And how many patient hours had Lucille spent beside the cage in the critter room of the Gilman Biomedical Center, committing those anatomical details to memory so that her mind's eye and creativity function would be able to resummon them whenever she commanded it...)

  The illusion became opaque. It settled onto the ceramic balance platform beneath the glass dome. It had four feet with claws, a fur-clothed body that shone sleek under the bright spotlight.

  [Warmth of MOUSE smell of MOUSE twitchy allure of MOUSE!]

  The kitten crouched, waggling its rump, stamping its hind feet in preparation for the spring—

  "Nooh-ooh, ooh-ooh." Not yet Minou not yet wait baby you can't get at it under the glass wait soon soon...

  Abruptly, the read-out on the electro-balance went from zero to 0.061 μg. The mouse simulacrum began to move, its eyes sparkling and its nose sniffing. It scuttled obliquely off the pan and went through the thick lead glass of the dome cover, heading for the table edge.

  The kitten sprang.

  Squeee!

  [Gotcha!]

  The psychocreative mouse vanished.

  Lucille Cartier sat back in her chair and sighed, while the room lighting brightened to normal incandescent and the Abyssinian kitten bounded about, searching for its elusive prey. The test-chamber door opened and Vigdis Skaugstad came in, all smiles.

  "Wonderful, Lucille! Did you notice the mass gain?"

  "Not really. I was too busy making the mouse squeal. Minou is so disappointed if it doesn't." Lucille reached into the pocket of her flannel skirt and took out a little ball with a bell in it, which she threw to the kitten. Her face was weary and her mind dark.

  Vigdis began to disconnect the body-function monitors that had been pasted to the human subject. The kitten abandoned the ball to mount an attack on the dangling electrodes.

  "No no, kitty," Vigdis scolded. "Behave yourself—or maybe next time we wire you."

  "Minou wouldn't cooperate then," Lucille said, disentangling the small paws. "She won't perform unless the experiment is fun. I should be so lucky."

  "It was hard on you?" Vigdis's kind, china-blue eyes were surprised. "But you said doing the materialization was always an amusement for the two of you—and your heart and respiration level were not significantly elevated during the activity."

  Lucille shrugged. "But now we aren't just playing. The mouse isn't just a pounce toy, it's an experiment with the data all recorded for analysis."

  "But the experiment was a great success!" Vigdis protested. "And not just the materialization—although it was the best you have ever done—but the fact of the metaconcert! This is our first experimental confirmation of two minds working as one. Your EEG and the cat's were like music, Lucille! I shall write a paper: 'Evidence of Mental Synergy in a Human-Animal Psychocreative Metaconcert.'"

  "That's a new term, isn't it? Metaconcert?"

  "Denis coined it. So much more stylish than mind-meld or tandem-think or psi-combo or those other barbarisms you Americans are so fond of, don't you think?"

  Lucille only grunted. She stood up, transferring the kitten to her shoulder.

  Vigdis said, "We shall have to repeat the experiment, and similar ones. Eventually, we will want to try the metaconcert with you and a powerful human operant, such as Denis."

  At the door, Lucille whirled around. "Not on your life!"

  "But he would be the best," Vigdis said, gently reproving.

  "Not him. Anybody but him!"

  "Oh, my dear. If there were only some way I could help you to overcome your antagonism toward Denis. It was all a misunderstanding, your earlier feeling that he was trying to force you to participate—"

  "I have the greatest respect for Professor Remillard," Lucille said, heading out into the hall. "He's brilliant, and his new book is a masterpiece, and he's had the good taste to let me alone during most of my work here. Let's keep things that way ... Now I'll take Minou home, and then I'm off to finish my Christmas shopping."

  Vigdis followed as Lucille headed for the Cat House, an opulently furnished playroom where the resident animals ran free. "Lucille, I'm sorry but there is something you must do first. I didn't want to upset you before the run, but it is very important that you speak to Denis before you leave for the Christmas break. He is waiting for you in the coffee room."

  Oh Vigdis!

  Lucille you must. Please.

  "If he has any more friendly admonitions about Bill, I'm going to be awfully pissed, holiday season or not!" Lucille stormed. "I've had enough flak from my family without Denis adding his contribution."

  "The conference has nothing to do with Dr. Sampson. It is an entirely different matter."

  "Good," said Lucille shortly. Then she relented at Vigdis's hurt reaction to her asperity and apologized. "Don't take me seriously. I'm still tensed up over the experiment... Did I tell you Bill wanted to give me a diamond for Christmas? His late mother's ring. But I refused. As long as I'm still his patient, there mustn't be even a hint of—of our commitment. But the analysis is nearly complete."

