"It does _not_ make monsters," said Kennedy. "Look, the specific
emotional reaction to a given stimulus is, in the normal individual,
largely a matter of conditioned reflex, instilled by social environment
or the accidental associations of his life.
"Anyone in decent health will experience fear in the presence of
danger; desire in the presence of a sexual object, and so on. That's
basic biology, and the machine can't change that. But most of our
evaluations are learned. For instance, to an American the word 'mother'
has powerful emotional connotations, while to a Samoan it means nothing
very exciting. You had to develop a taste for liquor, tobacco,
coffee--in fact most of what you consume. If you're in love with a
particular woman, it's a focusing of the general sexual libido on her,
brought about by the symbolizing part of your mind: she _means_
something to you. There are cultures without romantic love, you know.
And so on. All these specific, conditioned reactions can be changed."
"How?"
* * * * *
Kennedy thought for a moment "The encephalographic part of the machine
measures the exact pulsations in the individual corresponding to the
various emotional reactions. It takes me about four hours to determine
those with the necessary precision; then I have to make statistical
analyses of the data, to winnow out random variations. Thereafter I put
the subject in a state of light hypnosis--that's only to increase
suggestibility, and make the process faster. As I pronounce the words
and names I'm interested in, the machine feeds back the impulses
corresponding to the emotions I want: a sharply-focused beam on the
brain center concerned.
"For instance, suppose you were an alcoholic and I wanted to cure you.
I'd put you in hypnosis and stand there whispering 'wine, whisky, beer,
gin,' and so on; meanwhile, the machine would be feeding the impulses
corresponding to your reactions of hate, fear, and disgust into your
brain. You'd come out unchanged, except that your appetite for alcohol
would be gone; you could, in fact, come out hating the stuff so much
that you'd join the Prohibition Party--though, in actual practice, it
would probably be enough just to give you a mild aversion."
"Mmmm--I see. Maybe." Fraser scowled. "And the--subject--doesn't
remember what you've done?"
"Oh, no. It all takes place on the lower subconscious levels. A new set
of conditioned neural pathways is opened, you see, and old ones are
closed off. The brain does that by itself, through its normal
symbolizing mechanism. All that happens is that the given symbol--such
as liquor--becomes reflectively associated with the given emotional
state, such as dislike."
Kennedy leaned forward with an air of urgency. "The end result is in no
way different from ordinary means of persuasion. Propaganda does the
same thing by sheer repetition. If you're courting a girl, you try to
identify yourself in her mind with the things she desires, by
appropriate behavior.... I'm sorry; I shouldn't have used that
example.... The machine is only a direct, fast way of doing this,
producing a more stable result."
"It's still--tampering," said Fraser. "How do you know you're not
creating side-effects, doing irreparable long-range damage?"
"Oh, for Lord's sake!" exploded Kennedy. "Take your mind off that shelf,
will you? I've told you how delicate the whole thing is. A few
microwatts of power more or less, a frequency-shift of less than one
percent, and it doesn't work at all. There's no effect whatsoever." He
cooled off fast, adding reflectively: "On the given subject, that is. It
might work on someone else. These pulsations are a highly individual
matter; I have to calibrate every case separately."
There was a long period of silence. Then Fraser strained forward and
said in an ugly voice:
"All right You've told me how you do it. Now tell me _why_. What
possible reason or excuse, other than your own desire to play God? This
thing could be the greatest psychiatric tool in history, and you're
using it to--pimp!"
"I told you that was unimportant," said Kennedy quietly. "I'm doing much
more. I set up in practice here in New York a couple of years ago. Once
I had a few chance people under control--no, I tell you again, I didn't
make robots of them. I merely associated myself, in their own minds,
with the father-image. That's something I do to everyone who comes under
the machine, just as a precaution if nothing else, Kennedy is all-wise,
all-powerful; Kennedy can do no wrong. It isn't a conscious realization;
to the waking mind, I am only a shrewd adviser and a damn swell fellow.
But the subconscious mind knows otherwise. It wouldn't _let_ my subjects
act against me; it wouldn't even let them want to.
"Well, you see how it goes. I got those first few people to recommend me
to certain selected friends, and these in turn recommended me to others.
Not necessarily as a psychiatrist; I have variously been a doctor, a
counsellor, or merely a research-man looking for data. But I'm building
up a group of the people I want. People who'll back me up, who'll follow
my advice--not with any knowledge of being dominated, but because the
workings of their own subconscious minds will lead them inevitably to
think that my advice is the only sound policy to follow and my requests
are things any decent man must grant."
"Yeah," said Fraser. "I get it. Big businessmen. Labor-leaders.
Politicians. Military men. And Soviet spies!"
