"What would the world be like without the flotation process?"
"The metals industry would be vastly different, of course. Copper would
be much scarcer and higher priced. Gold--"
"A ton of ore and maybe a pound of recovered metal, right?" said
Fenwick. "Move a mountain of waste to get anything of value. Crush
millions of tons of rock and float out the pinpoint particles of metal
on bubbles of froth."
"That's a rough description of what happens."
"You've heard of high-grading."
"Of course. A somewhat colloquial term used in mining."
"The high-grader takes a pick and digs for anything big enough to see
and pick up with his hands. He doesn't worry about the small stuff that
takes sweat and machinery to recover."
"I suppose so. I fail to see the significance--"
"You're high-grading, Bill," said Fenwick. He leaned across the desk and
spoke with bitter intensity. "You're high-grading and you should be
using a flotation process."
Fenwick slowly drew back in his chair. Baker felt overwhelmed by the
sudden intensity he had never before seen displayed in John Fenwick. Any
reaction on his part seemed suddenly inadequate. "I fail to see any
connection--," he said finally.
Fenwick looked at him steadily. "Human creativeness can be mined only by
flotation methods. It's in low-grade ore. Process a million stupid
notions and find a pin point of genius. Turn over enormous wastes of
human thought and recover a golden principle. But turn your back on
these mountains of low-grade material and you shut out the wealth of
creative thought that is buried in them. More than that, by high-grading
only where rich veins have appeared in the past, you're mining lodes
that have played out."
"An ingenious analogy," said Baker, recovering with a smile now. "But
it's hardly an accurate or applicable one. The human mind is not a piece
of precious metal found in a mountain of ore. Rather, it's an intricate
device capable of producing computations of unbelievable complexity. And
we know how such devices that are superior in function are produced, and
we know what their characteristics are. We also know that such a device
does not 'play out'. If it is superior in function, it can remain so for
a long time."
"High-grading," said Fenwick. "And the vein is played out. You'll never
find the thing you're looking for until you develop means of processing
low-grade material."
* * * * *
Baker watched Fenwick across the desk. He was weary of the whole thing.
He certainly had no need to prove himself to this man. He had simply
tried to do Fenwick a favor, and Fenwick had thrown it right back in his
face. Yet there was a temptation to go on, to prove to Fenwick the
difference between their two worlds. Fenwick belonged to a world
compounded of inevitable failure. The temptation to show him, to try
again to lift him out of it was born of a kind of pity for Fenwick.
Baker's own life had arrowed decisively, without waver, to a goal that
was as correct as the tolerances of human error could make it. He often
permitted himself the pride of considering his mind somewhat as a
computer that had been programmed through a magnificent gene inheritance
to drive irresistibly toward the precise goals he had reached. But
Fenwick--Fenwick was still fumbling around in a morass of uncertainty.
After years of erratic starts and stops he was now confusedly trying to
make something out of that miserable little institution called
Clearwater College.
It wasn't particularly friendship that urged Baker to show Fenwick.
Their friendship was of a breed that Baker had never quite been able to
define to his own satisfaction. It seemed to him there was a sort of
deadly fascination in associating with a man who walked so blindly, who
was so profoundly incapable of understanding his own blindness and
peril.
"I'm going to show you," Baker said abruptly, "exactly what it would
mean if we were to do as you suggest. I'll show you what it would be
like to give attention to every halfwit and crackpot that comes begging
for a handout." He switched the intercom and spoke into it. "Doris,
please bring in the Ellerbee file. Yes--the crackpot section."
He switched off. "Doris has her own quaint but quite accurate way of
cataloguing our various applications," he explained.
In a moment the secretary entered and placed the file on the desk.
"There's a new letter in there," she said. "Dr. Pehrson initialed it. He
said you didn't want to be bothered any more with this case."
"That's right."
Baker opened the file and shoved it toward Fenwick. "This boy has a
gadget he wants us to look at. Doesn't really need any money, he says.
That's the kind we really have to be on guard against. If we looked at
his wonder gadget, we'd be pestered for a million-dollar handout for
years to come."
"What's he got?" Fenwick asked.
"Some kind of communication device, he says. He claims it's nothing but
a grown crystal which you hold in your hand and talk to anybody anywhere
on Earth."
"Sounds like it wouldn't take much to find out whether he's got anything
or not. Just let him put on a five-minute demonstration."
