Night Lamp

by Jack Vance

  The Faths had nothing to say, and Dr. Fiorio continued. “We are making progress, of a sort, as I will presently explain. There has been no recurrence of the voice. If it were truly a sentient thing, it might have taken alarm and gone to hide in some far corner of Jaro’s mind.”

  Althea cried out in dismay: “Is that what you believe?”

  “In the absence of evidence I believe nothing,” said Dr. Fiorio. “Still, we now strongly suspect that the voice exists.”

  Hilyer decided that it was time to introduce cold logic into the discussion. He said, “You are surprisingly definite on this point.”

  “I can well understand your skepticism,” said Dr. Fiorio. “The rationale behind my opinion will not be intuitively clear to a layman. I will express myself in basic concepts. The resultant ideas will be neither elegant nor precise, but they should lie within your range of understanding. Are you with me so far?”

  Hilyer gave a curt nod. “Proceed.”

  “Start, if you will, from this perspective. Jaro heard the voice and stored the memory in his mind. On the next occasion, the same thing occurred; likewise on the next, until a group of mnemonic strings had been recorded. Here, then, would be information which we wish to chart upon our schematics. First, we tried overt present-time stimulation to find the so-called ‘kickoff button,’ without success. Next, we tried light hypnosis, but did no better.

  “So then, to our next option: the drug Nyaz-23, which facilitates deep hypnosis. We discovered a barrier, but were able to attack it from the flank, so to speak, and finally found the ‘kickoff button.’ We made contact and asked Jaro to duplicate the voice as best he could. He obliged by giving vent to some very strange sounds indeed, which we recorded. The moans, outcries, inarticulate curses are exactly as he described them. This, generally, is the substance of our findings to date.”

  Hilyer pursed his lips. “If I understand you correctly, the sounds you have recovered are not the original sounds but, rather, Jaro’s attempts to reproduce what he thinks he has heard: in short, a re-creation of what might have been hallucinatory in the first place?” Dr. Fiorio studied Hilyer a moment, his expression no longer innocently cherubic. “That is generally correct, yes. But I am puzzled as to the apparent thrust of your remarks.”

  Hilyer smiled frostily. “It is simple enough. You are citing what, in legal parlance, is known as ‘hearsay evidence.’ It has little probative force.”

  Dr. Fiorio’s face cleared. “I am grateful for your insights! No more need be said. We shall take it as read that I am a dupe and a numbskull. So now, with these caveats in mind, let us proceed.”

  “I would not presume to use such words,” said Hilyer primly. “I pointed out only that your evidence was flawed.”

  Dr. Fiorio sighed. He circled his desk and seated himself. “Your comments, I am sorry to say, indicate only that you have not yet grasped the direction of our inquiry. The fault is mine. I must present my ideas more carefully.”

  “To repeat: using methods of great sophistication, we were able to stimulate memory of certain events, which in turn established significant vectors on our schematic charts. Subject matter, of course, was inconsequential.”

  To Dr. Fiorio’s relief, neither of the Faths asked to hear the recorded sounds, which they would surely find harrowing.

  “Now then,” said Dr. Fiorio. “This is our thesis: Jaro’s memories of the sounds are lodged at various addresses on his cortex. They did not arrive by the usual conduits—that is to say, his aural nerves—but by another route. The flow of messages leaves a trail which persists for an indeterminate period. With our remarkable equipment, we can stimulate a memory, then trace the line of synaptic lineages back to its source. The procedures are indescribably delicate and produce vectors upon schematic charts. Am I clear so far?”

  “It seems a most elaborate procedure,” Hilyer grumbled. “Do you have a goal in view? Or will you be satisfied with the first hare to leap from the thicket?”

  Dr. Fiorio chuckled. “Be patient, sir, and I will continue.”

  Hilyer nodded crisply. “Please do; in our poor way we will try to keep pace.”

  Dr. Fiorio approved. “That’s the way! Dogged does it, every time!”

  “Now then, where do we go from here? In the broadest sense, we collect data and watch for a pattern to emerge. This pattern will dictate the direction of our treatment.”

  Althea put a tentative question, “What is the difference, if any, between ‘treatment’ and ‘therapy’?”

