(Note: The following excerpts from Amy Ballantine's journal have never
actually been written down at any time before. Her account of
impressions and events has been kept in organized fashion in her mind
for at least nine years (even she is not certain when she started), but
it must be understood that certain inaccuracies in transcription could
not possibly have been avoided in the excerpting attempted here. _The
Editor_.)
* * * * *
_Tuesday, 16 May._ Lambertson got back from Boston about two this
afternoon. He was tired; I don't think I've ever seen Lambertson so
tired. It was more than just exhaustion, too. Maybe anger? Frustration?
I couldn't be sure. It seemed more like _defeat_ than anything else, and
he went straight from the 'copter to his office without even stopping
off at the lab at all.
It's good to have him back, though! Not that I haven't had a nice enough
rest. With Lambertson gone, Dakin took over the reins for the week, but
Dakin doesn't really count, poor man. It's such a temptation to twist
him up and get him all confused that I didn't do any real _work_ all
week. With Lambertson back I'll have to get down to the grind again, but
I'm still glad he's here. I never thought I'd miss him so, for such a
short time away.
But I wish he'd gotten a rest, if he ever rests! And I wish I knew why
he went to Boston in the first place. Certainly he didn't _want_ to go.
I wanted to read him and find out, but I don't think I'm supposed to
know yet. Lambertson didn't want to talk. He didn't even tell me he was
back, even though he knew I'd catch him five miles down the road. (I can
do that now, with Lambertson. Distance doesn't seem to make so much
difference any more if I just ignore it.)
So all I got was bits and snatches on the surface of his mind. Something
about me, and Dr. Custer; and a nasty little man called Aarons or
Barrons or something. I've heard of him somewhere, but I can't pin it
down right now. I'll have to dig that out later, I guess.
But if he saw Dr. Custer, _why doesn't he tell me about it_?
* * * * *
_Wednesday, 17 May._ It was _Aarons_ that he saw in Boston, and now I'm
sure that something's going wrong. I know that man. I remember him from
a long time ago, back when I was still at Bairdsley, long before I came
here to the Study Center. He was the consulting psychiatrist, and I
don't think I could ever forget him, even if I tried!
That's why I'm sure something very unpleasant is going on.
Lambertson saw Dr. Custer, too, but the directors sent him to Boston
because Aarons wanted to talk to him. I wasn't supposed to know anything
about it, but Lambertson came down to dinner last night. He wouldn't
even 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 just that I don't know what to do with it all. But
somewhere along the line I have to reach a maturation point of some
kind.
It scares me, sometimes, because I can't find an answer to it and the
answer might be perfectly horrible. I don't know where it may end.
What's worse, I don't know what point it has reached _right now_. How
much difference is there between my mind and Lambertson's? I'm psi-high,
and he isn't--granted. But is there more to it than that? People like
Aarons think so. They think it's a difference between _human_ function
and something else.
And that scares me because it _just isn't true_. I'm as human as anybody
else. But somehow it seems that I'm the one who has to prove it. I
wonder if I ever will. That's why Dr. Custer has to help me. Everything
hangs on that. I'm to go up to Boston next week, for final studies and
testing.
If Dr. Custer can do something, what a difference that will make! Maybe
then I could get out of this whole frightening mess, put it behind me
and forget about it. With just the psi alone, I don't think I ever can.
* * * * *
_Friday, 19 May._ Today Lambertson broke down and told me what it was
that Aarons had been proposing. It was worse than I thought it would be.
The man had hit on the one thing I'd been afraid of for so long.
"He wants you to work against normals," Lambertson said. "He's swallowed
the latency hypothesis whole. He thinks that everybody must have a
latent psi potential, and that all that is needed to drag it into the
open is a powerful stimulus from someone with full-blown psi powers."
"Well?" I said. "Do you think so?"
"Who knows?" Lambertson slammed his pencil down on the desk angrily.
"No, I don't think so, but what does that mean? Not a thing. It
certainly doesn't mean I'm right. Nobody knows the answer, not me, nor
Aarons, nor anybody. And Aarons wants to use you to find out."
I nodded slowly. "I see. So I'm to be used as a sort of refined
electrical stimulator," I said. "Well, I guess you know what you can
tell Aarons."
He was silent, and I couldn't read him. Then he looked up. "Amy, I'm not
sure we can tell him that."