“We couldn’t make that cylinder activate others. We tried. We’re still trying. In ordinary cybernetics you can have one machine punch a tape and it can be fed into another machine, but that means you first have to know how to code and decode a tape mechanically. We don’t know how to code or decode a psi effect. We know the Auerbach cylinder will store a psi impulse, but we don’t know how. So we have to keep working with psi gifted people, at least until we’ve established some of the basic laws governing psi.”
I couldn’t tell by Henry’s face whether I was with him or away from him. He told me he wanted to think about it, and made a little motion with his hand that I should leave the room.
I walked through the suite of executive offices and down a sound rebuffing hallway. The throbbing clatter of manufacture of metallic parts made a welcome sound as I went through the far doorway into the factory. I saw a blueprint spread on a foreman’s desk as I walked past. Good old blueprint. So many millimeters from here to there, made of such and such an alloy, a hole punched here with an allowance of five-ten-thousandths plus or minus tolerance. Snug, secure, safe. I wondered if psi could ever be blue-printed. Or suppose you put a hole here, but when you looked away and then looked back it had moved, or wasn’t there at all?
Quickly, I got myself into a conversation with a supervisor about the rising rate of employee turnover in his department. That was something also snug, secure, safe. All you had to do was figure out human beings.
* * * *
I spent the rest of the morning on such pursuits, working with things I understood.
On his first rounds of the afternoon, the interoffice messenger brought me a memorandum from the general manager’s office. I opened it with some misgivings. I was not particularly reassured.
Mr. Grenoble felt he should work with me more closely on the antigrav project. He understood, from his researches, that the most positive psi effects were experienced during a seance with a medium. Would I kindly arrange for the Swami to hold a seance that evening, after office hours, so that he might analyze the man’s methods and procedures to see how they could fit smoothly into Company Operation. This was not to be construed as interference in the workings of my department but in the interests of pursuing the entire matter with diligence and dispatch—
The seance was to be held in my office.
I had had many peculiar conferences in this room—from union leaders stripping off their coats, throwing them on the floor and stomping on them; to uplifters who wanted to ban cosmetics on our women employees so the male employees would not be tempted to think Questionable Thoughts. I could not recall ever having held a seance before.
My desk had been moved out of the way, over into one corner of the large room. A round table was brought over from the salesmen’s report writing room (used there more for surreptitious poker playing than for writing reports) and placed in the middle of my office—on the grounds that it had no sharp corners to gouge people in their middles if it got to cavorting about recklessly. In an industrial plant one always has to consider the matter of safety rules and accident insurance rates.
In the middle of the table there rested, with dark fluid gleaming through clear plastic cases, six fresh cylinders which Auerbach had prepared in his laboratory over in the plant.
Auerbach had shown considerable unwillingness to attend the seance; he pleaded being extra busy with experiments just now, but I gave him that look which told him I knew he had just been stalling around the last few months, the same as I had.
If the psi effect had never come out in the first place, there wouldn’t have been any mental conflict. He could have gone on with his processes of refining, simplifying and increasing the efficiency ratings of his goop. But this unexpected side effect, the cylinders learning and demonstrating something he considered basically untrue, had tied his hands with a hopeless sort of frustration. He would have settled gladly for a chemical compound which could have added two and two upon request; but when that compound can learn and demonstrate that there’s no such thing as gravity, teaching it simple arithmetic is like ashes in the mouth.
I said as much to him. I stood there in his laboratory, leaned up against a work bench, and risked burning an acid hole in the sleeve of my jacket just to put over an air of unconcern. He was perched on the edge of an opposite work bench, swinging his feet, and hiding the expression in his eyes behind the window’s reflection upon his polished glasses. I said even more.
“You know,” I said reflectively, “I’m completely unable to understand the attitude of supposedly unbiased men of science. Now you take all that mass of data about psi effects, the odd and unexplainable happenings, the premonitions, the specific predictions, the accurate descriptions of far away simultaneously happening events. You take that whole mountainous mass of data, evidence, phenomena—”
* * * *
A slight turn of his head gave me a glimpse of his eyes behind the glasses. He looked as if he wished I’d change the subject. In his dry, undemonstrative way, I think he liked me. Or at least he liked me when I wasn’t trying to make him think about things outside his safe and secure little framework. But I didn’t give in. If men of science are not going to take up the evidence and work it over, then where are we? And are they men of science?
“Before Rhine came along, and brought all this down to the level of laboratory experimentation,” I pursued, “how were those things to be explained? Say a fellow had some unusual powers, things that happened around him, things he knew without any explanation for knowing them. I’ll tell you. There were two courses open to him. He could express it in the semantics of spiritism, or he could admit to witchcraft and sorcery. Take your pick; those were the only two systems of semantics which had been built up through the ages.