  She opened the Cat House door and bent down to put Minou inside. The place harbored five Maine Coon cats, three Siamese, and two other Abyssinian kittens, all breeds noted for metapyschic precocity. The animals lounged on carpeted ledges and shelves, peered from padded lairs, slept in baskets, clambered up feline gymnastic equipment, and lurked amid a well-chewed jungle of potted plants. Minou ignored the lot and made a beeline for the feeding station.

  "Is it your family's disapproval of Dr. Sampson that makes you so downhearted?" Vigdis asked, bending to scratch the head of a Siamese that had come to caress her ankles.

  "They're being very pigheaded, and it's so damned unfair! I thought they'd be happy when I told them Bill wanted me to marry him."

  "A psychiatrist and his patient," Vigdis murmured. "There are ethical considerations—"

  "To hell with that! And that's not what's bugging Mom and Dad. They don't want me to marry anyone." They don't understand they only know their own stupid fear and Bill the doctor was supposed to cure me of it exorcise it make me normal like them and instead he loved it loved me and the
y can't stand that it proves them wrong and proves me good and lovable and them wicked because they hate and fear me and they'll be sorry Bill and I will make them feel so small so ashamed make them bum with shame burn burnburn BURN WITH SHAME—

  The cats shrieked.

  As if some switch had been thrown, the room exploded in a clamor of tormented kitten squeals, full-throated Siamese yowls, and the lynx-roars of frenzied Coon cats. The women dashed out into the hall and slammed the door.

  "Uff da!" said Vigdis.

  Lucille had gone white. "I'm so sorry! The poor little things! God—will I ever get this thing under control?"

  Vigdis put an arm about the trembling girl. "It's all right. Your creativity was energized inadvertently. You must expect that to happen sometimes when you are tired or stressed. The cats were not harmed, only frightened."

  Lucille repeated dully, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." Sorry my mind is perverse sorry my folks don't like Bill sorry they fear me does Bill! sorry they don't love me but just let him love me—

  Lucille be strong. You want to be loved of course so do we all.

  I think ... he may be afraid too.

  Yes. He may. You must face that. Your Bill is a normal.

  He understands!

  He is twice your age an experienced clinician yes he very likely does understand and I am sure he loves you very much even if he is also afraid. But normal! Oh Lucille my child I should tell you ... but how can I? Your parents may have known in their hearts loved you more than you realized ... but how can I tell you how—

  What?

  Lucille ... I loved a normal man. We married before my faculties became operant under the tutelage of Professor MacGregor but then afterward the difference the terrible difference I did not want to believe what the wisest operants warned me about I knew my love would be strong enough but in the end Egil divorced me the price paid for becoming operant is permanent alienation from normal human attachments.

  I don't believe it!

  It is true.

  It can't be ... the way you said. Bill loves me! He knows exactly what I am and he loves me.

  He cannot know you. Your mind is closed to him. Your true self will always be unknown and you can only love him rejecting lying—

  "No!" Lucille said aloud.

  The cats had fallen silent and the old building creaked in the blustering wind. Somewhere in an empty office a telephone rang five times before being switched to the answering machine.

  Vigdis said, "It's getting late—nearly six. I must go back to the test chamber and finish up." Her mind had veiled itself, withdrawn from the younger woman's defiance. "Please don't forget to meet with Denis before you leave."

  Vigdis hurried away and Lucille stood there for several minutes, seething with resentment, before going downstairs to the room on the main floor that had once been the kitchen of the saltbox and now served as a coffee room for the research staff. It had been furnished with cast-off furniture. To honor the holiday season, there was an eighteen-inch spruce tree decorated with multicolored LEDs sitting on an old lab cart in front of the window.

  As Lucille entered the room, Denis Remillard turned away from the coffee machine near the Christmas tree, holding two steaming cups. Of course he must have known exactly when she would arrive...

  "Good evening, Professor Remillard," she said stiffly. "Dr. Skaugstad said you wanted to see me."

  "Sugar?" Denis lifted one of the cups. "The half-and-half is all gone, I'm afraid."

  "Black is fine." As if you didn't know!

  As always, his mind was fathomless below its socially correct overlay. He was dressed for the weather in a red buffalo-plaid shirt, corduroy pants, and Maine hunting shoes from Bean's—an incongruously boyish bête noire who held out the coffee mug to her with a noncommittal smile. His awful blue eyes were averted, watching the snow outside the window.

  "They say we'll get another eight inches before tomorrow. It'll be rough for travel."

  Lucille said, "Yes."

  "I'm glad that your creativity run was successful. The implications of the mass pickup on the simulacrum are almost more intriguing than the metaconcert effect."

  "Vigdis has staked out the metaconcert paper," Lucille said sweetly. "That leaves the mass gain for yours."

  Denis nodded, still looking out the window. "You might be interested in an article in the current issue of Nature. A man at Cambridge has suggested a mechanism for the psychophysical energy transfer, based on the new dynamic-field theory of Xiong Ping-yung."