"But multiply that five minutes by a thousand, by ten thousand. And once
you let them get their teeth into you, it doesn't stop with five
minutes. It goes on into reams of letters and years of time. No, you
have to stop this kind of thing before it ever starts. But take a look
at some of this material in the file and you'll see what I mean."
Fenwick picked up the top letter as Baker pushed the file toward him.
"He starts this one by saying, 'Dear Urban.' Is that what he calls you?
What does he mean?"
"Who knows? He's a crackpot, I told you. Who cares what he means,
anyway. We've got far more important things to worry about."
Fenwick scanned the letter a moment, then looked up, a faint smile on
his face. "I know what he means. Urban--Pope Urban--was the one
responsible for the persecutions of Galileo."
Baker shrugged embarrassedly. "I told you he was a crackpot. Delusions
of grandeur and of persecution are typical."
"This boy may not be as crazy as he sounds. You're giving him a pretty
good imitation of a Galileo treatment--won't even look at his device. He
says here that 'Since you have previously refused to examine my device
and have questioned my reliability as an observer, I have obtained the
services of three unbiased witnesses, whose affidavits, signed and
notarized, are attached. These men are the Fire Chief, the Chief of
Police, and the Community Church Pastor of Redrock, all of whom testify
that they did see my device in full operation this past week. I trust
that this evidence will persuade you that an investigation should be
made of my device. I fail to see how the bull-headedness and
cocksureness of your office can withstand any more of the evidence I
have to offer in support of my claims.'"
"A typical crackpot letter," said Baker. "He tries to be reasonable, but
his colors are soon shown when he breaks down into vituperative language
like a frustrated child."
Fenwick thumbed through the large pile of correspondence. "I'd say
anybody would likely blow his stack a good deal harder than this if he'd
been trying to get your attention this long. Why didn't he ever send you
one of his gadgets in the mail?"
"Oh, he did," said Baker. "That was one of the first things he did."
"What did you do?"
"Sent it back. We always return these things by registered return mail."
"Without even trying it out?"
"Of course."
"Bill, that isn't even reasonable. These earlier letters of his describe
the growing of these crystals. He tells exactly how he does it. He knows
what he's talking about. I'd like to see him and see his crystal."
"That's what I was hoping you'd say! All we have to do is get Doris to
give him a call and he'll be here first thing in the morning. You can be
our official investigator. You can see what it's like dealing with a
crackpot!"
* * * * *
James Ellerbee was a slim man, impetuous and energetic. Fenwick liked
him on sight. He was not a technical man; he was a farmer. But he was an
educated farmer. He had a degree from the State Agricultural College. He
dabbled in amateur radio and electronics as a hobby.
"I'm certainly glad someone is finally willing to give me a break and
take a look at my device," he said as he shook Fenwick's hand. "I've had
nothing but a runaround from this office for the past eight months. Yet,
according to all the publicity, this is where the nation's scientific
progress is evaluated."
Fenwick felt like a hypocrite. "We get pretty overloaded," he said
lamely.
They were in Baker's office. Baker watched smugly from behind his desk.
Ellerbee said, "Well, we might as well get started. All you have to do,
Mr. Fenwick, is hold one of these crystal cubes in your hand. I'll go in
the other office and close the door. It may help at first if you close
your eyes, but this is not really necessary."
"Wait," said Fenwick. Somehow he wanted to get away from Baker while
this was going on. "I'd like to take it outside, somewhere in the open.
Would that be all right?"
"Sure. Makes no difference where you try it," said Ellerbee. "One place
is as good as another."
Baker waved a hand as they went out. "Good luck," he said. He smiled
confidently at Fenwick.
As far as Fenwick could see, the crystal was not even potted or cased in
any way. The raw crystal lay in his hand. The striations of the
multitude of layers in which it was laid down were plainly visible.
Ellerbee dropped Fenwick off by the Jefferson memorial, then drove on
about a mile. Still in sight, he stopped the car and got out. Fenwick
saw him wave a hand. Nothing happened.
Fenwick glanced down at the crystal in his hand. About the size of a
child's toy block. He could almost understand Baker's position. It _was_
pretty silly to suppose this thing could have the powers Ellerbee said
it had. No electric energy applied. It merely amplified the normal
telepathic impulses existing in every human mind, Ellerbee said. Fenwick
sighed. You just couldn't tell ahead of time that a thing wasn't going
to pan out. He knew his philosophy was right. These had to be
investigated--every lousy, crackpot one of them. You could never tell
what you were missing out on unless you did check.
He squeezed harder on the crystal, as Ellerbee had told him to do.
