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diff --git a/22997-h/22997-h.htm b/22997-h/22997-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bc5aa3e --- /dev/null +++ b/22997-h/22997-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1055 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=ISO-8859-1" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Second Sight, by Alan Edward Nourse</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + p { margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; + } + hr { width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; + } + + table {margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;} + + body{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + + .pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; + } /* page numbers */ + + .linenum {position: absolute; top: auto; left: 4%;} /* poetry number */ + .blockquot{margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 10%;} + .sidenote {width: 20%; padding-bottom: .5em; padding-top: .5em; + padding-left: .5em; padding-right: .5em; margin-left: 1em; + float: right; clear: right; margin-top: 1em; + font-size: smaller; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: dashed 1px;} + + .bb {border-bottom: solid 2px;} + .bl {border-left: solid 2px;} + .bt {border-top: solid 2px;} + .br {border-right: solid 2px;} + .bbox {border: solid 2px;} + + .center {text-align: center;} + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + .u {text-decoration: underline;} + + .caption {font-weight: bold;} + + .figcenter {margin: auto; text-align: center;} + + .figleft {float: left; clear: left; margin-left: 0; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: + 1em; margin-right: 1em; padding: 0; text-align: center;} + + .figright {float: right; clear: right; margin-left: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em; + margin-top: 1em; margin-right: 0; padding: 0; text-align: center;} + + .footnotes {border: dashed 1px;} + .footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + .footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 84%; text-align: right;} + .fnanchor {vertical-align: super; font-size: .8em; text-decoration: none;} + + .poem {margin-left:10%; margin-right:10%; text-align: left;} + .poem br {display: none;} + .poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + .poem span.i0 {display: block; margin-left: 0em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i2 {display: block; margin-left: 2em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i4 {display: block; margin-left: 4em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + hr.full { width: 100%; + margin-top: 3em; + margin-bottom: 0em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + height: 4px; + border-width: 4px 0 0 0; /* remove all borders except the top one */ + border-style: solid; + border-color: #000000; + clear: both; } + pre {font-size: 85%;} + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<h1>The Project Gutenberg eBook, Second Sight, by Alan Edward Nourse</h1> +<pre> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at <a href = "http://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a></pre> +<p>Title: Second Sight</p> +<p>Author: Alan Edward Nourse</p> +<p>Release Date: October 16, 2007 [eBook #22997]</p> +<p>Language: English</p> +<p>Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1</p> +<p>***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SECOND SIGHT***</p> +<p> </p> +<h3>E-text prepared by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan,<br /> + and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team<br /> + (http://www.pgdp.net)</h3> +<p> </p> +<p>Transcriber's Note:<br /> +<br /> +This etext was produced from "The Counterfeit Man; +More Science Fiction Stories by Alan E. Nourse" published in 1963. +Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright +on this publication was renewed.</p> +<p> </p> +<hr class="full" /> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h1>Second Sight</h1> + + + + + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<h2>Second Sight</h2> + + +<p>(Note: The following excerpts from Amy Ballantine's journal have never +actually been written down at any time before. Her account of +impressions and events has been kept in organized fashion in her mind +for at least nine years (even she is not certain when she started), but +it must be understood that certain inaccuracies in transcription could +not possibly have been avoided in the excerpting attempted here. <i>The +Editor</i>.)