Stanton stepped out of the niche and accompanied the therapist to another
room, where he took off the robe again and sat down on the small stool
inside an ordinary steam box. The box closed, leaving his head free, and
the box began to fill with steam.
"Did I ever tell you what I don't like about that machine?" Bart asked as
the therapist draped a heavy towel around his head.
"Nope. Didn't know you had any gripe. What is it?"
"You can't gloat after you beat it. You can't walk over and pat it on the
shoulder and say, 'Well, better luck next time, old man.' It isn't a good
loser, and it isn't a bad loser. The damn thing doesn't even know it lost,
and if it did, it wouldn't care."
"I see what you mean," said the P.T. man, chuckling. "You beat the pants
off it and what d'you get? Not even a case of the sulks out of it."
"Exactly. And what's worse, I know perfectly good and well that it's only
half trying. The damned thing could beat me easily if you just turned that
knob over a little more."
"You're not competing against the machine, anyway," the therapist said.
"You're competing against yourself, trying to beat your own record."
"I know. And what happens when I can't do _that_ any more, either?"
Stanton asked. "I can't just go on getting better and better forever. I've
got limits, you know."
"Sure," said the therapist easily. "So does a golf player. But every
golfer goes out and practices by himself to try to beat his own record."
"Bunk! The real fun in _any_ game is beating someone else! The big kick in
golf is in winning over the other guy in a twosome."
"How about crossword puzzles or solitaire?"
"Solve a crossword puzzle, and you've beaten the guy who made it up. In
solitaire, you're playing against the laws of chance, and even that can
become pretty boring. What I'd like to do is get out on the golf course
with someone else and do my best and then lose. Honestly."
"With a handicap...." the therapist began. Then he grinned weakly and
stopped. On the golf course, Stanton was impossibly good. One long drive
to the green, one putt to the cup. An easy thirty-six strokes for eighteen
holes; an occasional hole-in-one sometimes brought him below that, an
occasional worm-cast or stray wind sometimes raised his score.
"Sure," Stanton said. "A handicap. What kind of handicap do you want on a
handball game with me?"
The P.T. man could imagine himself trying to get under one of Stanton's
lightning-like returns. The thought of what would happen to his hand if he
were to accidentally catch one made him wince.
"We wouldn't even be playing the same game," Stanton said.
The therapist stepped back and looked at Stanton. "You know," he said
puzzledly, "you sound bitter."
"Sure I'm bitter," Stanton said. "All I get is exercise. All the fun has
gone out of it." He sighed and grinned. There was no point in worrying the
P.T. man. "I'll just have to stick to cards and chess if I want
competition. Speed and strength don't help anything if I'm holding two
pair against three of a kind."
Before the therapist could say anything, the door opened and a tall, lean
man stepped into the fog-filled room. "You are broiling a lobster?" he
asked the P.T. blandly.
"Steaming a clam," came the correction. "When he's done, I'll pound him to
chowder."
"Excellent. I came for a clam-bake," the tall man said.
"You're early then, George," Stanton said. He didn't feel in the mood for
light humor, and the appearance of Dr. Yoritomo did nothing to improve his
humor.
George Yoritomo beamed, crinkling up his heavy-lidded eyes. "Ah! A talking
clam! Excellent! How much longer does he have to cook?"
"Twenty-three minutes, why?"
"Would you be so good as to return at the end of that time?"
The therapist opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, and said:
"Sure, Doc. I can get some other stuff done. I'll see you then. I'll be
back, Bart." He went out through the far door.
* * * * *
After the door closed, Dr. Yoritomo pulled up a chair and sat down. "New
developments," he said, "as you may have surmised."
"I guessed," Stanton said. "What is it?" He flexed his muscles under the
caress of the hot, moist currents in the box.
He wondered why it was so important that the psychologist interrupt him
while he was relaxing after strenuous exercise. Yoritomo looked excited,
in spite of his calm. And yet Stanton knew that there couldn't be anything
urgent or Yoritomo would have acted differently.
It was relatively unimportant now, anyway, Stanton thought. Having made
his decision to act on his own had changed his reaction to the decisions
of others.
Yoritomo leaned forward in his chair, his thin lips in an excited smile,
his black-irised eyes sparkling. "I had to come tell you. The sheer, utter
beauty of it is too much to contain. Three times in a row was almost
absolute, Bart; the probability that our hypothesis is correct was
computed as straight nines to seven decimals. But now! The fourth time!
Straight nines to _twelve_ decimals!"
Scanton lifted an eyebrow. "Your Oriental calm is deserting you, George.
I'm not reading you."
Yoritomo's smile became broader. "Ah! Sorry. I refer to the theory we have
been discussing--about the memory of the Nipe. You know?"
Stanton knew. Dr. Yoritomo was, in effect, one of his training
instructors. _Advanced Alien Psychology,_ Stanton thought; _Seminar
Course. The Mental Whys & Wherefores of the Nipe, or How to Outthink the
Enemy in Twelve Easy Lessons. Instructor: Dr. George Yoritomo._
After six years of watching the recorded actions of the Nipe, Yoritomo had
evolved a theory about the kind of mentality that lay behind the four
baleful violet eyes in that alien head. Now he evidently had proof of that
theory. He was smiling and rubbing his long, bony hands together. For
George Yoritomo, that was the equivalent of hysterical excitement.
"We have been able to predict the behavior of the Nipe!" he said. "For the
fourth time in succession!"
"Great. But how does that fit in with that rule you once told me about?
You know, the one about experimental animals."
"Ah, yes. The Harvard Law. 'A genetically standardized strain, under
precisely controlled laboratory conditions, when subjected to carefully
calibrated stimuli, will behave as it damned well pleases.' Yes. Very
true.
"But an animal could not do otherwise, could it? Only as it pleases. And
it could not please to behave as something it is not, could it?"
"Draw me a picture," Stanton said.
"I mean that any organism is limited in its choice of behavior. A hamster,
for instance, cannot choose to behave in the manner of a Rhesus monkey. A
dog cannot choose to react as a mouse would. If I prick a rat with a
needle, it may squeal, or bite, or jump--but it will not bark. Never. Nor
will it leap up to a trapeze, hang by its tail, and chatter curses at me.
Never.
"By observing an organism's reactions, one can begin to see a pattern. If
you tell me that you put an armful of hay into a certain animal's
enclosure, and that the animal trotted over, ate the hay, and brayed, I
can tell you with reasonable certainty that the animal has long ears. Do
you see?"
"You haven't been able to pinpoint the Nipe that easily, have you?"
Stanton asked.
"Ah, no. The more intelligent a creature is, the greater its scope of
action. The Nipe is far from being so simple as a monkey or a hamster. On
the other hand--" He smiled widely, showing bright, white teeth. "--he is
not so bright as a human being."
"_What!?_ I wouldn't say he was exactly stupid, George. What about all
those prize gadgets of his?" He blinked. "Wipe the sweat off my forehead,
will you? It's running into my eyes."
* * * * *
Dr. Yoritomo wiped with the towel as he continued. "Ah, yes. He is quite
capable in that respect, my friend. It is his great memory--at once his
finest asset and his greatest curse."
He draped the towel around Stanton's head again and stepped back, his face
unsmiling. "Imagine having a near-perfect memory."