  “Only a matter of degree. But remember, as of now we are still in the diagnostic stage.”

  Hilyer spoke in his most nasal drawl, “We hope that no other segments of Jaro’s intelligence will be damaged by therapy.”

  Dr. Fiorio ticked points off his fingers. “First, the previous therapy interfered only with Jaro’s memory, not his intelligence. The two functions are separate, though they work in tandem. Second, there is no reason to repeat such therapy. Third, we are not as irresponsible as you may fear. Jaro is safe from any reckless trampling about in his head. Do you have any further questions?”

  Hilyer was by no means daunted by Dr. Fiorio’s three points. “How does Jaro react to all this probing?”

  Dr. Fiorio shrugged. “His composure is superb. He complains of nothing; even when he is tired, he cooperates to his best ability. He is a fine boy. You can be proud of him.”

  “Oh we are!” cried Althea. “We are, a hundred times over!”

  Dr. Fiorio rose to his feet. “I won’t have anything more to tell you until the next stage of our work is completed. It may be as long as a week.”

  6

  Four days later, toward the end of the afternoon. Dr. Fiorio joined his colleagues in the conference chamber. A young woman wearing the smart blue and white uniform of a nurse’s aide, served tea and nut cakes. For a few moments the three savants sat relaxed in their chairs, almost limp, as if resting after strenuous exercise. Gradually their tensions eased. Dr. Fiorio sighed, reached for his teacup and said, “If nothing else, we are no longer working at random. This is a great relief.”

  Dr. Windle snorted. “We cannot exclude the possibility of a hoax.”

  Dr. Fiorio sighed. “That is the most incredible suggestion of all.”

  “What do we have left?” cried Dr. Windle. “Willy-nilly we are forced to propose that a more or less rational intelligence controls this phenomenon!”

  Dr. Gissing wagged his finger at Dr. Windle in mock reproach. “That is like saying we must, willy-nilly, invoke the presence of sidereal equations to explain the morning sunrise.”[8]

  “The implication of your remarks eludes me,” said Dr. Windle coldly.

  Dr. Gissing kindly explained. “This ‘directive agency,’ if internal, would indicate a multiple personality. If external, we would be forced to consider a telepathic provenance, which is a bit beyond our scope, or so I believe.”

  Dr. Windle’s voice took on an edge. “You have provided us some helpful nomenclature. My comment is this: to name a malady is not to cure it.”

  Dr. Fiorio spoke testily. “All this is irrelevant. Our vectors point to a specific location, namely Ogg’s Plaque.”

  Dr. Windle made a sound of disapproval. “You are taking us into the trap of mysticism. If that albatross is hung around our necks, it will cost us dearly, both in working efficiency and in prestige!”

  Dr. Gissing said, “If truth is to be our goal, we should not slam the door on all but purely mechanistic theories.”

  Dr. Windle demanded: “So what then is your opinion?”

  “I feel there is more here than simple dementia.”

  “In this regard, we are agreed,” said Dr. Fiorio heavily.

  A chime sounded. Dr. Fiorio rose to his feet. “The Faths have arrived. We must give them the facts; no help for it.”

  Dr. Windle glanced at his watch. “Today I cannot participate; I am already late for my meeting. Simply make a factual report, without your usual pontificating, an
d all will be well.”

  Dr. Fiorio laughed, if somewhat painfully. “My ‘pontificating,’ as you put it, is no more than good public relations—lacking which, you would be tapping old ladies on the knees with rubber mallets.”

  “Yes, yes; just so,” said Dr. Windle. “Do the job any way you like.” He departed the room.

  “I also must leave you in the lurch,” said Dr. Gissing ruefully. “I’ve been trying to get my elbow under the skirts of the Girandole, and today is the day: what they call their ‘Quelling of the Innocents’ and I must be on hand to be quelled. Who knows? You might find yourself affiliated with a Girandole before the month is out.”

  “Very well!” growled Dr. Fiorio. “Go! Be quelled! I’ll deal with the Faths alone—which is probably all for the best, in any case.”

