Burris said: "Well, then," and paused. After a second he started again:
"Now, Dr. O'Connor, would you please give us a sort of verbal run-down
on this for our records?"
"Of course," Dr. O'Connor said. He smiled into the video cameras and
cleared his throat. "I take it you don't want an explanation of how
this machine works. I mean: you don't want a technical exposition, do
you?"
"No," Burris said, and added: "Not by any means. Just tell us what it
does."
* * * * *
Dr. O'Connor suddenly reminded Malone of a professor he'd had in college
for one of the law courses. He had, Malone thought, the same smiling
gravity of demeanor, the same condescending attitude of absolute
authority. It was clear that Dr. O'Connor lived in a world of his own, a
world that was not even touched by the common run of men.
"Well," he began, "to put it very simply, the device indicates whether
or not a man's mental ... ah ... processes are being influenced by
outside ... by outside influences." He gave the cameras another little
smile. "If you will allow me, I will demonstrate on the machine itself."
He took two steps that carried him out of camera range, and returned
wheeling a large heavy-looking box. Dangling from the metal covering
were a number of wires and attachments. A long cord led from the box to
the floor, and snaked out of sight to the left.
"Now," Dr. O'Connor said. He selected a single lead, apparently, Malone
thought, at random. "This electrode--"
"Just a moment, doctor," Burris said. He was eying the machine with a
combination of suspicion and awe. "A while back you mentioned something
about 'outside influences.' Just what, specifically, does that mean?"
With some regret, Dr. O'Connor dropped the lead. "Telepathy," he said.
"By outside influences, I meant influences on the mind, such as
telepathy or mind reading of some nature."
"I see," Burris said. "You can detect a telepath with this machine."
"I'm afraid--"
"Well, some kind of a mind reader anyhow," Burris said. "We won't
quarrel about terms."
"Certainly not," Dr. O'Connor said. The smile he turned on Burris was as
cold and empty as the inside of Orbital Station One. "What I meant was
... if you will permit me to continue ... that we cannot detect any sort
of telepath or mind reader with this device. To be frank, I very much
wish that we could; it would make everything a great deal simpler.
However, the laws of psionics don't seem to operate that way."
"Well, then," Burris said, "what does the thing do?" His face wore a
mask of confusion. Momentarily, Malone felt sorry for his chief. He
could remember how he'd felt, himself, when that law professor had come
up with a particularly baffling question in class.
"This machine," Dr. O'Connor said with authority, "detects the slight
variations in mental activity that occur when a person's mind is _being_
read."
"You mean, if my mind were being read right now--"
"Not right now," Dr. O'Connor said. "You see, the bulk of this machine
is in Nevada; the structure is both too heavy and too delicate for
transport. And there are other qualifications--"
"I meant theoretically," Burris said.
"Theoretically," Dr. O'Connor began, and smiled again, "if your mind
were being read, this machine would detect it, supposing that the
machine were in operating condition and all of the other qualifications
had been met. You see, Mr. Burris, no matter how poor a telepath a man
may be, he has some slight ability--even if only very slight--to detect
the fact that his mind is being read."
"You mean, if somebody were reading my mind, I'd know it?" Burris said.
His face showed, Malone realized, that he plainly disbelieved this
statement.
"You would know it," Dr. O'Connor said, "but you would never know you
knew it. To elucidate: in a normal person--like you, for instance, or
even like myself--the state of having one's mind read merely results in
a vague, almost subconscious feeling of irritation, something that could
easily be attributed to minor worries, or fluctuations in one's hormonal
balance. The hormonal balance, Mr. Burris, is--"
"Thank you," Burris said with a trace of irritation. "I know what
hormones are."
"Ah. Good," Dr. O'Connor said equably. "In any case, to continue: this
machine interprets those specific feelings as indications that the mind
is being ... ah ... 'eavesdropped' upon."
You could almost see the quotation marks around what Dr. O'Connor
considered slang dropping into place, Malone thought.
* * * * *
"I see," Burris said with a disappointed air. "But what do you mean, it
won't detect a telepath? Have you ever actually worked with a telepath?"
"Certainly we have," Dr. O'Connor said. "If we hadn't, how would we be
able to tell that the machine was, in fact, indicating the presence of
telepathy? The theoretical state of the art is not, at present,
sufficiently developed to enable us to--"
"I see," Burris said hurriedly. "Only wait a minute."
"Yes?"
"You mean you've actually got a real mind reader? You've found one? One
that works?"
Dr. O'Connor shook his head sadly. "I'm afraid I should have said, Mr.
Burris, that we did once have one," he admitted. "He was, unfortunately,
an imbecile, with a mental age between five and six, as nearly as we
were able to judge."
"An imbecile?" Burris said. "But how were you able to--"
"He could repeat a person's thoughts word for word," Dr. O'Connor said.
"Of course, he was utterly incapable of understanding the meaning behind
them. That didn't matter; he simply repeated whatever you were
thinking. Rather disconcerting."
"I'm sure," Burris said. "But he was really an imbecile? There wasn't
any chance of--"
"Of curing him?" Dr. O'Connor said. "None, I'm afraid. We did at one
time feel that there had been a mental breakdown early in the boy's
life, and, indeed, it's perfectly possible that he was normal for the
first year or so. The records we did manage to get on that period,
however, were very much confused, and there was never any way of telling
anything at all, for certain. It's easy to see what caused the
confusion, of course: telepathy in an imbecile is rather an oddity--and
any normal adult would probably be rather hesitant about admitting that
he was capable of it. That's why we have not found another subject; we
must merely sit back and wait for lightning to strike."
Burris sighed. "I see your problem," he said. "But what happened to this
imbecile boy of yours?"
"Very sad," Dr. O'Connor said. "Six months ago, at the age of fifteen,
the boy simply died. He simply--gave up, and died."
"Gave up?"
"That was as good an explanation as our medical department was able to
provide, Mr. Burris. There was some malfunction, but--we like to say
that he simply gave up. Living became too difficult for him."
"All right," Burris said after a pause. "This telepath of yours is dead,
and there aren't any more where he came from. Or if there are, you don't
know how to look for them. All right. But to get back to this machine of
yours: it couldn't detect the boy's ability?"
Dr. O'Connor shook his head. "No, I'm afraid not. We've worked hard on
that problem at Westinghouse, Mr. Burris, but we haven't yet been able
to find a method of actually detecting telepaths."
"But you can detect--"
"That's right," Dr. O'Connor said. "We can detect the fact that a man's
mind is being read." He stopped, and his face became suddenly morose.
When he spoke again, he sounded guilty, as if he were making an
admission that pained him. "Of course, Mr. Burris, there's nothing we
can _do_ about a man's mind being read. Nothing whatever." He essayed a
grin that didn't look very healthy. "But at least," he said, "you know
you're being spied on."
Burris grimaced. There was a little silence while Dr. O'Connor stroked
the metal box meditatively, as if it were the head of his beloved.