Supermind by Randall Garrett and Laurence M. Janifer (well read books .TXT) 📕

on, his face changing slightly and his voice warming almost to the boiling point of nitrogen. It was obvious that the phrase was Dr. O’Connor’s idea of a little joke, and Malone smiled politely and nodded. The scientist seemed to feel some friendliness toward Malone, though it was hard to tell for sure. But Malone had brought him some fine specimens to work with—telepaths and teleports, though human, being no more than specimens to such a very precise scientific mind—and he seemed grateful for Malone’s diligence and effort in finding such fascinating objects of study.

That Malone certainly hadn’t started out to find them made, it appeared, very little difference.

“Well, then,” O’Connor said, returning to his normal, serious tone. “What can I do for you, Mr. Malone?”

“If you have the time, Doctor,” Malone said respectfully, “I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes.” He had the absurd feeling that O’Connor was going to tell him to stop by after class, but the scientist only nodded.

“Your call is timed very well,” he said. “As it happens, Mr. Malone, I do have a few seconds to spare just now.”

“Fine,” Malone said.

“I should be glad to talk with you,” O’Connor said, without looking any more glad than ever.

“I’ll be right there,” Malone said. O’Connor nodded again, and blanked out. Malone switched off and took a deep, superheated breath of phone booth air. For a second he considered starting his trip from outside the phone booth, but that was dangerous—if not to Malone, then to innocent spectators. Psionics was by no means a household word, and the sight of Malone leaving for Nevada might send several citizens straight to the wagon. Which was not a place, he thought judiciously, for anybody to be on such a hot day.

He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. In that time he reconstructed from memory a detailed, three-dimensional, full-color image of Dr. O’Connor’s office in his mind. It was perfect in detail; he checked it over mentally and then, by a special effort of will, he gave himself the psychic push that made the transition possible.

When he opened his eyes, he was in O’Connor’s office, standing in front of the scientist’s wide desk. He hoped nobody had been looking into the phone booth at the instant he had disappeared, but he was reasonably sure he’d been unobserved. People didn’t go around peering into phone booths, after all, and he had seen no one.

O’Connor looked up without surprise. “Ah,” he said. “Sit down, Mr. Malone.” Malone looked around for the chair, which was an uncomfortably straight-backed affair, and sat down in it gingerly. Remembering past visits to O’Connor, he was grateful for even the small amount of relaxation the hard wood afforded him. O’Connor had only recently unbent to the point of supplying a spare chair in his office for visitors, and, apparently, especially for Malone. Perhaps, Malone thought, it was more gratitude for the lovely specimens.

Malone still felt uncomfortable, but tried bravely not to show it. He felt slightly guilty, too, as he always did when he popped into O’Connor’s office without bothering to stay space-bound. By law, after all, he knew he should check in and out at the main gate of the huge, ultra-top-secret Government reservation whenever he visited Yucca Flats. But that meant wasting a lot of time and going through a lot of trouble. Malone had rationalized it out for himself that way, and had gotten just far enough to do things the quick and easy way and not quite far enough to feel undisturbed about it. After all, he told himself grimly, anything that saved time and trouble increased the efficiency of the FBI, so it was all to the good.

He swallowed hard. “Dr. O’Connor—” he began.

O’Connor looked up again. “Yes?” he said. He’d had plenty of practice in watching people appear and disappear, between Malone and the specimens Malone had brought him; he was beyond surprise or shock by now.

“I came here to talk to you,” Malone began again.

O’Connor nodded, a trifle impatiently. “Yes,” he said. “I know that.”

“Well—” Malone thought fast. Presenting the case to O’Connor was impossible; it was too complicated, and it might violate governmental secrecy somewhere along the line. He decided to wrap it up in a hypothetical situation. “Doctor,” he said, “I know that all the various manifestations of the psi powers were investigated and named long before responsible scientists became interested in the subject.”

“That,” O’Connor said with some reluctance, “is true.” He looked sad, as if he wished they’d waited on naming some of the psionic manifestations until he’d been born and started investigating them. Malone tried to imagine a person doing something called O’Connorizing, and decided he was grateful for history.

“Well, then—” he said.

“At least,” O’Connor cut in, “it is true in a rather vague and general way. You see, Mr. Malone, any precise description of a psionic manifestation must wait until a metalanguage has grown up to encompass it; that is, until understanding and knowledge have reached the point where careful and accurate description can take place.”

“Oh,” Malone said helplessly. “Sure.” He wondered if what O’Connor had said meant anything, and decided that it probably did, but he didn’t want to know about it.

“While we have not yet reached that point,” O’Connor said, “we are approaching it in our experiments. I am hopeful that, in the near future—”

“Well,” Malone cut in desperately, “sure. Of course. Naturally.”

Dr. O’Connor looked miffed. The temperature of the room seemed to drop several degrees, and Malone swallowed hard and tried to look ingratiating and helpful, like a student with nothing but A’s on his record.

Before O’Connor could pick up the thread of his sentence, Malone went on: “What I mean is something like this. Picking up the mental activity of another person is called telepathy. Floating in the air is called levitation. Moving objects around is psychokinesis. Going from one place to another instantaneously is teleportation. And so on.”

“The language you use,” O’Connor said, still miffed, “is extremely loose. I might go so far as to say that the statements you have made are, essentially, meaningless as a result of their lack of rigor.”

Malone took a deep breath. “Dr. O’Connor,” he said, “you know what I mean, don’t you?”

“I believe so,” O’Connor said, with the air of a king granting a pardon to a particularly repulsive-looking subject in the lowest income brackets.

“Well, then,” Malone said. “Yes or no?”

O’Connor frowned. “Yes or no what?” he said.