</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p><i>Tuesday, 16 May.</i> Lambertson got back from Boston about two this +afternoon. He was tired; I don't think I've ever seen Lambertson so +tired. It was more than just exhaustion, too. Maybe anger? Frustration? +I couldn't be sure. It seemed more like <i>defeat</i> than anything else, and +he went straight from the 'copter to his office without even stopping +off at the lab at all.</p> + +<p>It's good to have him back, though! Not that I haven't had a nice enough +rest. With Lambertson gone, Dakin took over the reins for the week, but +Dakin doesn't really count, poor man. It's such a temptation to twist +him up and get him all confused that I didn't do any real <i>work</i> all +week. With Lambertson back I'll have to get down to the grind again, but +I'm still glad he's here. I never thought I'd miss him so, for such a +short time away.</p> + +<p>But I wish he'd gotten a rest, if he ever rests! And I wish I knew why +he went to Boston in the first place. Certainly he didn't <i>want</i> to go. +I wanted to read him and find out, but I don't think I'm supposed to +know yet. Lambertson didn't want to talk. He didn't even tell me he was +back, even though he knew I'd catch him five miles down the road. (I can +do that now, with Lambertson. Distance doesn't seem to make so much +difference any more if I just ignore it.)</p> + +<p>So all I got was bits and snatches on the surface of his mind. Something +about me, and Dr. Custer; and a nasty little man called Aarons or +Barrons or something. I've heard of him somewhere, but I can't pin it +down right now. I'll have to dig that out later, I guess.</p> + +<p>But if he saw Dr. Custer, <i>why doesn't he tell me about it</i>?</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p><i>Wednesday, 17 May.</i> It was <i>Aarons</i> that he saw in Boston, and now I'm +sure that something's going wrong. I know that man. I remember him from +a long time ago, back when I was still at Bairdsley, long before I came +here to the Study Center. He was the consulting psychiatrist, and I +don't think I could ever forget him, even if I tried!</p> + +<p>That's why I'm sure something very unpleasant is going on.</p> + +<p>Lambertson saw Dr. Custer, too, but the directors sent him to Boston +because Aarons wanted to talk to him. I wasn't supposed to know anything +about it, but Lambertson came down to dinner last night. He wouldn't +even look at me, the skunk. I fixed <i>him</i>. I told him I was going to +peek, and then I read him in a flash, before he could shift his mind to +Boston traffic or something. (He knows I can't stand traffic.)</p> + +<p>I only picked up a little, but it was enough. There was something very +unpleasant that Aarons had said that I couldn't quite get. They were in +his office. Lambertson had said, "I don't think she's ready for it, and +I'd never try to talk her into it, at this point. Why can't you people +get it through your heads that she's a <i>child</i>, and a human being, not +some kind of laboratory animal? That's been the trouble all along. +Everybody has been so eager to <i>grab</i>, and nobody has given her a +wretched thing in return."</p> + +<p>Aarons was smooth. Very sad and reproachful. I got a clear picture of +him—short, balding, mean little eyes in a smug, self-righteous little +face. "Michael, after all she's twenty-three years old. She's certainly +out of diapers by now."</p> + +<p>"But she's only had two years of training aimed at teaching <i>her</i> +anything."</p> + +<p>"Well, there's no reason that <i>that</i> should stop, is there? Be +reasonable, Michael. We certainly agree that you've done a wonderful job +with the girl, and naturally you're sensitive about others working with +her. But when you consider that public taxes are footing the bill—"</p> + +<p>"I'm sensitive about others exploiting her, that's all. I tell you, I +won't push her. And I wouldn't let her come up here, even if she agreed +to do it. She shouldn't be tampered with for another year or two at +least." Lambertson was angry and bitter. Now, three days later, he was +still angry.</p> + +<p>"And you're certain that your concern is entirely—professional?" +(Whatever Aarons meant, it wasn't nice. Lambertson caught it, and oh, +my! Chart slapping down on the table, door slamming, swearing—from +mild, patient Lambertson, can you imagine? And then later, no more +anger, just disgust and defeat. That was what hit me when he came back +yesterday. He couldn't hide it, no matter how he tried.)