"Forget it. What's the story?"
"We want you to go back where we can run some tests, this time as
comprehensive as we can arrange."
I couldn't see why what we'd done wouldn't be enough. "Don't tell me
you have more than the Bomb up your sleeve."
No, it wasn't like that. "There aren't more than four or six that know
anything but that the Bomb was set off prematurely because of motor
failure on the drone. The general knowledge is that it was just
another test in routine fashion. But, as I said, there are a few that
know the truth. They think it desirable that you be examined
scientifically, and completely."
"Why?" I felt ornery.
He knew it, and showed a little impatience. "Use your head, Peter. You
know better than that. We know you're unique. We want to know why, and
perhaps how, perhaps, your ability can be duplicated."
That appealed to me. "And if you can find out what makes me tick I can
go back to living like myself again?" I took his silence for assent. I
had to. "Good. What do I do, and when?"
He shrugged. "Nothing, yet. You'll go to ... well, let's call it
college. It shouldn't take too long. A week, maybe, maybe two, or
four, at the most."
"Then what?"
He didn't know. We'd talk about that later. Okay with me. If a doctor
could find out how I was whistling chords, all well and good. If
not--could I be any worse off?
"Then it's settled. We'll leave today, if it can be arranged, and I
feel sure it can. Robert--" to Stein--"if you'll come with me we'll
try to make the necessary arrangements." Stein left, and Smith left,
and I got up and looked into the mirror. I needed a shave again.
* * * * *
My college didn't have a laboratory worth counting when I went to
school. We'd had a stadium, and a losing football team instead. Now
the balding, bearded physicists sat in the front row when the
appropriations were spooned out. I suppose that's all for the better.
I really wouldn't know. The old fellow that met us at the front door
looked like an airedale, and like an airedale he sniffed all around me
before getting into combat range.
"So you're Peter Miller!"
"That's my name," I admitted. I wondered what all the dials and the
gadgets were for. It looked to me like the front end of one of these
computers I used to see in the magazines.
"I'm Kellner. You must be Stein, right? Never mind your coats. Just
follow me," and off he trotted, and we trailed him into a bare office
with what looked like the equipment of a spendthrift dentist.
"You sit here," and he waved at a straightbacked chair. I sat down,
Stein shifted nervously from one foot to the other, and in a moment
Kellner came back with a dozen others. He didn't bother to introduce
any of them. They all stood off and gaped at who'd killed Cock Robin.
Kellner broke the silence. "Physical first?" There was a general nod.
"Physical, psychological, then--we'll come to that later." To Stein:
"Want to come along? Rather wait here? This is going to take some
time, you know."
Stein knew that. He also wanted to come along. Those were his orders.
I felt self-conscious taking off my clothes in front of that ghoulish
crew. The sheet they left me kept off no drafts, and I felt like a
corpse ready for the embalmer, and likely appeared one. Stethoscope, a
scale for my weight, a tape for my arm and the blood pressure, lights
that blinked in my eyes and bells that rang in my ear ... when they
were finished with me I felt like a used Tinker-Toy.
"Do I pass? Will I live?"
Kellner didn't like juvenile humor. He turned me over to another
group who, so help me, brought out a box of children's blocks to put
together, timing me with a stopwatch. They used the same stopwatch to
time how long it took me to come up with answers to some of the
silliest questions I ever heard outside of a nursery. Now I know why
they label well the patients in an insane asylum. The man with the
watch galloped off and came back with Kellner and they all stood
around muttering. The sheet and I were sticking to the chair.
"Kellner. Doctor Kellner!" They didn't like me to break up the
kaffeeklatch. "Can I go now? Are you all through?"
"All through?" The airedale changed to a cackling Rhode Island Red.
"Joseph, you are just beginning."
"My name isn't Joseph, Dr. Kellner. It's Miller. Peter Ambrose
Miller."
"Excuse me, Peter," and he cackled again. "Nevertheless, you're going
to be here quite awhile."
Peter, hey? No more, Mr. Miller. Pete to my wife, Peter to my mother,
and Peter to every school teacher I ever had.
* * * * *
They conferred awhile longer and the party broke up. Kellner and a
gawkish Great Dane led me sheet and all to what I thought would be the
operating room. It looked like one. I found a chair all by myself this
time, and watched them hook up an electric fan. They were hipped on
fans, I thought.
Kellner trotted over. "Stop that fan." Not, please stop that fan.
Just, stop that fan.