For a third time their exchange of conversation had come back to the
same question. He had the maddening sensation of following a robot that
was walking in a huge endless circle and always treading on precisely
the same blades of grass as it retraced its path.
With the hopeless conviction that he would not get any further this
time, he asked the question again: "But how can you lack consciousness,
and at the same time _know_ that you lack consciousness? If your
mind is blank, you cannot at the same time be aware that your mind is
blank."
The hands of his watch were creeping toward three in the morning. The
chill of night's lowest ebb pervaded the dingy hotel room. Tansy sat
stiffly, wearing his bathrobe and big fleece-lined slippers, with
a blanket over her knees and a bath towel wrapped around her head.
They should have made her look child-like and perhaps even artlessly
attractive. They did not. If you were to unwind the towel you would
find the top of the skull sawed off and the brains removed, an empty
bowl--that was the illusion Norman experienced every time he made the
mistake of looking into her eyes.
The pale lips opened. "I know nothing. I only speak. They have taken
away my soul. But my voice is a function of my body."
You could not even say that the voice was patiently explanatory. It
was too utterly empty and colorless even for that. The words, clearly
enunciated and evenly spaced, all sounded alike. They came with the
regular beat of a machine.
The last thing he wanted to do was hammer questions at that stiff
pitiful figure, but at all costs he must awaken some spark of feeling
in the masklike face; he must find some intelligible starting point
before his own mind could begin to work effectually.
"But, Tansy, if you can talk about the present situation, you must be
aware of it. You're here in this room with me!"
The toweled head shook once, like that of a mechanical doll.
"Nothing is here with you but a body. 'I' is not here."
His mind automatically corrected "is" to "am" before he realized that
there had been no grammatical error and shuddered at the implications
of the trifling change in a tiny verb.
"You mean," he asked, "that you can see or hear nothing? That there is
just a blackness?"
Again that simple mechanical headshake, which carried more absolute
conviction than the most heated protestations.
"My body sees and hears perfectly. It has suffered no injury. It can
function in all particulars. But there is nothing inside. There is not
even a blackness."
His tired, fumbling mind jumped to the subject of behavioristic
psychology and its fundamental assertion that human reactions can be
explained completely and satisfactorily without once referring to
consciousness--that it need not even be assumed that consciousness
exists. Here was the perfect proof. And yet not so perfect, for the
behavior of this body lacked every one of those little mannerisms whose
sum is personality. The way Tansy used to squint and twist one little
finger around another when thinking through a difficult question. The
familiar quirk at the corners of her mouth when she felt flattered or
slyly amused. All gone. Even the quick triple headshake he knew so
well, with the slight bunny-rabbit wrinkling of the little nose, had
become that robot's "No."
The sensory organs still responded to stimuli. They sent nerve impulses
to the hindbrain or midbrain--or cortex--where they traveled about and
gave rise to efferent impulses which activated glands and muscles,
including the motor organs of speech. But that was all. None of those
intangible flurries we call consciousness hovered around the webwork of
nervous activity in the cortex. What had imparted _style_--Tansy's
style, like no one else's--to every movement and utterance of the body,
was gone. There was left only a physiological organism, without sign
or indication of personality. Not even a mad or an idiot soul--yes!
why not use that old term now that it had an obvious specific
meaning?--peered from the gray-green eyes which winked at intervals
with machinelike regularity, but only to lubricate the cornea, nothing
more.
He felt a grim sort of relief go through him, now that he had been
able to picture it in definite terms. But the picture itself--his mind
veered to the memory of a newspaper story about an old man who had kept
locked in his bedroom for years the body of a young woman whom he loved
and who had died of an incurable disease. He had maintained the body in
a miraculous state of preservation by wax and other means they said,
had talked to it every night and morning, had been convinced that he
would some day reanimate it completely--until they found out and took
him away, and buried it. Had that body--
* * * * *
"Tansy," he was asking, "when your soul went, why didn't you die?"
"Usually the soul lingers to the end, unable to escape, and vanishes
or dies when the body dies," the voice answered, its words as evenly
spaced as if timed to a metronome. "But He Who Walks Behind was tearing
at mine. There was the weight of green water against my face. I knew it
was midnight. I knew that you had failed. In that moment of despair,
He Who Walks Behind was able to draw forth my soul. In the same moment
Your Agent's arms were about me, lifting me toward the air. My soul was
close enough to know what had happened, yet not close enough to return.
Its doubled anguish was the last memory it imprinted on my brain. Your
Agent and He Who Walks Behind concluded that each had obtained the
thing he had been sent for, and so there was no struggle between them."
The picture created in his mind was so shockingly vivid that it seemed
incredible that it could have been produced by the words of a mere
physiological machine. And yet only a physiological machine could have
told the story with such total restraint.
"Is there nothing that _touches_ you?" he asked abruptly in a loud
voice, gripped by an intolerable spasm of anguish at the emptiness of
her eyes. "Haven't you a single emotion left?"
"Yes. One." This time it was not a robot's headshake but a robot's nod.
For the first time there was a stir of feeling, a hint of motivation.
The tip of a pallid tongue licked hungrily around the pale lips. "I
want my soul."
He caught his breath. Now that he had succeeded in awakening a feeling
in her, he hated it. There was something so animal about it, so like
some light-sensitive marine worm blindly yet greedily wriggling toward
the sunlight.
"I want my soul," the voice repeated mechanically, tearing at his
emotions more than any plaintive or whining accents could have done.
"At the last moment, although it could not return, my soul implanted
that one emotion in me. It knew what awaited it. It knew there are
things that can be done to a soul. It was very much afraid."
He ground the words out between his teeth. "Where do you think your
soul is?"
"She has it. The woman with the little black eyes."