* * * * *
Kennedy nodded. "I have connections with the Soviets; their agents think
I'm on their side. But it isn't treason, though I may help them out from
time to time.
"That's why I have to do these services for my important clients, such
as getting them the women they want--or, what I actually do more often,
influencing their competitors and associates. You see, the subconscious
mind knows I am all-powerful, but the conscious mind doesn't. It has to
be satisfied by occasional proofs that I _am_ invaluable; otherwise
conflicts would set in, my men would become unstable and eventually
psychotic, and be of no further use to me.
"Of course," he added, almost pedantically, "my men don't know how I
persuade these other people--they only know that I do, somehow, and
their regard for their own egos, as well as for me, sets up a bloc which
prevents them from reasoning out the fact that they themselves are
dominated. They're quite content to accept the results of my help,
without inquiring further into the means than the easy rationalization
that I have a 'persuasive personality.'
"I don't like what I'm doing, Fraser. But it's got to be done."
"You still haven't said _what's_ got to be done," answered the engineer
coldly.
"I've been given something unbelievable," said Kennedy. His voice was
very soft now. "If I'd made it public, can you imagine what would have
happened? Psychiatrists would use it, yes; but so would criminals,
dictators, power-hungry men of all kinds. Even in this country, I don't
think libertarian principles could long survive. It would be too
simple--
"And yet it would have been cowardly to break the machine and burn
Gavotti's notes. Chance has given me the power to be more than a chip in
the river--a river that's rapidly approaching a waterfall, war,
destruction, tyranny, no matter who the Pyrrhic victor may be. I'm in a
position to do something for the causes in which I believe."
"And what are they?" asked Fraser.
Kennedy gestured at the pictures on the mantel. "Both my sons were
killed in the last war. My wife died of cancer--a disease which would be
licked now if a fraction of the money spent on armaments had been
diverted to research. That brought it home to me; but there are hundreds
of millions of people in worse cases. And war isn't the only
evil--there is poverty, oppression, inequality, want and suffering. It
could be changed.
"I'm building up my own lobby, you might say. In a few more years, I
hope to be the indispensable adviser of all the men who, between them,
really run this country. And yes, I have been in touch with Soviet
agents--have even acted as a transmitter of stolen information. The
basic problem of spying, you know, is not to get the information in the
first place as much as to get it to the homeland. Treason? No. I think
not. I'm getting my toehold in world communism. I already have some of
its agents; sooner or later, I'll get to the men who really matter. Then
communism will no longer be a menace."
He sighed. "It's a hard row to hoe. It'll take my lifetime, at least;
but what else have I got to give my life to?"
Fraser sat quiet. His pipe was cold, he knocked it out and began filling
it afresh. The scratching of his match seemed unnaturally loud. "It's
too much," he said. "It's too big a job for one man to tackle. The world
will stumble along somehow, but you'll just get things into a worse
mess."
"I've got to try," said Kennedy.
"And I still want my girl back."
"I can't do that; I need Snyder too much. But I'll make it up to you
somehow." Kennedy sighed. "Lord, if you knew how much I've wanted to
tell all this!"
With sudden wariness: "Not that it's to be repeated. In fact, you're to
lay off me; call off your dogs. Don't try to tell anyone else what I've
told you. You'd never be believed and I already have enough power to
suppress the story, if you should get it out somehow. And if you give me
any more trouble at all, I'll see to it that you--stop."
"Murder?"
"Or commitment to an asylum. I can arrange that too."
Fraser sighed. He felt oddly unexcited, empty, as if the interview had
drained him of his last will to resist. He held the pipe loosely in his
fingers, letting it go out.
"Ask me a favor," urged Kennedy. "I'll do it, if it won't harm my own
program. I tell you, I want to square things."
"Well--"
"Think about it. Let me know."
"All right." Fraser got up. "I may do that." He went out the door
without saying goodnight.
4
He sat with his feet on the table, chair tilted back and teetering
dangerously, hands clasped behind his head, pipe filling the room with
blue fog. It was his usual posture for attacking a problem.
And damn it, he thought wearily, this was a question such as he made his
living on. An industrial engineer comes into the office. We want this
and that--a machine for a very special purpose, let's say. What should
we do, Mr. Fraser? Fraser prowls around the plant, reads up on the
industry, and then sits down and thinks. The elements of the problem are
such-and-such; how can they be combined to yield a solution?
Normally, he uses the mathematical approach, especially in machine
design. Most practicing-engineers have a pathetic math background--they
use ten pages of elaborate algebra and rusty calculus to figure out
something that three vector equations would solve. But you have to get
the logical basics straight first, before you can set up your equations.
All right, what is the problem? To get Judy back. That means forcing
Kennedy to restore her normal emotional reactions--no, he didn't want
her thrust into love of him; he just wanted her as she had been.