</p> + +<p>Well, no wonder he was tired. I remember Aarons all right. He wasn't so +interested in me, back in those days. <i>Wild one</i>, he called me. <i>We +haven't the time or the people to handle anything like this in a public +institution. We have to handle her the way we'd handle any other +defective. She may be a</i> plus<i>-defective instead of a</i> minus<i>-defective, +but she's as crippled as if she were deaf and blind.</i></p> + +<p>Good old Aarons. That was years ago, when I was barely thirteen. Before +Dr. Custer got interested and started ophthalmoscoping me and testing +me, before I'd ever heard of Lambertson or the Study Center. For that +matter, before anybody had done anything but feed me and treat me like +some kind of peculiar animal or something.</p> + +<p>Well, I'm glad it was Lambertson that went to Boston and not me, for +Aarons' sake. And if Aarons tries to come down here to work with me, +he's going to be wasting his time, because I'll lead him all around +Robin Hood's Barn and get him so confused he'll wish he'd stayed home. +But I can't help but wonder, just the same. <i>Am</i> I a cripple like Aarons +said? Does being psi-high mean that? <i>I</i> don't think so, but what does +Lambertson think? Sometimes when I try to read Lambertson I'm the one +that gets confused. I wish I could tell what he <i>really</i> thinks.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p><i>Wednesday night.</i> I asked Lambertson tonight what Dr. Custer had said. +"He wants to see you next week," he told me. "But Amy, he didn't make +any promises. He wasn't even hopeful."</p> + +<p>"But his letter! He said the studies showed that there wasn't any +anatomical defect."</p> + +<p>Lambertson leaned back and lit his pipe, shaking his head at me. He's +aged ten years this past week. Everybody thinks so. He's lost weight, +and he looks as if he hasn't slept at all. "Custer's afraid that it +isn't a question of anatomy, Amy."</p> + +<p>"But what is it, then, for heaven's sake?"</p> + +<p>"He doesn't know. He says it's not very scientific, but it may just be +that what you don't use, you lose."</p> + +<p>"Oh, but that's silly." I chewed my lip.</p> + +<p>"Granted."</p> + +<p>"But he thinks that there's a chance?"</p> + +<p>"Of course there's a chance. And you know he'll do everything he can. +It's just that neither of us wants you to get your hopes up."</p> + +<p>It wasn't much, but it was something. Lambertson looked so beat. I +didn't have the heart to ask him what Aarons wanted, even though I know +he'd like to get it off his chest. Maybe tomorrow will be better.</p> + +<p>I spent the day with Charlie Dakin in the lab, and did a little work for +a change. I've been disgustingly lazy, and poor Charlie thinks it's all +his fault. Charlie reads like twenty-point type ninety per cent of the +time, and I'm afraid he knows it. I can tell just exactly when he stops +paying attention to business and starts paying attention to <i>me</i>, and +then all of a sudden he realizes I'm reading him, and it flusters him +for the rest of the day. I wonder why? Does he really think I'm shocked? +Or surprised? Or <i>insulted</i>? Poor Charlie!</p> + +<p>I guess I must be good enough looking. I can read it from almost every +fellow that comes near me. I wonder why? I mean, why me and not Marjorie +over in the Main Office? She's a sweet girl, but she never gets a second +look from the guys. There must be some fine differential point I'm +missing somewhere, but I don't think I'll ever understand it.</p> + +<p>I'm not going to press Lambertson, but I <i>hope</i> he opens up tomorrow. +He's got me scared silly by now. He has a lot of authority around here, +but other people are paying the bills, and when he's frightened about +something, it can't help but frighten me.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p><i>Thursday, 18 May.</i> We went back to reaction testing in the lab with +Lambertson today. That study is almost finished, as much as anything I +work on is ever finished, which isn't very much. This test had two +goals: to clock my stimulus-response pattern in comparison to normals, +and to find out just exactly <i>when</i> I pick up any given thought-signal +from the person I'm reading. It isn't a matter of developing speed. I'm +already so fast to respond that it doesn't mean too much from anybody +else's standpoint, and I certainly don't need any training there. But +where along the line do I pick up a thought impulse? Do I catch it at +its inception? Do I pick up the thought formulation, or just the final +crystalized pattern? Lambertson thinks I'm with it right from the start, +and that some training in those lines would be worth my time.