“We’ve got a third one now—parapsychology. If I had asked you to attend an experiment in parapsychology, you’d have agreed at once. But when I ask you to attend a seance, you balk! Man, what difference does it make what we call it? Isn’t it up to us to investigate the evidence wherever we find it? No matter what kind of semantic debris it’s hiding in?”
Auerbach shoved himself down off the bench, and pulled out a beat-up package of cigarettes.
“All right, Kennedy,” he had said resignedly, “I’ll attend your seance.”
* * * *
The other invited guests were Sara, Lieutenant Murphy, Old Stone Face, myself, and, of course, the Swami. This was probably not typical of the Swami’s usual audience composition.
Six chairs were placed at even intervals around the table. I had found soft white lights overhead to be most suitable for my occasional night work, but the Swami insisted that a blue light, a dim one, was most suitable for his night work.
I made no objection to that condition. One of the elementary basics of science is that laboratory conditions may be varied to meet the necessities of the experiment. If a red-lighted darkness is necessary to an operator’s successful development of photographic film, then I could hardly object to a blue-lighted darkness for the development of the Swami’s effects.
Neither could I object to the Swami’s insistence that he sit with his back to the true North. When he came into the room, accompanied by Lieutenant Murphy, his thoughts seemed turned in upon himself, or wafted somewhere out of this world. He stopped in mid-stride, struck an attitude of listening, or feeling, perhaps, and slowly shifted his body back and forth.
“Ah,” he said at last, in a tone of satisfaction, “there is the North!”
It was, but this was not particularly remarkable. There is no confusing maze of hallways leading to the Personnel Department from the outside. Applicants would be unable to find us if there were. If he had got his bearings out on the street, he could have managed to keep them.
He picked up the nearest chair with his own hands and shifted it so that it would be in tune with the magnetic lines of Earth. I couldn’t object. The Chinese had insisted upon such placement of household articles, particularly thei
r beds, long before the Earth’s magnetism had been discovered by science. The birds had had their direction-finders attuned to it, long before there was man.
Instead of objecting, the lieutenant and I meekly picked up the table and shifted it to the new position. Sara and Auerbach came in as we were setting the table down. Auerbach gave one quick look at the Swami in his black cloak and nearly white turban, and then looked away.
“Remember semantics,” I murmured to him, as I pulled out Sara’s chair for her. I seated her to the left of the Swami. I seated Auerbach to the right of him. If the lieutenant was, by chance, in cahoots with the Swami, I would foil them to the extent of not letting them sit side by side at least. I sat down at the opposite side of the table from the Swami. The lieutenant sat down between me and Sara.
The general manager came through the door at that instant, and took charge immediately.
“All right now,” Old Stone Face said crisply, in his low, rumbling voice, “no fiddle-faddling around. Let’s get down to business.”
The Swami closed his eyes.
“Please be seated,” he intoned to Old Stone Face. “And now, let us all join hands in an unbroken circle.”
Henry shot him a beetle-browed look as he sat down between Auerbach and me, but at least he was coöperative to the extent that he placed both his hands on top of the table. If Auerbach and I reached for them, we would be permitted to grasp them.
I leaned back and snapped off the overhead light to darken the room in an eerie, blue glow.
We sat there, holding hands, for a full ten minutes. Nothing happened.
* * * *
It was not difficult to estimate the pattern of Henry’s mind. Six persons, ten minutes, equals one man-hour. One man-hour of idle time to be charged into the cost figure of the antigrav unit. He was staring fixedly at the cylinders which lay in random positions in the center of the table, as if to assess their progress at this processing point. He apparently began to grow dissatisfied with the efficiency rating of the manufacturing process at this point. He stirred restlessly in his chair.
The Swami seemed to sense the impatience, or it might have been coincidence.
“There is some difficulty,” he gasped in a strangulated, high voice. “My guides refuse to come through.”
“Harrumph!” exclaimed Old Stone Face. It left no doubt about what he would do if his guides did not obey orders on the double.
“Someone in this circle is not a True Believer!” the Swami accused in an incredulous voice.
In the dim blue light I was able to catch a glimpse of Sara’s face. She was on the verge of breaking apart. I managed to catch her eye and flash her a stern warning. Later she told me she had interpreted my expression as stark fear, but it served the same purpose. She smothered her laughter in a most unladylike sound somewhere between a snort and a squawk.
The Swami seemed to become aware that somehow he was not holding his audience spellbound.
“Wait!” he commanded urgently; then he announced in awe-stricken tones, “I feel a presence!”
