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
rundown 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 eyeing 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 telepathy 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--"Theoretically, 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 was 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 sub-conscious 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 ever 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.