</p> + +<p>Of course, we didn't find out, not even with the ingenious little +random-firing device that Dakin designed for the study. With this +gadget, neither Lambertson nor I know what impulse the box is going to +throw at him. He just throws a switch and it starts coming. He catches +it, reacts, I catch it from him and react, and we compare reaction +times. This afternoon it had us driving up a hill, and sent a ten-ton +truck rolling down on us out of control. I had my flasher on two seconds +before Lambertson did, of course, but our reaction times are +standardized, so when we corrected for my extra speed, we knew that I +must have caught the impulse about 0.07 seconds after he did.</p> + +<p>Crude, of course, not nearly fast enough, and we can't reproduce on a +stable basis. Lambertson says that's as close as we can get without +cortical probes. And that's where I put my foot down. I may have a gold +mine in this head of mine, but nobody is going to put burr-holes through +my skull in order to tap it. Not for a while yet.</p> + +<p>That's unfair, of course, because it sounds as if Lambertson were trying +to force me into something, and he isn't. I've read him about that, and +I know he wouldn't allow it. <i>Let's learn everything else we can learn +without it first</i>, he says. <i>Later, if you want to go along with it, +maybe. But right now you're not competent to decide for yourself.</i></p> + +<p>He may be right, but why not? Why does he keep acting as if I'm a child? +<i>Am</i> I, really? With everything (and I mean <i>everything</i>) coming into my +mind for the past twenty-three years, haven't I learned enough to make +decisions for myself? Lambertson says of course everything has been +coming in, it's just that I don't know what to do with it all. But +somewhere along the line I have to reach a maturation point of some +kind.</p> + +<p>It scares me, sometimes, because I can't find an answer to it and the +answer might be perfectly horrible. I don't know where it may end. +What's worse, I don't know what point it has reached <i>right now</i>. How +much difference is there between my mind and Lambertson's? I'm psi-high, +and he isn't—granted. But is there more to it than that? People like +Aarons think so. They think it's a difference between <i>human</i> function +and something else.</p> + +<p>And that scares me because it <i>just isn't true</i>. I'm as human as anybody +else. But somehow it seems that I'm the one who has to prove it. I +wonder if I ever will. That's why Dr. Custer has to help me. Everything +hangs on that. I'm to go up to Boston next week, for final studies and +testing.</p> + +<p>If Dr. Custer can do something, what a difference that will make! Maybe +then I could get out of this whole frightening mess, put it behind me +and forget about it. With just the psi alone, I don't think I ever can.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p><i>Friday, 19 May.</i> Today Lambertson broke down and told me what it was +that Aarons had been proposing. It was worse than I thought it would be. +The man had hit on the one thing I'd been afraid of for so long.</p> + +<p>"He wants you to work against normals," Lambertson said. "He's swallowed +the latency hypothesis whole. He thinks that everybody must have a +latent psi potential, and that all that is needed to drag it into the +open is a powerful stimulus from someone with full-blown psi powers."</p> + +<p>"Well?" I said. "Do you think so?"</p> + +<p>"Who knows?" Lambertson slammed his pencil down on the desk angrily. +"No, I don't think so, but what does that mean? Not a thing. It +certainly doesn't mean I'm right. Nobody knows the answer, not me, nor +Aarons, nor anybody. And Aarons wants to use you to find out."</p> + +<p>I nodded slowly. "I see. So I'm to be used as a sort of refined +electrical stimulator," I said. "Well, I guess you know what you can +tell Aarons."</p> + +<p>He was silent, and I couldn't read him. Then he looked up. "Amy, I'm not +sure we can tell him that."</p> + +<p>I stared at him. "You mean you think he could <i>force</i> me?"</p> + +<p>"He says you're a public charge, that as long as you have to be +supported and cared for, they have the right to use your faculties. He's +right on the first point. You <i>are</i> a public charge. You have to be +sheltered and protected. If you wandered so much as a mile outside these +walls you'd never survive, and you know it."