Dagger of the Mind
Tom Dodd took command and gave orders crisply. "Help get him into the
car. Here, into the back seat."
The agent got in after the scientist while the boys got into the
front. "Scotty, start driving. We have to shake off any tail that
picks us up. Try to find a stretch where there isn't much traffic."
Scotty swung the sedan into the traffic stream while Rick joined Tom
Dodd in watching behind them. A few minutes later Scotty slipped into
an alley and stepped on the gas. At the end of the alley he turned the
wrong way down a one-way street, found another alley, and slipped into
it. He emerged under a railroad trestle and moved into the stream of
traffic once more. Watching carefully, he moved with the traffic until
he saw an opportunity to cross a main thoroughfare as the light
changed from yellow to red.
Theirs was the last car through the intersection, Rick saw, before
traffic started through the cross street. Scotty took another turn,
doubled back, and went through another alley. As he emerged onto a
street where traffic was sparse, he slowed.
"That should do it," Tom Dodd said. "Nice work."
"How is he?" Rick asked anxiously.
"Just like the others," Tom said flatly. "Listen, boys. Our Newark
agent is in Whiteside. I don't think it's wise to take Marks to
Spindrift in this condition, but I don't want to take him far, either.
Have you any contacts here?"
Rick tried to remember. His father had associates in Newark, he was
sure, including a doctor or two. But he couldn't remember their names.
"I could call home," he suggested. "Dad will have some ideas."
Dodd considered. "You couldn't use the scrambler from here. Could you
tip your father off without giving information to anyone who happened
to be listening on the wire?"
Rick thought he could.
"Okay." Dodd motioned to a restaurant. "There's a phone in there. I
can see the booth through the window. Hop to it."
Rick hurried into the restaurant. The full horror of what had happened
to Dr. Marks was just having its effect. He found himself shivering as
though with a severe chill. Marks was the victim of something ghastly.
He seemed to be trying to make sense, as though there was still a
glimmer of intelligence behind the blank stare. But his words were
disconnected, completely unintelligible.
Barby answered the phone, caught the urgency in Rick's voice, and
yelled for their father. Hartson Brant came hurriedly.
"What is it, Rick?"
"Guarded language," Rick said urgently. "Dad, don't you have a
professional friend in Newark? The teletype machine just went haywire
for the third time and I need help."
Hartson Brant muttered, "Good Lord! Yes, Rick. I have a mechanic
friend who is ideally suited for the purpose. Constantine Chavez. Look
him up in the professional part of the phone directory. I'll phone him
and say you're bringing the machine."
"Good, Dad. I'll come home as soon as possible. Better phone the man
who runs the machines and give him the information."
"All right. Be careful."
Rick disconnected and looked up the name under the listing of
physicians. Back in the car, he cast a quick look at Dr. Marks. The
scientist was sitting quietly, staring straight ahead. He wasn't
talking, and Rick was glad. He didn't know how much of the gibberish
he could take. It was weird and horrifying, particularly since Marks
had been so crisp and terse--even though sometimes unpleasant--in his
speech.
Dr. Chavez was watching for them through his window and hurried out to
meet the car. He was a tall, slender man with handsome features that
showed his Spanish ancestry.
"You must be Rick," he said, shaking hands. "You look very much like
your father. He phoned to say you were bringing a damaged machine, but
I also gathered he was merely being cautious about something he didn't
care to discuss on the phone."
"That's right, Doctor," Rick said. He introduced Tom Dodd and Scotty,
failing to mention that Dodd was a government agent. Then he pointed
to Dr. Marks in the back seat.
"There's your patient, sir."
"Bring him into the house," Dr. Chavez directed. "I assume from his
appearance that the trouble is mental and not physical?"
"Exactly," Dodd said.
Inside the house they found one room outfitted as a home office. "I
have an office downtown," the doctor explained, "but I also use this
one a few afternoons a week. Now, who can tell me about this?" His
eyes were on Marks, and as he talked, he reached for the scientist's
wrist.
Tom Dodd explained carefully, "He was suddenly stricken. We were with
him. We don't know what happened, except that he made sense one
minute, but talked only garbled words the next."
Chavez took an otoscope, an instrument used to examine eyes, ears,
nose, and throat, and switched on the tiny light. He flicked it into
Marks' eyes and watched the behavior of the pupils. Then he listened
with a stethoscope. A little rubber hammer came out next and was
applied to the reflexes of the stricken scientist. The reflexes looked
normal to Rick.
