Alan E. Nourse Super Pack. Alan E. NourseЧитать онлайн книгу.
look at me, the skunk. I fixed him. I told him I was going to peek, and then I read him in a flash, before he could shift his mind to Boston traffic or something. (He knows I can’t stand traffic.)
I only picked up a little, but it was enough. There was something very unpleasant that Aarons had said that I couldn’t quite get. They were in his office. Lambertson had said, “I don’t think she’s ready for it, and I’d never try to talk her into it, at this point. Why can’t you people get it through your heads that she’s a child, and a human being, not some kind of laboratory animal? That’s been the trouble all along. Everybody has been so eager to grab, and nobody has given her a wretched thing in return.”
Aarons was smooth. Very sad and reproachful. I got a clear picture of him—short, balding, mean little eyes in a smug, self-righteous little face. “Michael, after all she’s twenty-three years old. She’s certainly out of diapers by now.”
“But she’s only had two years of training aimed at teaching her anything.”
“Well, there’s no reason that that should stop, is there? Be reasonable, Michael. We certainly agree that you’ve done a wonderful job with the girl, and naturally you’re sensitive about others working with her. But when you consider that public taxes are footing the bill—”
“I’m sensitive about others exploiting her, that’s all. I tell you, I won’t push her. And I wouldn’t let her come up here, even if she agreed to do it. She shouldn’t be tampered with for another year or two at least.” Lambertson was angry and bitter. Now, three days later, he was still angry.
“And you’re certain that your concern is entirely—professional?” (Whatever Aarons meant, it wasn’t nice. Lambertson caught it, and oh, my! Chart slapping down on the table, door slamming, swearing—from mild, patient Lambertson, can you imagine? And then later, no more anger, just disgust and defeat. That was what hit me when he came back yesterday. He couldn’t hide it, no matter how he tried.)
Well, no wonder he was tired. I remember Aarons all right. He wasn’t so interested in me, back in those days. Wild one, he called me. We haven’t the time or the people to handle anything like this in a public institution. We have to handle her the way we’d handle any other defective. She may be a plus-defective instead of a minus-defective, but she’s as crippled as if she were deaf and blind.
Good old Aarons. That was years ago, when I was barely thirteen. Before Dr. Custer got interested and started ophthalmoscoping me and testing me, before I’d ever heard of Lambertson or the Study Center. For that matter, before anybody had done anything but feed me and treat me like some kind of peculiar animal or something.
Well, I’m glad it was Lambertson that went to Boston and not me, for Aarons’ sake. And if Aarons tries to come down here to work with me, he’s going to be wasting his time, because I’ll lead him all around Robin Hood’s Barn and get him so confused he’ll wish he’d stayed home. But I can’t help but wonder, just the same. Am I a cripple like Aarons said? Does being psi-high mean that? I don’t think so, but what does Lambertson think? Sometimes when I try to read Lambertson I’m the one that gets confused. I wish I could tell what he really thinks.
*
Wednesday night. I asked Lambertson tonight what Dr. Custer had said. “He wants to see you next week,” he told me. “But Amy, he didn’t make any promises. He wasn’t even hopeful.”
“But his letter! He said the studies showed that there wasn’t any anatomical defect.”
Lambertson leaned back and lit his pipe, shaking his head at me. He’s aged ten years this past week. Everybody thinks so. He’s lost weight, and he looks as if he hasn’t slept at all. “Custer’s afraid that it isn’t a question of anatomy, Amy.”
“But what is it, then, for heaven’s sake?”
“He doesn’t know. He says it’s not very scientific, but it may just be that what you don’t use, you lose.”
“Oh, but that’s silly.” I chewed my lip.
“Granted.”
“But he thinks that there’s a chance?”
“Of course there’s a chance. And you know he’ll do everything he can. It’s just that neither of us wants you to get your hopes up.”
It wasn’t much, but it was something. Lambertson looked so beat. I didn’t have the heart to ask him what Aarons wanted, even though I know he’d like to get it off his chest. Maybe tomorrow will be better.
I spent the day with Charlie Dakin in the lab, and did a little work for a change. I’ve been disgustingly lazy, and poor Charlie thinks it’s all his fault. Charlie reads like twenty-point type ninety per cent of the time, and I’m afraid he knows it. I can tell just exactly when he stops paying attention to business and starts paying attention to me, and then all of a sudden he realizes I’m reading him, and it flusters him for the rest of the day. I wonder why? Does he really think I’m shocked? Or surprised? Or insulted? Poor Charlie!
I guess I must be good enough looking. I can read it from almost every fellow that comes near me. I wonder why? I mean, why me and not Marjorie over in the Main Office? She’s a sweet girl, but she never gets a second look from the guys. There must be some fine differential point I’m missing somewhere, but I don’t think I’ll ever understand it.
I’m not going to press Lambertson, but I hope he opens up tomorrow. He’s got me scared silly by now. He has a lot of authority around here, but other people are paying the bills, and when he’s frightened about something, it can’t help but frighten me.
*
Thursday, 18 May. We went back to reaction testing in the lab with Lambertson today. That study is almost finished, as much as anything I work on is ever finished, which isn’t very much. This test had two goals: to clock my stimulus-response pattern in comparison to normals, and to find out just exactly when I pick up any given thought-signal from the person I’m reading. It isn’t a matter of developing speed. I’m already so fast to respond that it doesn’t mean too much from anybody else’s standpoint, and I certainly don’t need any training there. But where along the line do I pick up a thought impulse? Do I catch it at its inception? Do I pick up the thought formulation, or just the final crystalized pattern? Lambertson thinks I’m with it right from the start, and that some training in those lines would be worth my time.
Of course, we didn’t find out, not even with the ingenious little random-firing device that Dakin designed for the study. With this gadget, neither Lambertson nor I know what impulse the box is going to throw at him. He just throws a switch and it starts coming. He catches it, reacts, I catch it from him and react, and we compare reaction times. This afternoon it had us driving up a hill, and sent a ten-ton truck rolling down on us out of control. I had my flasher on two seconds before Lambertson did, of course, but our reaction times are standardized, so when we corrected for my extra speed, we knew that I must have caught the impulse about 0.07 seconds after he did.
Crude, of course, not nearly fast enough, and we can’t reproduce on a stable basis. Lambertson says that’s as close as we can get without cortical probes. And that’s where I put my foot down. I may have a gold mine in this head of mine, but nobody is going to put burr-holes through my skull in order to tap it. Not for a while yet.
That’s unfair, of course, because it sounds as if Lambertson were trying to force me into something, and he isn’t. I’ve read him about that, and I know he wouldn’t allow it. Let’s learn everything else we can learn without it first, he says. Later, if you want to go along with it, maybe. But right now you’re not competent to decide for yourself.
He may be right, but why not? Why does he keep acting as if I’m a child? Am I, really? With everything (and I mean everything) coming into my mind for the past twenty-three years, haven’t I learned enough to make decisions for myself? Lambertson says of course everything has been coming in, it’s