"Evelyn Sawtelle?" He was remembering a phone call.
"Yes. But it is not wise to speak of her by name."
His hand shot out for the phone. At that moment he had to do something
definite, or lose control of himself completely. For too long he had
sat impotently by, watching the ghostly and harrowing drama unfold. Now
he had to strike out.
After a time he roused the night clerk and got the local operator.
"Yes, sir," came the singsong voice. "Hempnell 1284. You wish to make a
person-to-person call to Evelyn Sawtelle--E-V-E-L-Y-N S-A-W-T-E-L-L-E,
sir?... Will you please hang up and wait? It will take considerable
time to make a connection."
"I want my soul. I want to go to that woman. I want to go to Hempnell."
Now that he had touched off the blind hunger in her, it persisted. He
was reminded of a phonograph needle caught in the same groove, or a
mechanical toy turned on to a new track by a little push.
"We'll go there all right." It was still hard for him to control his
breathing. "We'll get it back."
"But I must start for Hempnell soon. My clothes were ruined by the
water. I must have the maid clean and press them."
With a slow, even movement she got to her feet and started toward the
phone.
"But, Tansy," he objected involuntarily. "It's three in the morning.
You can't get a maid now."
"But my clothes must be cleaned and pressed. I must start for Hempnell
soon."
The words might have been those of an obstinate woman, sulky and
selfish. But they had less tone that a sleepwalker's.
She kept on toward the phone. Although he did not anticipate that he
would do it, he shrank out of her way, pressing close against the side
of the bed.
"But even if there is a maid," he said, "she won't come at this hour."
The pallid face turned toward him incuriously. "The maid will be a
woman." It was a little while before he got the implication of the
words. "She will come when she hears me."
Then she was talking to the night clerk. "Is there a maid in the
hotel?... Send her to my room.... Then ring her.... I cannot wait until
morning.... I need her at once.... I cannot tell you the reason....
Thank you."
Norman was thinking: How can a physiological machine conceive and carry
out even such a simple plan? Yet how could a conscious human being do
it with such utter listlessness? Same paradox. He wondered if he ought
to stop her. But an idea was growing in his mind.
There was a long wait, while he heard faintly the repeated ringing at
the other end of the line. He could imagine the sleepy, surly voice
that finally answered.
"Is this the maid?... Come at once to Room 37." He could almost catch
the indignant answer. Then--"Can't you hear my voice? Don't you realize
who is speaking?... Yes.... Come at once." And she replaced the phone
in its cradle.
"Tansy--" he began. Then his eyes met hers, and once again he found
himself asking a halting prefatory question, although he had not
intended to. "You are able to hear and answer my questions?"
"I can answer questions. I have been answering questions for three
hours." The lack of expression only made the irony more complete.
* * * * *
But--logic prompted wearily--if she can remember what has been
happening these last three hours, then surely--And yet, what is memory
but a track worn in the nervous system? In order to explain memory you
don't need to bring in consciousness. Quit banging your head against
that stone wall, you fool!--came another inward prompting. You've
looked in her eyes, haven't you? Well, then, get on with it!
"Tansy, is that woman coming here because she's ... well, the same as
you were?"
"Yes. But since you are present she will not speak of it."
"But if I weren't here--or if I hid myself?"
"She might respond to questioning." The hungry subanimal expression
came back, and the tip of the tongue appeared between the lips. "If I
make her speak ... if I make you believe--will we go back to Hempnell
very quickly? Will you help me?"
"Yes." Of course he would. He wouldn't do anything else. But what good
to say all that to a blank physiological machine beyond the reach of
comfort? Besides, the maid should soon be here, and an unwholesome
curiosity was eating at him.
"I'll leave the closet door just a little ajar," he said. "She probably
won't notice. See?"
There were footsteps in the hall. The robot nod was his only answer.
"You wanted me, mum?" Contrary to his expectations, the voice was
young, but very low. It sounded as if she had swallowed as she spoke.
"Yes. I want you to clean and press some things of mine. They're
hanging on the edge of the bathtub. Go and get them."
The maid came into his line of vision, then. She would be very heavy in
a few years, he thought, but she was handsome now, though puffed with
sleep. She had hastily pulled on a dull-black dress, but her feet were
in slippers and her hair was snarly.
"Be careful with the dress. It's wool," came Tansy's voice, sounding
just as toneless as when it had been directed at him. "And I want them
promptly at nine o'clock."
Norman half expected to hear an objection to this unreasonable request,
but there was none. The girl walked rapidly out of the bathroom, the
damp clothes hurriedly slung over one arm, as if her one object were to
get away before she was spoken to again.
"Wait a moment, girl. I want to ask you a question." The voice was
somewhat louder this time. That was the only change whatsoever, but it
had a startling effect of command.
The girl hesitated, then swung around unwillingly, and Norman got a
good look at her face. He could not see Tansy--the closet door just cut
her off--but he could see the fear come to the surface of the girl's
face as she turned, see the sleep-creased cheek pale.
"Yes, mum?" she managed.
There was a considerable pause. He could tell from the way the girl
shrank, hugging the damp clothes tight to her body, that Tansy had
lifted her eyes and was looking at her.
Finally: "You know The Easy Way to Do Things? The Ways to Get and
Guard?"
Norman could have sworn that the girl gave a guilty start at that
second phrase. But she only shook her head quickly, and mumbled, "No,
mum. I ... I don't know what you're talking about."
"You mean you have never learned How to Make Wishes Work? You don't
conjure, or spell, or hex? You don't know the Art?"
This time the "No" was almost inaudible. The girl was trying to look
away, but failing.
"I think you are lying."
You could put any construction on those toneless words. The girl
twisted, hands tightly clutching her overlapping arms. He wanted to go
out and stop it, but curiosity held him rigid.