It was just a little fuzzy at first, fading and coming back. Then it was
there, shimmering a little, but steady. The image of Ellerbee standing
in front of him, grinning.
Fenwick glanced down the road. Ellerbee was still there, a mile away.
But he was also right there in front of him, about four feet away.
"It shakes you up a little bit at first," said Ellerbee. "But you get
used to it after a while. Anyway, this is it. Are you convinced my
device works?"
Fenwick shook his head to try to clear it rather than to give a negative
answer. "I'm convinced _something_ is working," he said. "I'm just not
quite sure what it is."
"I'll drive across town," Ellerbee offered. "You can see that distance
makes no difference at all. Later, I'll prove it works clear across the
country if you want me to."
They arranged that proof of Ellerbee's presence on the other side of the
city could be obtained by Fenwick's calling him at a drug store pay
phone. Then they would communicate by means of the cubes.
It was no different than before.
The telephone call satisfied Fenwick that Ellerbee was at least ten
miles away. Then, within a second, he also appeared to be standing
directly in front of Fenwick.
"What do you want?" said Fenwick finally. "What do you want the Bureau
to do about your device? How much money do you want for development?"
"Money? I don't need any money!" Ellerbee exploded. "All I want is for
the Government to make some use of the thing. I've had a patent on it
for six months. The Patent Office had sense enough to give me a patent,
but nobody else would look at it. I just want somebody to make some use
of it!"
"I'm sure a great many practical applications can be found," Fenwick
said lamely. "We'll have to make a report, first, however. There will be
a need for a great many more experiments--"
But most important of all, Baker would have to be shown. Baker would
have to _know_ from his own experience that this thing worked.
Fenwick suddenly wanted to get away from Ellerbee as much as he had from
Baker a little earlier. There was just so much a man's aging synapses
could stand, he told himself. He had to do a bit of thinking by himself.
When Ellerbee drove up again, Fenwick told him what he wanted.
Ellerbee looked disappointed but resigned. "I hope this isn't another
runaround, Mr. Fenwick. You'll pardon me for being blunt, but I've had
some pretty raw treatment from your office since I started writing about
my communicator."
"I promise you this isn't a runaround," said Fenwick, "but it's
absolutely necessary to get Dr. Baker to view your demonstration. We
will want to see your laboratories and your methods of production. I
promise you it won't be more than two or three days, depending on Dr.
Baker's busy schedule."
"O.K. I'll wait until the end of the week," said Ellerbee. "If I don't
hear something by then, I'll go ahead with my plans to market the
crystals as a novelty gadget."
"I'll be in touch with you. I promise," said Fenwick. He stood by the
curb and watched Ellerbee drive away.
* * * * *
Fenwick moved slowly back to his own car and sat behind the wheel
without starting the motor. It seemed a long time since nine-thirty
yesterday morning, when he had come in to Baker's office to check on the
grant he had known Baker wasn't going to give him. Now, merely by
kicking Baker's refuse pile with his toe, so to speak, he had turned up
a diamond that Baker was ready to discard.
Fenwick felt a sudden surge of revulsion. How was it possible for such a
blind, ignorant fool as Baker to be placed in the position he was in?
How could the administrative officers of the United States Government be
responsible for such misjudgment? Such maladministration, if performed
consciously, would be sheer treason. Yet, unconsciously and ignorantly,
Baker's authority was perpetuated, giving him a stranglehold on the
creative powers of the nation.
Fenwick tried to recall how he and Baker had become friends--so long
ago, in their own college days. It wasn't that there was any closeness
or common interest between them, yet they seemed to have drawn together
as two opposites might. They were both science majors at the time, but
their philosophies were so different that their studies were hardly a
common ground.
Fenwick figuratively threw away the textbook the first time the
professor's back was turned. Baker, Fenwick thought, never took his eyes
from its pages. Fenwick distrusted everything that he could not prove
himself. Baker believed nothing that was not solidly fixed in black and
white and bound between sturdy cloth covers, and prefaced by the name of
a man who boasted at least two graduate degrees.
Fenwick remembered even now his first reaction to Baker. He had never
seen his kind before and could not believe that such existed. He
supposed Baker felt similarly about him, and, out of the strange
contradiction of their worlds, they formed a hesitant friendship. For
himself, Fenwick supposed that it was based on a kind of fascination in
associating with one who walked so blindly, who was so profoundly
incapable of understanding his own blindness and peril.