</p> + +<p>I sat stunned. "But Dr. Custer—"</p> + +<p>"Dr. Custer is trying to help. But he hasn't succeeded so far. If he +can, then it will be a different story. But I can't stall much longer, +Amy. Aarons has a powerful argument. You're psi-high. You're the first +full-fledged, wide-open, free-wheeling psi-high that's ever appeared in +human history. The <i>first</i>. Others in the past have shown potential, +maybe, but nothing they could ever learn to control. You've got control, +you're fully developed. You're <i>here</i>, and you're <i>the only one there +is</i>."</p> + +<p>"So I happened to be unlucky," I snapped. "My genes got mixed up."</p> + +<p>"That's not true, and you know it," Lambertson said. "We know your +chromosomes better than your face. They're the same as anyone else's. +There's no gene difference, none at all. When you're gone, you'll be +<i>gone</i>, and there's no reason to think that your children will have any +more psi potential than Charlie Dakin has."</p> + +<p>Something was building up in me then that I couldn't control any longer. +"You think I should go along with Aarons," I said dully.</p> + +<p>He hesitated. "I'm afraid you're going to have to, sooner or later. +Aarons has some latents up in Boston. He's certain that they're latents. +He's talked to the directors down here. He's convinced them that you +could work with his people, draw them out. You could open the door to a +whole new world for human beings."</p> + +<p>I lost my temper then. It wasn't just Aarons, or Lambertson, or Dakin, +or any of the others. It was <i>all</i> of them, dozens of them, compounded +year upon year upon year. "Now listen to me for a minute," I said. "Have +any of you ever considered what <i>I</i> wanted in this thing? <i>Ever?</i> Have +any of you given that one single thought, just once, one time when you +were so sick of thinking great thoughts for humanity that you let +another thought leak through? Have you ever thought about what kind of a +shuffle I've had since all this started? Well, you'd better think about +it. <i>Right now.</i>"</p> + +<p>"Amy, you know I don't want to push you."</p> + +<p>"Listen to me, Lambertson. My folks got rid of me fast when they found +out about me. Did you know that? They hated me because I <i>scared</i> them! +It didn't hurt me too much, because I thought I knew <i>why</i> they hated +me, I could understand it, and I went off to Bairdsley without even +crying. They were going to come see me every week, but do you know how +often they managed to make it? <i>Not once</i> after I was off their hands. +And then at Bairdsley Aarons examined me and decided that I was a +cripple. He didn't know anything about me then, but he thought psi was a +<i>defect</i>. And that was as far as it went. I did what Aarons wanted me to +do at Bairdsley. Never what <i>I</i> wanted, just what <i>they</i> wanted, years +and years of what <i>they</i> wanted. And then you came along, and I came to +the Study Center and did what <i>you</i> wanted."</p> + +<p>It hurt him, and I knew it. I guess that was what I wanted, to hurt him +and to hurt everybody. He was shaking his head, staring at me. "Amy, be +fair. I've tried, you know how hard I've tried."</p> + +<p>"Tried what? To train me? Yes, but why? To give me better use of my psi +faculties? Yes, but why? Did you do it for <i>me</i>? Is that really why you +did it? Or was that just another phoney front, like all the rest of +them, in order to use me, to make me a little more valuable to have +around?"</p> + +<p>He slapped my face so hard it jolted me. I could feel the awful pain and +hurt in his mind as he stared at me, and I sensed the stinging in his +palm that matched the burning in my cheek. And then something fell away +in his mind, and I saw something I had never seen before.</p> + +<p>He loved me, that man. Incredible, isn't it? He <i>loved</i> me. Me, who +couldn't call him anything but Lambertson, who couldn't imagine calling +him Michael, to say nothing of Mike—just Lambertson, who did this, or +Lambertson who thought that.</p> + +<p>But he could never tell me. He had decided that. I was too helpless. I +needed him too much. I needed love, but not the kind of love Lambertson +wanted to give, so that kind of love had to be hidden, concealed, +<i>suppressed</i>. I needed the deepest imaginable understanding, but it had +to be utterly unselfish understanding, anything else would be taking +advantage of me, so a barrier had to be built—a barrier that I should +never penetrate and that he should never be tempted to break down.