“I—” Malone blinked. “I mean, the things have names,” he said at last. “All the various psionic manifestations have names.”

“Ah,” O’Connor said. “Well. I should say—” He put his fingertips together and stared at a point on the white ceiling for a second. “Yes,” he said at last.

Malone breathed a sigh of relief. “Good,” he said. “That’s what I wanted to know.” He leaned forward. “And if they all do have names,” he went on, “what is it called when a large group of people are forced to act in a certain manner?”

O’Connor shrugged. “Forced?” he said.

“Forced by mental power,” Malone said.

There was a second of silence.

“At first,” O’Connor said, “I might think of various examples: the actions of a mob, for example, or the demonstrations of the Indian Rope Trick, or perhaps the sale of a useless product through television or through other advertising.” Again his face moved, ever so slightly, in what he obviously believed to be a smile. “The usual name for such a phenomenon is ‘mass hypnotism,’ Mr. Malone,” he said. “But that is not, strictly speaking, a psi phenomenon at all. Studies in that area belong to the field of mob psychology; they are not properly in my scope.” He looked vastly superior to anything and everything that was outside his scope. Malone concentrated on looking receptive and understanding.

“Yes?” he said.

O’Connor gave him a look that made Malone feel he’d been caught cribbing during an exam, but the scientist said nothing to back up the look. Instead he went on: “I will grant that there may be an amplification of the telepathic faculty in the normal individual in such cases.”

“Good,” Malone said doubtfully.

“Such an amplification,” O’Connor went on, as if he hadn’t heard, “would account for the apparent—ah—mental linkage that makes a mob appear to act as a single organism during certain periods of—ah— stress.” He looked judicious for a second, and then nodded. “However,” he said, “other than that, I would doubt that there is any psionic force involved.”

Malone spent a second or two digesting O’Connor’s reply.

“Well,” he said at last, “I’m not sure that’s what I meant. I mean, I’m not sure I meant to ask that question.” He took a breath and decided to start all over. “It’s not like a mob,” he said, “with everybody all doing the same thing at the same time. It’s more like a group of men, all separated, without any apparent connections between any of the men. And they’re all working toward a common goal. All doing different things, but all with the same objective. See?”

“Of course I do,” O’Connor said flatly. “But what you’re suggesting—” He looked straight at Malone. “Have you had any experience of this ... phenomenon?”

“Experience?” Malone said.

“I believe you have had,” O’Connor said. “Such a concept could not have come to you in a theoretical manner. You must be involved with an actual situation very much like the one you describe.”

Malone swallowed. “Me?” he said.

“Mr. Malone,” O’Connor said. “May I remind you that this is Yucca Flats? That the security checks here are as careful as anywhere in the world? That I, myself, have top-security clearance for many special projects? You do not need to watch your words here.”

“It’s not security,” Malone said. “Anyhow, it’s not only security. But things are pretty complicated.”

“I assure you,” O’Connor said, “that I will be able to understand even events which you feel are complex.”

Malone swallowed again, hard. “I didn’t mean—” he started.

“Please, Mr. Malone,” O’Connor said. His voice was colder than usual. Malone had the feeling that he was about to take the extra chair away. “Go on,” O’Connor said. “Explain yourself.”

Malone took a deep breath. He started with the facts he’d been told by Burris, and went straight through to the interviews of the two computer-secretary technicians by Boyd and Company.

It took quite awhile. By the time he had finished, O’Connor wasn’t looking frozen any more; he’d apparently forgotten to keep the freezer coils running. Instead, his face showed frank bewilderment, and great interest. “I never heard of such a thing,” he said. “Never. Not at any time.”

“But—”

O’Connor shook his head. “I have never heard of a psionic manifestation on that order,” he said. It seemed to be a painful admission. “Something that would make a random group of men co-operate in that manner—why, it’s completely new.”

“It is?” Malone said, wondering if, when it was all investigated and described, it might be called O’Connorizing. Then he wondered how anybody was going to go about investigating it and describing it, and sank even deeper into gloom.

“Completely new,” O’Connor said. “You may take my word.” Then, slowly, he began to brighten again, with all the glitter of newly-formed ice. “As a matter of fact,” he said, in a tone more like his usual one, “as a matter of fact, Mr. Malone, I don’t think it’s possible.”

“But it happened,” Malone said. “It’s still happening. All over.”

O’Connor’s lips tightened. “I have given my opinion,” he said. “I do not believe that such a thing is possible. There must be some other explanation.”

“All right,” Malone said agreeably. “I’ll bite. What is it?”

O’Connor frowned. “Your levity,” he said, “is uncalled-for.”

Malone shrugged. “I didn’t mean to be—” He paused. “Anyhow, I didn’t mean to be funny,” he went on. “But I would like to have another idea of what’s causing all this.”

“Scientific theories,” O’Connor said sternly, “are not invented on the spur of the moment. Only after long, careful thought.”

“You mean you can’t think of anything,” Malone said.

“There must be some other explanation,” O’Connor said. “Naturally, since the facts have only now been presented to me, it is impossible for me to display at once a fully-constructed theory.”

Malone nodded slowly. “Okay,” he said. “Have you got any hints, then? Any ideas at all?”

O’Connor shook his head. “I have not,” he said. “But I strongly suggest, Mr. Malone, that you recheck your data. The fault may very well lie in your own interpretations of the actual facts.”

“I don’t think so,” Malone said.

O’Connor grimaced. “I do,” he said firmly.

Malone sighed, very faintly. He shifted in the chair and began to realize, for the first time, just how uncomfortable it really was. He also felt a little chilly, and the chill was growing. That, he told himself, was the effect of Dr. O’Connor. He no longer regretted wearing his hat. As a matter of fact, he thought wistfully for a second of a small, light overcoat.

O’Connor,