But never before had he realized the absolute danger that rested in the
hands of Baker. And there must be others like him in high Government
scientific circles, Fenwick thought. He had learned long ago that
Baker's kind was somewhere in the background in every laboratory and
scientific office.
But few of them achieved the strangling power that Baker now possessed.
The Index! Fenwick thought of it and gagged. Wardrobe evaluation! Staff
reading index! The reproductive ratio--social activity index--the index
of hereditary accomplishment--multiply your ancestors by the number of
technical papers your five-year old children have produced and divide by
the number of book reviews you attend weekly--
Fenwick slumped in the seat. We hold these truths to be
self-evident--that the ratio of sports coats to tuxedos in a faculty
member's closet shall determine whether Clearwater gets to do research
in solid state physics, whether George Durrant gives his genius to the
nation or whether it gets buried in Dr. William Baker's refuse pile.
But not only George Durrant. Jim Ellerbee, too. And how many others?
Something had to be done.
Fenwick hadn't realized it before, but this was the thought that had
been churning in his cortex for the last hour. Something had to be done
about Bill Baker.
But, short of murder, what?
Getting rid of Baker physically was not the answer, of course. If he
were gone, a hundred others like him would fight for his place.
Baker had to be shown. He had to be shown that high-grading was costing
him the very thing he was trying to find. It must be proven to him that
flotation methods work as well in mining human resources as in mining
metal. That the extra trouble paid off.
This was known--a long time ago--Fenwick thought. Somewhere along the
way things got changed. He glanced toward the Jefferson Memorial. Tom
Jefferson knew how it should be, Tom Jefferson, statesman, farmer,
writer, and amateur mechanic and inventor. It was not only every
gentleman's privilege, it was also his duty to be a tinkerer and amateur
scientist, no matter what else he might be.
Fenwick glanced in the distance toward the Lincoln Memorial. Abe had
done his share of tinkering. His weird boot-strap system for hoisting
river boats off shoals and bars hadn't amounted to much, but Abe knew
the principle that every man has the right to be his own scientist.
And then there was Ben Franklin, the noblest amateur of them all! He had
roamed these parts, too.
Somewhere it had been lost. The Bill Bakers would have laughed out of
existence the great tinkerers like Franklin and Lincoln and Jefferson.
And the Pasteurs and the Mendels--and the George Durrants and the Jim
Ellerbees, too.
Fenwick started the car. Something had to be done about Bill Baker.
* * * * *
Baker leaned back in his chair and laughed heartily. "So it worked, did
it? He showed you something that made you think he had a real working
device."
"There was no 'think' about it," said Fenwick. "I saw it with my own
eyes. That boy's got something terrific!"
Baker sobered and thumbed through the Ellerbee file again. "Any freshman
math major could poke holes all through this mathematical explanation he
offers. Right? Secondly, a device such as he claims to have produced
violates all the basic laws of science. Why, it's even against the
Second Law of Thermodynamics!"
"I don't care what it's against," said Fenwick. "It works. I want you to
come with me to Ellerbee's and see for yourself. His device will
revolutionize communications."
Baker shook his head sadly. "It's always tougher when they show you
something that seems to work. Then you've got to waste a lot of time
looking for the gimmick if you're going to follow it through. I just
haven't got the time--"
"You've got to, Bill!"
"I'll tell you what I'll do. You go out there and look over his setup.
If you can't find his gimmick in half a day, I'll come out and show it
to you. But I warn you, some of these things are very tricky--like the
old perpetual motion machines. You've got to have your wits about you.
Is that fair enough?"
"Fair enough," Fenwick agreed.
Baker smiled broadly. "I'll do even more. If this Ellerbee device should
prove to be on the level, I'll give you the research grant you want for
Clearwater."
"I'm not so sure I want it on those terms," said Fenwick.
"Well, it's a purely academic matter. You won't have to worry about it.
But, on the other hand, I'll expect you to agree that when Ellerbee is
exposed you'll not persist in your request to this office."
"Well, now--"
"That's a fair offer. I'm giving you a chance to prove I'm wrong in
setting up the Index to screen out people like Ellerbee--"
"--And institutions like Clearwater."
"And institutions like Clearwater," Baker agreed.
"All right," said Fenwick. "I'll gamble with you--for one more stake: If
Ellerbee's device is on the level, you'll make a grant to Clearwater
_and_ other institutions of like qualifications, and you'll scrap that
insane Index--"
Baker tapped the desk placatingly. "The grant to Clearwater, yes. As for
the Index, if it should fail in its applicability to this clear-cut
Ellerbee case I would be the first to want to know why. But I assure you
there is no flaw in the Index. It has been tried too many thousands of
times."