</p> + +<p>Lambertson had done that. For me. It was all there, suddenly, so +overwhelming it made me gasp from the impact. I wanted to throw my arms +around him; instead I sat down in the chair, shaking my head helplessly. +I hated myself then. I had hated myself before, but never like this.</p> + +<p>"If I could only go somewhere," I said. "Someplace where nobody knew me, +where I could just live by myself for a while, and shut the doors, and +shut out the thoughts, and <i>pretend</i> for a while, just pretend that I'm +perfectly normal."</p> + +<p>"I wish you could," Lambertson said. "But you can't. You know that. Not +unless Custer can really help."</p> + +<p>We sat there for a while. Then I said, "Let Aarons come down. Let him +bring anybody he wants with him. I'll do what he wants. Until I see +Custer."</p> + +<p>That hurt, too, but it was different. It hurt both of us together, not +separately any more. And somehow it didn't hurt so much that way.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p><i>Monday, 22 May.</i> Aarons drove down from Boston this morning with a girl +named Mary Bolton, and we went to work.</p> + +<p>I think I'm beginning to understand how a dog can tell when someone +wants to kick him and doesn't quite dare. I could feel the back of my +neck prickle when that man walked into the conference room. I was hoping +he might have changed since the last time I saw him. He hadn't, but I +had. I wasn't afraid of him any more, just awfully tired of him after +he'd been here about ten minutes.</p> + +<p>But that girl! I wonder what sort of story he'd told her? She couldn't +have been more than sixteen, and she was terrorized. At first I thought +it was <i>Aarons</i> she was afraid of, but that wasn't so. It was <i>me</i>.</p> + +<p>It took us all morning just to get around that. The poor girl could +hardly make herself talk. She was shaking all over when they arrived. We +took a walk around the grounds, alone, and I read her bit by bit—a +feeler here, a planted suggestion there, just getting her used to the +idea and trying to reassure her. After a while she was smiling. She +thought the lagoon was lovely, and by the time we got back to the main +building she was laughing, talking about herself, beginning to relax.</p> + +<p>Then I gave her a full blast, quickly, only a moment or two. <i>Don't be +afraid—I hate him, yes, but I won't hurt you for anything. Let me come +in, don't fight me. We've got to work as a team.</i></p> + +<p>It shook her. She turned white and almost passed out for a moment. Then +she nodded, slowly. "I see," she said. "It feels as if it's way inside, +<i>deep</i> inside."</p> + +<p>"That's right. It won't hurt. I promise."</p> + +<p>She nodded again. "Let's go back, now. I think I'm ready to try."</p> + +<p>We went to work.</p> + +<p>I was as blind as she was, at first. There was nothing there, at first, +not even a flicker of brightness. Then, probing deeper, something +responded, only a hint, a suggestion of something powerful, deep and +hidden—but where? What was her strength? Where was she weak? I couldn't +tell.</p> + +<p>We started on dice, crude, of course, but as good a tool as any. Dice +are no good for measuring anything, but that was why I was there. I was +the measuring instrument. The dice were only reactors. Sensitive enough, +two balsam cubes, tossed from a box with only gravity to work against. I +showed her first, picked up her mind as the dice popped out, led her +through it. <i>Take one at a time, the red one first. Work on it, see? Now +we try both. Once more—watch it! All right, now.</i></p> + +<p>She sat frozen in the chair. She was trying; the sweat stood out on her +forehead. Aarons sat tense, smoking, his fingers twitching as he watched +the red and green cubes bounce on the white backdrop. Lambertson watched +too, but his eyes were on the girl, not on the cubes.</p> + +<p>It was hard work. Bit by bit she began to grab; whatever I had felt in +her mind seemed to leap up. I probed her, amplifying it, trying to draw +it out. It was like wading through knee-deep mud—sticky, sluggish, +resisting. I could feel her excitement growing, and bit by bit I +released my grip, easing her out, baiting her.</p> + +<p>"All right," I said. "That's enough."</p> + +<p>She turned to me, wide-eyed. "I—I did it."</p> + +<p>Aarons was on his feet, breathing heavily. "It worked?"