  "No doubt the Chinese Einstein will connect us mind-freaks to the real universe in due time, and the Triple-A-S will heave a great sigh of relief. But if you don't mind, I'll give the six-dimensional math and lattice-construct theory a miss for now. Too many other things to think about." She set her coffee down, untasted. "Just what was it you wanted to discuss with me, Professor?"

  "A certain problem has come to light." Denis spoke slowly, keeping his tone casual. "At parapsychology establishments in California, New York, Virginia, and Pennsylvania, workers have been approached and offered enormous salaries as an inducement to join a secret unit being formed at the Psychological Warfare School of the Army Research and Development Center at Aberdeen, Maryland. Persons who declined—and we believe most did decline—were then subject to great pressure by the Army representatives. In several cases, the pressure amounted to virtual blackmail. The more polite decliners were urged to set up a psychic-research data pipeline to the Pentagon. The military is particularly interested in the areas of excorporeal excursion, long-distance coercion, and the psychocreative manipulation of electrical and electronic energy."

  "The bastards!" Lucille exclaimed. "It's the atomic weapons thing all over again! Whether we like it or not, we're going to be used—"

  We are not.

  She gaped at him. He turned from the window so that his eyes caught hers for an instant like a cobra mesmerizing a rabbit. An instant later he lowered his gaze and she was left floundering.

  He said, "The human mind is not a docile piece of machinery, Lucille—especially not the mind of an operant metapsychic. Perhaps some time in the future we operants may leam to disguise our thoughts so thoroughly that we can deceive one another readily in moral matters—but that time hasn't come yet. Any operant sympathetic to this insane Mind Wars concept will be expelled from our research projects. Sent to Coventry. Thank God the point is moot thus far."

  "You're positive nobody's gone over?"

  "Nearly so. However, if certain overzealous Pentagon types discover just how close we really are to psychic breakthroughs of global importance, they may resort to more dangerous tactics. The advent of excorporeal excursion alone will turn foreign policy on its ear ... So we won't be able to remain passive in the face of this threat. The people at Stanford are going to blow the whistle on the dirty recruitment tactics—especially the attempted extortion. When the scandal breaks, public and Congressional outrage will dig the grave for the Army's Mind Wars scheme."

  "And then they'll leave us alone?"

  "I'm afraid not. I'm certain that the military will continue to try to penetrate our research groups for intelligence purposes. But I'm determined that this will not happen here at Dartmouth, where so many strong operants are concentrated. So far, we seem to be secure. Very few normals outside of the college administration are aware of what we actually do, and I've examined all of our workers and operant subjects without finding a single person who was suborned by Pentagon head-hunters. That is—I've examined everyone except you."

  "Well, nobody's tried to buy me or dragoon me. God help them if they tried!"

  "I have to be sure of that," said Denis.

  "You—what?"

  The eyes took hold of her again.

  "I must be quite certain."

  He set his coffee mug down beside the little Christmas tree and closed the distance between them. His psychic barricade, that wall of impregnable black ice, was dissolving now and she could see for the first tim
e a hint of the mentality that lay behind. It was even worse than she had feared. The coercion was impossible to resist, as cold and impersonal as the northeast wind driving the blizzard. What a fool she had been to think that he had tried to coerce her before! He'd done nothing—only talked, exerted ordinary persuasive force. She had been left free, then, to make her own choice.

  Now there was no choice.

  Dissolving, berating herself, helpless before his invasion, she could only watch as he posed the questions and read the replies her mind passively delivered up. Humiliated, too supine even to rage, she found herself suddenly alone; and her only memory was of a mind-voice, as unexpected as a razor cut:

  Thank you Lucille. All of us thank you. We're very glad that you are one of us...

  The window drew her like a magnet. She pressed her nose against the frosty pane and looked out into tumultuous white. The snow-bleared red of his Toyota's taillights shone at the exit of the parking lot and then disappeared.

  She was all alone in the laboratory building. A curl of vapor arose from her neglected coffee cup, sitting beside the empty one Denis Remillard had left behind. The Christmas tree blinked against the backdrop of the storm.

  One of them.

  Am I one of them?

  Lucille turned out the room lights, leaving the little tree lit, and went upstairs to make her peace with the cats before going to supper.

  15

  EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND, EARTH

  11 APRIL 1991

  A CLASSIC SCOTCH mist fell on the tenements and closes of Old Town, rendering the quaint streetlighting even more inadequate than usual, but the two persons who stalked Professor James Somerled MacGregor had no difficulty at all keeping track of him. His gangly figure was a blazing beacon to the psychosensitive as he tramped through the murk, haloed by a raging crimson aura lanced with occasional fresh bursts of white indignation. His subvocal thoughts, more often than not, were broadcast heedlessly on the declamatory mode.