* * * * *
Ellerbee's place was in Virginia, in a dairying area in the hills. The
last ten miles of the road were not the kind to attract visitors. The
road was steep and narrow in places that turned sharply around the
hillsides. No guardrails blocked the descent into the steep gullies. It
was definitely a region for people who liked solitude. The farms that
lay in the valleys of the hills were neat and well-cared for, however.
The people Fenwick passed on the road didn't look like the recluse type.
Ellerbee's farm was one of the best looking in the vicinity. It had the
look of being cared for by a man who could do everything. The huge barn
and the corrals were as neat as a garden, and the large white frame
farmhouse stood out like a monument against the green pasture.
A woman and two children were in the garden beside the house as Fenwick
drove up. "May I help you? I'm Mrs. Ellerbee," the woman said.
Fenwick explained who he was and his purpose in coming. "Jim's been
expecting you," the woman said. "His laboratory is the long white
building back of the house. He's out there now."
Jim Ellerbee met him at the door. "You didn't bring Dr. Baker," he said
almost accusingly.
"Later," said Fenwick. "I came, as I promised. Dr. Baker wants my report
on your facilities and production methods. Then he will come up to make
his own inspection."
There was doubt in Ellerbee's eyes, as if he was used to such stories.
"Maybe it would be best if I marketed the crystals in any form I can,"
he said.
He led Fenwick through a number of rooms of expensive, precision
electronic equipment. Then they passed through a set of double doors,
which Fenwick observed acted as a thermal lock between the crystal
growing room and the rest of the building. It reminded him of George
Durrant's laboratory at Clearwater.
"This is where the crystals are grown," said Ellerbee. "I suppose you're
familiar with such processes. Here we must use a very precisely
controlled sequence of co-crystallization to get layers of desired
thickness--"
Fenwick wasn't listening. He had suddenly observed the second man in the
room, a rather small, swarthy man, who moved with quiet precision among
a row of tanks on the far side of the room. There was a startling
quality about the man that Fenwick was unable to define, a strangeness.
Ellerbee caught the direction of his glance. "Oh," he said. "You must
meet my neighbor, Sam Atkins. Sam is in this as deep or even deeper than
I am. I think perhaps he's more responsible for the communicator
crystals."
The man turned as his name was mentioned, and came toward them. "You
were the one who developed the crystals," he said in a soft, persuasive
voice, to Jim Ellerbee.
"This is my setup," Ellerbee explained with a wave of his hand to
indicate the laboratory surroundings. "But Sam has been working with me
for about a year on this thing. When Sam moved in, we found we were both
radio hams and electronic bugs. I'd been fooling around with crystal
growing, trying to design some new type transistors. Then Sam suggested
some experiments in co-crystallization--using different chemicals that
will crystallize in successive layers in one crystal.
"We stumbled on one combination that made a terrific amplifier. Then we
found it would actually radiate to a distant point all by itself.
Finally, we discovered that its radiation was completely
nonelectromagnetic. There is no way we have yet found of detecting the
radiation from the crystal--except by means of another piece of the same
crystal.
"I know it's against all the rules in the books. It just doesn't make
sense. But there it is. It works."
Sam Atkins had turned away for a moment to attend to one of the tanks,
but Fenwick found himself intensely aware of the man's presence. There
was nothing he could put his finger on. He just knew, with such intense
certainty, that Sam Atkins was _there_.
"What does Mr. Atkins do?" Fenwick asked. "Does he have a dairy farm,
too?"
Ellerbee nodded. "His place is right next to mine. Since we started this
project Sam has practically lived here, however. He's a bachelor, and so
he takes most of his meals with us."
"Seems strange--" Fenwick mused, "two men like you, way out here in the
country, doing work on a level with that of the best crystal labs in the
country. I should think you'd both rather be in academic or industrial
work."
Ellerbee smiled and looked up through the windows to the meadows beyond.
"We're _free_ out here," he said.
Fenwick thought of Baker. "You are that," he said.
"You said you wanted to investigate the whole production process. We'll
start here, if you like, and I'll show you every step in our process.
This tank contains an ordinary alum solution. We start building on a
seed crystal of alum and continue until we reach a precise thickness.