Dr. Marks suddenly looked up and began spouting gibberish. Rick
winced.
Chavez listened gravely, apparently not at all disturbed. The flow of
meaningless words ceased and Rick sighed with relief. He saw that
Scotty had been equally affected.
"What is your specialty, Doctor?" Dodd asked.
"I'm a neurologist."
That was good, Rick thought. A neurologist was exactly what Marks
seemed to need.
"Do you make anything of this?" Dodd asked.
The doctor shook his head. "Nothing. I've never seen a case like it.
I've never even heard of one. In fact, I know of only one analogue,
and it's an electronic one. Do you know how computers work? The big
electronic brains?"
The three nodded.
"Then you will understand. I have worked with computers, and now and
then one of them suddenly starts turning out gibberish for no apparent
reason. A check of the circuits may show that everything is
functionally normal. Yet, the gibberish continues. Often it clears up,
with no more reason than it started. Sometimes this happens when the
machine is cold, before it is properly warmed up. At other times, it
happens when the machine is tired."
"Tired?" Dodd looked his disbelief. "Machines don't get tired. Not in
those terms."
Chavez smiled. "Perhaps not. Yet, to those who work with them, it does
sometimes appear that the machine is tired. There is really no other
expression for it."
Rick knew something of this through his association with Dr. Parnell
Winston of the Spindrift staff. Winston was an expert in the new
science of cybernetics, which is defined as the science of
communications and control mechanisms in both living beings and
machines.
"Parnell Winston would know," Rick said.
"He most certainly would," Chavez agreed. "Are you aware that he and I
have worked together? My interest was in the biological portion of the
project. His was in the electronic. Of course we worked as a team with
other specialists."
"Under whose auspices?" Dodd asked quickly.
"Let us be candid," Chavez invited. "Obviously, this is not an
ordinary case. The guarded language Hartson Brant used was indication
enough of that. Rick Brant I identify because of his resemblance to my
friend, and I think I identify Don Scott, of whom I have heard a great
deal from Hartson. But who are you, Mr. Dodd?"
For answer, Tom Dodd took out his identification folder and handed it
to the physician.
Chavez studied it. "I know your organization, Mr. Dodd. But what is of
greater importance for the moment, your organization knows me. I
suspect it was for that reason Hartson Brant selected me for you to
consult." He gestured to the phone. "You will want to call your
office. My records are in New York."
Dodd's face expressed his relief. "I was a little nervous," he
admitted. "It was a choice between possibly risking further damage to
Marks or taking a chance on someone based only on a recommendation
from Dr. Brant. I'm glad you're in the clear."
He went to the phone and called New York. In a moment he said, "Dodd
here. Check on Dr. Constantine Chavez." He held the phone for perhaps
half a minute, then said, "Roger. That does it."
He held out his hand to the neurologist. "Glad to know you, Doctor.
Can you take over?"
"Not only can I take over, you would have trouble getting rid of me.
This man is obviously hurt in a way that is strange to me, and I
assure you, my experience with damaged minds is considerable. He may
be somewhat under the influence of a drug--I will check more
thoroughly--but that is not the cause. If I may make a quick and
highly tentative guess, this mind is suffering from some kind of
trauma induced from an outside source."
"You mean it's not a disease?" Rick asked quickly.
"Precisely. I know of no disease that would behave like this. I can't
even imagine a disease with these symptoms."
"How can you be sure?" Scotty pressed.
"Obviously I can't at this stage of investigation. But you must
recognize that a physician develops a rather definite feeling for
injury after years of experience. My own experience tells me that
mental damage of this scope is almost always accompanied by other
symptoms when it is the product of a disease. No, I cannot credit the
idea of a pathogenic organism too seriously. It is as though some
outside agent pierced the cranium and cut off the control centers of
the brain."
"A dagger of the mind," Scotty murmured.
Chavez looked up sharply. "Yes! An ideal phrase for it."
Rick recognized the quotation from his school-work. _Macbeth_, Act II.
Another of Shakespeare's phrases from the same work leaped into his
mind. "Macbeth hath murdered sleep." Not Macbeth, but Marks. Rick knew
he wouldn't sleep well that night, nor for many nights to come.
Dagger of the mind! Well, it fitted. Watching the blank face of what
had been, only hours before, a brilliant scientist, Rick could feel
its deadly point himself.