  7

  Dr. Fiorio joined the Faths in the reception chamber. They sat quietly, their faces somber. Today Hilyer wore loose trousers of brown-gray twill, a dark brown pullover with black sleeves. Althea wore a dark green skirt, with a white blouse and a jacket of dark orange nubble. Dr. Fiorio absentmindedly noted that they displayed no emblems defining their status; then he remembered that they were nimps, which was all very well, but they would hardly flaunt emblems advertising the fact. He slipped into his usual chair behind the desk and extended perfunctory greetings. The Faths responded in kind, watching him carefully, sensing that he had news to impart.

  Dr. Fiorio said, “We have made definite progress in your son’s case. The mysteries remain, but finally we can come to grips with them.”

  Althea asked tremulously, “Is the news good, or bad?”

  “It is neither. You must judge its significance for yourselves.”

  “Very well,” said Hilyer. “Tell us what you have learned.”

  “As you know, we have been systematically studying Jaro’s mind; in the process, logging vectors upon the schematic charts. To our surprise, they pointed to an inconspicuous little nodule of twisted nerve tissue known as Ogg’s Plaque, at the back of the medulla. Today as we studied the area in detail, Jaro began to make occasional sounds. They were of no particular interest, but we recorded them nonetheless. Then the probe apparently stimulated a special area, and you will now hear what ensued.”

  Dr. Fiorio put a small black box upon the table. “After some ordinary noise and a warning chime, you will hear Jaro’s voice. It will sound strange. I warn you, take a grip on yourselves; you may be disturbed.” He touched a button, then turned and waited, watching the Faths.

  Sounds issued from the box: the rustling of papers, thumps. Dr. Fiorio muttering to his aide, a scrape, a small chime, then a voice, harsh and heavy. It had been formed in Jaro’s throat; otherwise, none of Jaro’s characteristics could be discerned. The voice called out, soft and forlorn: “Oh my life! My precious life; it passes and I am helpless in the dark! I am a lost soul, while my life seeps away; seep, seep, seeping! Away it seeps! I am forgotten, dark and deep, while my wonderful life seeps.” The voice broke into a sob, then spoke again, even more desolate than before, “Why must it be me, to be lost in the dark, forever and ever?” There was the sound of muffled sobbing, then silence.

  Dr. Fiorio’s voice, tense and sharp, came from the box. “Who are you? Tell us your name!”

  There was no response. No further sounds issued from the box; only the singing stillness of solitude and nothingness.

  Dr. Fiorio touched a button on the box to halt the recording. He turned to find himself staring, not at the Faths, but at two strangers, with white emaciated faces and great round eyes like puddles of black mud. Dr. Fiorio blinked; the spell was broken; reality returned. He heard himself saying, “For the first time we come to grips with a fact. For us this is good news; it is a relief to learn that we are not groping for a will-o’-the-wisp.”

  Althea cried out softly, “Where is the voice coming from? Is it Jaro?”

  Dr. Fiorio held his arms wide and let them flap to his sides. “We have not had time to form sensible opinions. At first glance it seems a classic case of multiple personality, but such a diagnosis is suspect, for a variety of technical reasons, which I will not develop now.”

  Hilyer asked hesitantly, “What other possibilities might there be?”

  Dr. Fiorio replied with caution, “At this stage I could only speculate, which might mislead you.”

  Hilyer smiled sourly. “I don’t mind listening to speculation, if it is clearly labeled as such. For instance, at Sronk a block of Jaro’s memory was erased. Is it possible that by miscalculation. an entire lobe was isolated from the rest of his mind, and deprived of sensory input? We might be hearing cries from this isolated lobe.”

  Dr. Fiorio reflected. “It is a clever idea, and superficially plausible. But any such isolated segment would have revealed itself on the schematic charts. Therefore, this cannot be the solution, despite its appealing simplicity.”

  “But something very similar must be happening!”

  “Well—perhaps.”

  Althea ventured a question, “Will you be able to help Jaro?”

  “Yes—though I am not quite sure where to start. If we knew the truth of Jaro’s past, perhaps we could exorcise the sad ghost which haunts his mind.”

  “I suppose that’s reasonable,” said Althea, “though it doesn’t sound very practical.”

