"All right. An animal is a colony of cells. Different kinds of cells
form organs and do different things for the colony, but each cell has
a life of its own, too. When it dies a new one of the same kind takes
over. But what regulates the colony? What maintains the pattern?"
Amos waited.
"Part of it's automatic replacement, cell for cell. But beyond that
there's a control; and it's the unconscious mind." He paused and
studied Amos. "You think I'm theorizing. I'm not. That drug broke down
some barriers, and I see all this as you see your own fingers moving."
Amos remembered the mention of hallucinations.
* * * * *
Barnes grinned again. "Let's say it's only one per cent awake and
walled off from the conscious mind. What would happen if something
removed the wall and woke up the other ninety-nine per cent?"
Remembering the pig, it was impossible not to feel a cold seed of
belief. Amos dreaded what was coming next; clearly, it would be a
demonstration.
Barnes held out his hand, palm up. In a few seconds a pink spot
appeared. It turned red, oozed dismayingly, and became a small pool
of blood. Barnes let it stay for a moment, then wiped it off with a
handkerchief. There was no more bleeding. "That's something I can do
fast," he said. "I opened the pores, directed blood to them, then
closed them again. Amos, do you believe in werewolves?"
Amos wanted to jump up and shout, "No! You're insane!" but he could
only sit staring.
"I could move that thumb around to the other side of my hand," Barnes
said thoughtfully. "I'm still exploring, but I don't think even the
bone would take too long. You'll notice I don't need glasses any more."
The buzzer buzzed. Amos jumped, and from habit answered. "Bill Detrick
and that customer are here, Mr. Parry," came Alice Grant's voice.
"I--ask them to wait," he managed.
His mind was a muddle; he needed time. "You--Frank--will you stay for a
few days?"
"Sure. I'm in no hurry now. And while you're thinking, let me give you
a few hints. No more cripples or disease. No ugly people, unless they
choose to be. And no law."
"No--law?"
"How would you police such a world? A man could change his face at
will, or his fingerprints. Even his teeth. Probably he could do things
I can't imagine yet."
The buzzer went again, with Mrs. Grant's subtle urgency. Amos ignored
it, yet he hardly knew when Frank left the room.
He realized the chemist had done him a favor. The selfish thing would
have been to keep the secret and the boon all to himself; instead, he'd
given Amos the choice.
But what was the choice? Suppressing the drug would cost him his job.
There was no doubt about that.
He was standing with his back to the door when he heard it open. He
turned and faced Detrick's annoyed frown. "Amos, we can't keep this man
waiting. He's--"
All of Amos' frustration and the new burden coalesced into rage. He ran
toward Detrick. "You baboon-faced huckster!" he yelled. "Get out! Get
out! I'll tell you when you can come in here!" He barely caught his
upraised fist in time.
Detrick stood petrified, his face ludicrous. Then he came to life,
ducked out, and pulled the door shut behind him.
Amos waited no longer; if he had to decide, he wanted the data
first-hand. He spread out the file Barnes had left him and looked
through it for dosages. Apparently it wasn't critical, so he poured a
little of the powder into a tumbler, added water and threw it down.
There was a mild alkaline taste, which he washed out of his mouth with
more water. Then he sat down to wait.
* * * * *
A monotone seemed to be rattling off trivia; almost faster than he
could grasp it, even though it was in his head and not in his ears:
"Paris green/calcium acetoarsenite/beetle invasion Texan cotton/paint
pigment/obsolete/should eliminate/compensation claim/man probably
faking infection/Detrick likes because we only source/felt like hitting
him when we argued about it/correspondence Buffalo last year/they say
keep/check how use as poison/damned wife--"
The last thought shocked his intellect awake. "Hey!" Intellect
demanded. "What's going on here?"
"Oh; you've broken through," said Unconscious. "That was fast.
Fifteen minutes and twenty-three seconds since you drank it.
Probable error, one-third second. I've only been awake a few minutes
myself. Minute/sixty per hour/twenty-four hours day/days getting
shorter/September/have raincoat in car/wife wants new car/raincoat
sweats plasticizer/stinks/Hyatt used camphor--"
"Hold up a minute!" cried Intellect.
"You want me to stop scanning?"
"Is that what you're doing? Scanning what?"
"Memory banks, of course. Don't you remember the book we read three
years ago? 'Human brain estimated--' Oh, all right; I'll slow down.
You could follow me better if you'd let me grow some permanent direct
connections."
"Am I stopping you?"
"Well, not you, exactly. I'll show you." Unconscious began directing
the growth of certain nerve tendrils in the brain. Amos could only
follow it vaguely.
"Fear!" screamed a soundless voice. "Stop!"
"What was that?" Intellect asked, startled.
"That was Id. He always fights any improvements, and I can't override
him."
"Can _I_?"
"Of course; that's mainly what you're for. Wait till I get these
connections finished and you'll see the whole setup."
"FEAR!" shrieked Id. "STOP! NO CHANGE!"
"SHUT UP!" yelled Intellect.
It was strange being integrated; Amos found he was aware on two
levels simultaneously. While he responded normally to his external
environment, a lightning inner vision saw everything in vastly greater
detail. The blink of an eye, for instance, was an amazing project. Even
as commands flashed out and before the muscles started to respond,
extra blood was rushing into the area to nourish the working parts.
Reports flowed back like battle assessments: these three muscles
were on schedule; this was lagging; that was pulling too hard. An
infinitesimal twinge of pain marked some minor accident, and correction
began at once. A censor watched the whole operation and labeled each
incoming report: trivial, do not record; trivial, do not record;
trivial, do not record; worth watching, record in temporary banks;
trivial, do not....
He felt now that he could look forward to permanent health, and so far
he didn't seem to be losing his identity or becoming a moral monster
(though certain previously buried urges--toward Alice Grant, for
instance--were now rather embarrassingly uncovered). He was not, like
Frank Barnes, inclined to slip out of the situation at once. He still
felt the responsibility to make the decision.
He carried the vial of powder and the lab records home with him,
smuggled them past his wife's garrulity (it didn't bother him now)
and hid them. He went out with her cheerfully to visit some people he
didn't like, and found himself amused at them instead of annoyed. In
general, he felt buoyant, and they stayed quite late.
* * * * *
When they did get home, an urgent message was waiting on the telephone
recorder, and it jolted him. He grabbed up the hat and coat he'd just
laid down.
"What is it?" his wife demanded.
"I've got to go down to the plant." He hesitated; it was hard to say
the words that were charged with personal significance. "The watchman
found Frank Barnes dead in the laboratory."
"Who?"
"Frank Barnes! My chief chemist!"
"Oh." She looked at him, obviously concerned only with what effect, if
any, it might have on her own circumstances. "Why do you have to get
mixed up in it?"
"I'm the boss, damn it!" He left her standing there and ran for the
garage.
The police were already at the plant when he arrived. Fred's body lay
on the floor of his office, in a corner behind some file cabinets, face
up.
"What was it?" Amos asked the man from the coroner's office, dreading
the answer he expected.