[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, August 1957.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Dr. David Lessing found Jack Dorffman and the boy waiting in his office
when he arrived at the Hoffman Center that morning. Dorffman looked as
though he'd been running all night. There were dark pouches under his
eyes; his heavy unshaven face seemed to sag at every crease. Lessing
glanced sharply at his Field Director and sank down behind his desk
with a sigh. "All right, Jack--what's wrong?"
"This kid is driving me nuts," said Dorffman through clenched teeth.
"He's gone completely hay-wire. Nobody's been able to get near him
for three weeks, and now at six o'clock this morning he decides he's
leaving the Farm. I talk to him, I sweat him down, I do everything but
tie him to the bed, and I waste my time. He's leaving the Farm. Period."
"So you bring him down here," said Lessing sourly. "The worst place he
could be, if something's really wrong." He looked across at the boy.
"Tommy? Come over and sit down."
There was nothing singular about the boy's appearance. He was thin,
with a pale freckled face and the guileless expression of any normal
eight-year-old as he blinked across the desk at Lessing. The awkward
grey monitor-helmet concealed a shock of sandy hair. He sat with a mute
appeal in his large grey eyes as Lessing flipped the reader-switch and
blinked in alarm at the wildly thrashing pattern on the tape.
The boy was terrorized. He was literally pulsating with fear.
Lessing sat back slowly. "Tell me about it, Tommy," he said gently.
"I don't want to go back to the Farm," said the boy.
"Why?"
"I just don't. I hate it there."
"Are you frightened?"
The boy bit his lip and nodded slowly.
"Of me? Of Dr. Dorffman?"
"No. Oh, no!"
"Then what?"
Again the mute appeal in the boy's eyes. He groped for words, and none
came. Finally he said, "If I could only take this off--" He fingered
the grey plastic helmet.
"You think _that_ would make you feel better?"
"It would, I know it would."
Lessing shook his head. "I don't think so, Tommy. You know what the
monitor is for, don't you?"
"It stops things from going out."
"That's right. And it stops things from going in. It's an insulator.
You need it badly. It would hurt you a great deal if you took it off,
away from the Farm."
The boy fought back tears. "But I don't want to go back there--" The
fear-pattern was alive again on the tape. "I don't feel good there. I
never want to go back."
"Well, we'll see. You can stay here for a while." Lessing nodded at
Dorffman and stepped into an adjoining room with him. "You say this has
been going on for _three weeks_?"
"I'm afraid so. We thought it was just a temporary pattern--we see so
much of that up there."
"I know, I know." Lessing chewed his lip. "I don't like it. We'd better
set up a battery on him and try to spot the trouble. And I'm afraid
you'll have to set it up. I've got that young Melrose from Chicago to
deal with this morning--the one who's threatening to upset the whole
Conference next month with some crazy theories he's been playing with.
I'll probably have to take him out to the Farm to shut him up." Lessing
ran a hand through sparse grey hair. "See what you can do for the boy
downstairs."
"Full psi precautions?" asked Dorffman.
"Certainly! And Jack--in this case, be _sure_ of it. If Tommy's in the
trouble I think he's in, we don't dare risk a chance of Adult Contact
now. We could end up with a dead boy on our hands."
* * * * *
Two letters were waiting on Lessing's desk that morning. The first was
from Roberts Bros., announcing another shift of deadline on the book,
and demanding the galley proofs two weeks earlier than scheduled.
Lessing groaned. As director of psionic research at the Hoffman Medical
Center, he had long since learned how administrative detail could suck
up daytime hours. He knew that his real work was at the Farm--yet he
hadn't even been to the Farm in over six weeks. And now, as the book
approached publication date, Lessing wondered if he would ever really
get back to work again.
The other letter cheered him a bit more. It bore the letterhead of the
International Psionics Conference:
Dear Dr. Lessing:
In recognition of your position as an authority on human Psionic
behavior patterns, we would be gratified to schedule you as principle
speaker at the Conference in Chicago on October 12th. A few remarks in
discussion of your forthcoming book would be entirely in order--
They were waiting for it, then! He ran the galley proofs into the
scanner excitedly. They knew he had something up his sleeve. His
earlier papers had only hinted at the direction he was going--but the
book would clear away the fog. He scanned the title page proudly. "A
Theory of Psionic Influence on Infant and Child Development." A good
title--concise, commanding, yet modest. They would read it, all right.
And they would find it a light shining brightly in the darkness, a
guide to the men who were floundering in the jungle of a strange and
baffling new science.
For they were floundering. When they were finally forced to recognize
that this great and powerful force did indeed exist in human minds,
with unimaginable potential if it could only be unlocked, they had
plunged eagerly into the search, and found themselves in a maddening
bramble bush of contradictions and chaos. Nothing worked, and
everything worked too well. They were trying to study phenomena which
made no sense, observing things that defied logic. Natural laws came
crashing down about their ears as they stood sadly by and watched
things happen which natural law said could never happen. They had never
been in this jungle before, nor in any jungle remotely like it. The
old rules didn't work here, the old methods of study failed. And the
more they struggled, the thicker and more impenetrable the bramble bush
became--
But now David Lessing had discovered a pathway through that jungle, a
theory to work by--
At his elbow the intercom buzzed. "A gentleman to see you," the girl
said. "A Dr. Melrose. He's very impatient, sir."