Here is a solution of chrome alum. You'll note the insulated tanks. Room
temperature is maintained within half a degree. The solutions are held
to within one-tenth of a degree. Crystal dimensions must be held to
tolerances of little more than the thickness of a molecule--"
* * * * *
The gimmick to fool him and cheat him. Where was it? Fenwick asked
himself. Baker was sure it was here. If so, where could it be? There was
no trickery in the crystal laboratory--unless it was the trickery of
precision refinement of methods. Only men of great mechanical skill
could accomplish what Ellerbee and his friend were doing. Genius behind
the milking machine! Fenwick could almost sympathize with Baker in his
hiding behind the ridiculous Index. Without some such protection a man
could encounter shocks.
The crackpot fringe.
Where else would credence have been given to the phenomenon of a crystal
that seemed to radiate in a nonelectromagnetic way?
But, of course, it couldn't actually be doing that. All the books, all
the authorities, and the known scientific principles said it couldn't
happen. Therefore, it wouldn't have happened--outside the crackpot
fringe.
If Ellerbee and Atkins weren't trying to foist a deliberate deception,
where were they mistaken? It was possible for such men as these to make
an honest mistake. That would more than likely turn out to be the case
here. But how could there be a mistake in the production of a phenomenon
such as Fenwick had witnessed? How could that be produced through some
error when it couldn't even be done by known electronic methods--not
just as Fenwick had seen it.
Throughout the morning Ellerbee led him down the rows of tanks,
explaining at each step what was happening. Sometimes Sam Atkins offered
a word of explanation also, but always he stayed in the background. The
two farmers showed Fenwick how they measured crystal size down to the
thickness of a molecule while the crystals were growing.
A sudden suspicion crossed Fenwick's mind. "If those dimensions are so
critical, how did you determine them in the first place?"
"Initially, it was a lucky accident," said Sam Atkins.
"Very lucky," said Fenwick, "if you were able to accidentally obtain a
crystal of fifteen layers or so and have each layer even approximately
correct."
Sam smiled blandly. "Our first crystals were not so complex, you
understand. Only three layers. We thought we were building transistors,
then. Later, our mathematics showed us the advantage of additional
layers and gave us the dimensions."
The mathematics that Baker said a kid could poke holes in. Fenwick
didn't know. He hadn't checked the math.
Where was the gimmick?
In the afternoon they took him out for field tests again. A rise behind
the barn was about a mile from a similar rise on Sam Atkins' place. They
communicated across that distance in all the ways, including various
kinds of codes, that Fenwick could think of to find some evidence of
hoax. Afterwards, they returned to the laboratory and sawed in two the
crystals they had just used. Then they showed him the tests they had
devised to determine the nature of the radiation between the crystals.
He did not find the gimmick.
By the end of the day Ellerbee seemed beat, as if he'd been under a
heavy strain all day long. And then Fenwick realized that was actually
the case. Ellerbee wanted desperately to have someone believe in him,
believe in his communication device. Not only had he used all the
reasoning power at his command, he had been straining physically to
induce Fenwick to believe.
Through it all, however, Sam Atkins seemed to remain bland and utterly
at ease, as if it made absolutely no difference to him, whatever.
"I guess we've just about shot our wad," said Ellerbee. "That's about
all we've got to show you. If we haven't convinced you by now that our
communicator works, I don't know how we can accomplish it."
Had they convinced him? Fenwick asked himself. Did he believe what he
had seen or didn't he? He had been smug in front of Baker after the
first demonstration, but now he wondered how much he had been covered by
the same brush that had tarred Baker.
It wasn't easy for him to admit the possibility of nonelectromagnetic
radiation from these strange crystals, radiation which could carry sight
and sound from one point to another without any transducers but the
crystals themselves.
"You have to step out of the world you've grown accustomed to," said Sam
Atkins very quietly. "This is what we have had to do. It's not hard now
to comprehend that telepathic forces of the mind can be directed by this
means. This is a new pattern. Think of it as such. Don't try to cram it
into the old pattern. Then it's easy."
A new pattern. That was the trouble, Fenwick thought. There couldn't
really be any new patterns, could there? There was only one basic
pattern, in which all the phenomena of the universe fit. He readily
admitted that very little was known about that pattern, and many things
believed true were false. But the Second Law of Thermodynamics. _That_
had to be true--invariably true--didn't it?
If there was a hoax, Baker would have to find it.
"I'll be back with Dr. Baker in a couple of days," Fenwick said. "After
that, the one final evidence we'll need will be to construct these
crystals in our own laboratories, entirely on our own, based on your
instructions."