  “Not practical at all,” declared Hilyer. “Such a program would mean far travel, much time and expense, with a very cold trail to follow, and small prospects of success.”

  “I’m afraid that’s true,” said Dr. Fiorio.

  Althea spoke wistfully, “You’re not really optimistic about Jaro, are you?”

  Dr. Fiorio grimaced. “I want neither to inflate you with false hopes, nor send you away in despair. The simple truth is that we are still collecting data.”

  Hilyer inspected him skeptically. “And that is all you can tell us?”

  Dr. Fiorio reflected a moment. “Ordinarily we do not like to disclose raw data until it has been fully analyzed; still, I see no harm in mentioning an item which may interest you.”

  Dr. Fiorio paused to arrange his thoughts. Hilyer became impatient. “Well then! What is it?”

  Dr. Fiorio gave Hilyer a look of reproach, but said, “During our work sessions, monitors detect the small neural currents which indicate brain activity. While the voice was speaking the monitors recorded no activity. If the voice had been driven by memory, such activity would be expected at characteristic locations. This was not the case.”

  “Which means?”

  “Subject to review and analysis, it indicates that the source of the voice was external to Jaro’s mind.”

  After a pause, Hilyer said stiffly, “I find that hard to credit. The concept leads to mysticism.”

  Dr. Fiorio shrugged. “That is not my responsibility. I can only cite evidence.”

  The Faths rose to their feet and went to the door. Dr. Fiorio accompanied them out into the entry hall. “You were interested in speculation,” he told Hilyer. “Now you have the facts, and may speculate to your heart’s content. I will do the same, after I have bathed, changed into my fine linen lounge suit and settled myself into the saloon bar at the Palindrome, where I will instantly be served one or more gin pahits.”

  8

  A week later, when Dr. Fiorio once again conferred with the Faths in the reception room, he was accompanied by Jaro. Althea, thought that Jaro looked pale and somewhat drawn, but also relaxed and confident.

  Jaro went to sit on the couch between Hilyer and Althea. Dr. Fiorio leaned back against the table. He said, “This has been a puzzling case—although we know somewhat more now than we did at the start. For a fact we have put an end to Jaro’s problems; at least, it seems so at the moment.”

  “Then that is glorious news!” cried Althea.

  Dr. Fiorio nodded without enthusiasm. “I am not altogether satisfied. Our technique has neither been elegant, nor a piece of brilliant improvisation, nor yet even dictated by classical theo
ry. Instead, we used a crude and nasty pragmatism, whose only virtue was its success.”

  Althea laughed in happy excitement. “But isn’t that enough? I think you are far too modest!”

  Dr. Fiorio shook his head sadly. “Our goal was to solve the mystery, which is of a fundamental nature. In essence, was the voice produced internally, by Jaro’s memory, or externally, by an agency like telepathy? During our research we more or less incidentally happened to cure Jaro’s affliction. The voice no longer groans and curses, so now we must turn off our equipment and declare a great victory.”

  Hilyer compressed his lips. Dr. Fiorio’s ponderous levity—if such it were—no longer seemed appropriate, and in fact had started to grate on his nerves. “Sorry,” said Hilyer. “I’m not sure that I grasp what you are trying to tell us.”

  “It is quite simple, when translated into layman’s language.”

  “Do so, by all means,” murmured Hilyer.

  “Of course, of course!” declared Dr. Fiorio, never suspecting that the meek and non-status academician might feel anything other than awed admiration for himself, his expertise and his association with the Palindrome. “As I mentioned, we located an area which seemed to be the seat of the problem: a pad of spongy tissue at the back of the medulla known as Ogg’s Plaque. A chance stimulation of this area had been followed by the voice which you heard. We attempted new stimulations, with varying results. We never answered the basic question of origination, since it had become moot.”

  “How so?”

  Dr. Fiorio paused to consider, then said, “To make a long story short, we isolated Ogg’s Plaque from its input of nervous impulses, sheathing it in pannax film and totally surrounding it with an insulating capsule. On that instant, the noise associated with the Plaque disappeared. Jaro at once noticed a sensation of liberation. He feels that the voice has been quieted and he is much relieved. Am I right, Jaro?”