What are the elements of the problem? Kennedy acts outside the law, but
he has blocked all official channels. He even has connections extending
through the Iron Curtain.
Hmmmm--appeal to the FBI? Kennedy couldn't have control over
them--_yet_. However, if Fraser tried to tip off the FBI, they'd act
cautiously, if they investigated at all. They'd have to go slow. And
Kennedy would find out in time to do something about it.
Martinez could help no further. Sworsky had closer contact with
Washington. He'd been so thoroughly cleared that they'd be inclined to
trust whatever he said. But Sworsky doubted the whole story; like many
men who'd suffered through irresponsible Congressional charges, he was
almost fanatic about having proof before accusing anyone of anything.
Moreover, Kennedy knew that Sworsky was Fraser's friend; he'd probably
be keeping close tabs on the physicist and ready to block any attempts
he might make to help. With the backing of a man like Snyder, Kennedy
could hire as many detectives as he wanted.
In fact, whatever the counter-attack, it was necessary to go warily.
Kennedy's threat to get rid of Fraser if the engineer kept working
against him was not idle mouthing. He could do it--and, being a fanatic,
would.
But Kennedy, like the demon of legend, would grant one wish--just to
salve his own conscience. Only what should the wish be? Another woman?
Or merely to be reconciled, artificially, to an otherwise-intolerable
situation?
_Judy, Judy, Judy!_
Fraser swore at himself. Damn it to hell, this was a problem in logic.
No room for emotion. Of course, it might be a problem without a
solution. There are plenty of those.
He squinted, trying to visualize the office. He thought of burglary,
stealing evidence--silly thought. But let's see, now. What was the
layout, exactly? Four suites on one floor of the skyscraper, three of
them unimportant offices of unimportant men. And--
_Oh, Lord!_
Fraser sat for a long while, hardly moving. Then he uncoiled himself and
ran, downstairs and into the street and to the nearest pay phone. His
own line might be tapped--
"Hello, hello, Juan?... Yes, I know I got you out of bed, and I'm not
sorry. This is too bloody important.... Okay, okay.... Look, I want a
complete report on the Messenger Advertising Service.... When?
Immediately, if not sooner. And I mean _complete_.... That's right,
Messenger.... Okay, fine. I'll buy you a drink sometime."
"Hello, Jim? Were you asleep too?... Sorry.... But look, would you make
a list of all the important men you know fairly well? I need it bad....
No, don't come over. I think I'd better not see you for a while. Just
mail it to me.... All right, so I am paranoid...."
* * * * *
Jerome K. Ferris was a large man, with a sense of his own importance
that was even larger. He sat hunched in the chair, his head dwarfed by
the aluminum helmet, his breathing shallow. Around him danced and
flickered a hundred meters, indicator lights, tubes. There was a low
humming in the room, otherwise it was altogether silent, blocked and
shielded against the outside world. The fluorescent lights were a muted
glow.
Fraser sat watching the greenish trace on the huge oscilloscope screen.
It was an intricate set of convolutions, looking more like a plate of
spaghetti than anything else. He wondered how many frequencies were
involved. Several thousand, at the very least.
"Fraser," repeated Kennedy softly into the ear of the hypnotized man.
"Colin Fraser. Colin Fraser." He touched a dial with infinite care.
"Colin Fraser. Colin Fraser."
The oscilloscope flickered as he readjusted, a new trace appeared.
Kennedy waited for a while, then: "Robert Kennedy. Sentiment, Inc.
Robert Kennedy. Sentiment, Inc. Robert Kennedy. Sentiment--"
He turned off the machine, its murmur and glow died away. Facing Fraser
with a tight little smile, he said: "All right. Your job is done. Are we
even now?"
"As even, as we'll ever get, I suppose," said Fraser.
"I wish you'd trust me," said Kennedy with a hint of wistfulness. "I'd
have done the job honestly; you didn't have to watch."
"Well, I was interested," said Fraser.
"Frankly, I still don't see what you stand to gain by the doglike
devotion of this Ferris. He's rich, but he's too weak and short-sighted
to be a leader. I'd never planned on conditioning him for my purposes."
"I've explained that," said Fraser patiently. "Ferris is a large
stockholder in a number of corporations. His influence can swing a lot
of business my way."
"Yes, I know. I didn't grant your wish blindly, you realize. I had
Ferris studied; he's unable to harm me." Kennedy regarded Fraser with
hard eyes. "And just in case you still have foolish notions, please
remember that I gave him the father-conditioning with respect to myself.
He'll do a lot for you, but not if it's going to hurt me in any way."
"I know when I'm licked," said Fraser bleakly; "I'm getting out of town
as soon as I finish those courses I'm signed up for."