There was a tentative, half-hearted rattle of some castanets—which could have been managed by the Swami wiggling one knee, if he happened to have them concealed there. This was followed by the thin squawk of a bugle—which could have been accomplished by sitting over toward one side and squashing the air out of a rubber bulb attached to a ten-cent party horn taped to his thigh.
Then there was nothing. Apparently his guides had made a tentative appearance and were, understandably, completely intimidated by Old Stone Face. We sat for another five minutes.
“Harrumph!” Henry cleared his throat again, this time louder and more commanding.
“That is all,” the Swami said in a faint, exhausted voice. “I have returned to you on your material plane.”
* * * *
The handholding broke up in the way bits of metal, suddenly charged positive and negative, would fly apart. I leaned back again and snapped on the white lights. We all sat there a few seconds, blinking in what seemed a sudden glare.
The Swami sat with his chin dropped down to his chest. Then he raised stricken, liquid eyes.
“Oh, now I remember where I am,” he said. “What happened? I never know.”
Old Stone Face threw him a look of withering scorn. He picked up one of the cylinders and hefted it in the palm of his hand. It did not fly upward to bang against the ceiling. It weighed about what it ought to weigh. He tossed the cylinder contemptuously, back into the pile, scattering them over the table. He pushed back his chair, got to his feet, and stalked out of the room without looking at any of us.
The Swami made a determined effort to recapture the spotlight.
“I’m afraid I must have help to walk to the car,” he whispered. “I am completely exhausted. Ah, this work takes so much out of me. Why do I go on with it? Why? Why? Why?”
He drooped in his chair, then made a valiantly brave effort to rise under his own power when he felt the lieutenant’s hands lifting him up. He was leaning heavily on the lieutenant as they went out the door.
Sara looked at me dubiously.
“Will there be anything else?” she asked. Her tone suggested that since nothing had been accomplished, perhaps we should get some work out before she left.
“No, Sara,” I answered. “Good night. See you in the morning.”
She nodded and went out the door.
Apparently none of them had seen what I saw. I wondered if Auerbach had. He was a trained observer. He was standing beside the table looking down at the cylinders. He reached over and poked at one of them with his forefinger. He was pushing it back and forth. It gave him no resistance beyond normal inertia. He pushed it a little farther out of parallel with true North. It did not try to swing back.
So he had seen it. When I’d laid the cylinders down on the table they were in random positions. During the seance there had been no jarring of the table, not even so much as a rap or quiver which could have been caused by the Swami’s lifted knee. When we’d shifted the table, after the Swami had changed his chair, the cylinders hadn’t been disturbed. When Old Stone Face had been staring at them during the seance—seance?, hah!—they were laying in inert, random positions.
But when the lights came back on, and just before Henry had picked one up and tossed it back to scatter them, every cylinder had been laying in orderly parallel—and with one end pointing to true North!
I stood there beside Auerbach, and we both poked at the cylinders some more. They gave us no resistance, nor showed that they had any ideas about it one way or the other.
“It’s like so many things,” I said morosely. “If you do just happen to notice anything out of the ordinary at all, it doesn’t seem to mean anything.”
“Maybe that’s because you’re judging it outside of its own framework,” Auerbach answered. I couldn’t tell whether he was being sarcastic or speculative. “What I don’t understand,” he went on, “is that once the cylinders having been activated by whatever force there was in action—all right, call it psi—well, why didn’t they retain it, the way the other cylinders retained the antigrav force?”
I thought for a moment. Something about the conditional setup seemed to give me an idea.
“You take a photographic plate,” I reasoned. “Give it a weak exposure to light, then give it a strong blast of overexposure. The first exposure is going to be blanked out by the second. Old Stone Face was feeling pretty strongly toward the whole matter.”
Auerbach looked at me, unbelieving.
“There isn’t any rule about who can have psi talent,” I argued. “I’m just wondering if I shouldn’t wire General Sanfordwaithe and tell him to cut our order for poltergeists down to five.”
* * * *
I spent a glum, restless night. I knew, with certainty, that Old Stone Face was going to give me trouble. I didn’t need any psi talent for that, it was an inevitable part of his pattern. He had made up his mind to take charge of this antigrav oper
ation, and he wouldn’t let one bogus seance stop him more than momentarily.
If it weren’t so close to direct interference with my department, I’d have been delighted to sit on the side lines and watch him try to command psi effects to happen. That would be like commanding some random copper wire and metallic cores to start generating electricity.
For once I could have overlooked the interference with my department if I didn’t know, from past experience, that I’d be blamed for the consequent failure. That’s a cute little trick of top executives, generally. They get into something they don’t understand, really louse it up, then, because it is your department, you are the one who failed. Ordinarily I liked my job, but if this sort of thing went too far—
The Year's Greatest Science Fiction & Fantasy 1 - [Anthology] Page 15