</p> + +<p>"It worked. Not very well, but it's there. All she needs is time, and +help, and patience."</p> + +<p>"But it worked! Lambertson! Do you know what that means? It means I was +right! It means others can have it, just like she has it!" He rubbed his +hands together. "We can arrange a full-time lab for it, and work on +three or four latents simultaneously. It's a wide-open door, Michael! +Can't you see what it means?"</p> + +<p>Lambertson nodded, and gave me a long look. "Yes, I think I do."</p> + +<p>"I'll start arrangements tomorrow."</p> + +<p>"Not tomorrow. You'll have to wait until next week."</p> + +<p>"Why?"</p> + +<p>"Because Amy would prefer to wait, that's why."</p> + +<p>Aarons looked at him, and then at me, peevishly. Finally he shrugged. +"If you insist."</p> + +<p>"We'll talk about it next week," I said. I was so tired I could hardly +look up at him. I stood up, and smiled at my girl. Poor kid, I thought. +So excited and eager about it now. And not one idea in the world of what +she was walking into.</p> + +<p>Certainly Aarons would never be able to tell her.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Later, when they were gone, Lambertson and I walked down toward the +lagoon. It was a lovely cool evening; the ducks were down at the water's +edge. Every year there was a mother duck herding a line of ducklings +down the shore and into the water. They never seemed to go where she +wanted them to, and she would fuss and chatter, waddling back time and +again to prod the reluctant ones out into the pool.</p> + +<p>We stood by the water's edge in silence for a long time. Then Lambertson +kissed me. It was the first time he had ever done that.</p> + +<p>"We could go away," I whispered in his ear. "We could run out on Aarons +and the Study Center and everyone, just go away somewhere."</p> + +<p>He shook his head slowly. "Amy, don't."</p> + +<p>"We could! I'll see Dr. Custer, and he'll tell me he can help, I <i>know</i> +he will. I won't <i>need</i> the Study Center any more, or any other place, +or anybody but you."</p> + +<p>He didn't answer, and I knew there wasn't anything he could answer. Not +then.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p><i>Friday, 26 May.</i> Yesterday we went to Boston to see Dr. Custer, and now +it looks as if it's all over. Now even I can't pretend that there's +anything more to be done.</p> + +<p>Next week Aarons will come down, and I'll go to work with him just the +way he has it planned. He thinks we have three years of work ahead of us +before anything can be published, before he can really be sure we have +brought a latent into full use of his psi potential. Maybe so, I don't +know. Maybe in three years I'll find some way to make myself care one +way or the other. But I'll do it, anyway, because there's nothing else +to do.</p> + +<p>There was no anatomical defect—Dr. Custer was right about that. The +eyes are perfect, beautiful gray eyes, he says, and the optic nerves and +auditory nerves are perfectly functional. The defect isn't there. It's +deeper. Too deep ever to change it.</p> + +<p><i>What you no longer use, you lose</i>, was what he said, apologizing +because he couldn't explain it any better. It's like a price tag, +perhaps. Long ago, before I knew anything at all, the psi was so strong +it started compensating, bringing in more and more from <i>other</i> +minds—such a wealth of rich, clear, interpreted visual and auditory +impressions that there was never any need for my own. And because of +that, certain hookups never got hooked up. That's only a theory, of +course, but there isn't any other way to explain it.</p> + +<p>But am I wrong to hate it? More than anything else in the world I want +to <i>see</i> Lambertson, <i>see</i> him smile and light his pipe, <i>hear</i> him +laugh. I want to know what color <i>really</i> is, what music <i>really</i> sounds +like unfiltered through somebody else's ears.</p> + +<p>I want to see a sunset, just once. Just once I want to see that mother +duck take her ducklings down to the water. But I never will. Instead, I +see and hear things nobody else can, and the fact that I am stone blind +and stone deaf shouldn't make any difference. After all, I've always +been that way.</p> + +<p>Maybe next week I'll ask Aarons what he thinks about it. It should be +interesting to hear what he says.</p> + +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<hr class="full" /> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SECOND SIGHT***</p> +<p>******* This file should be named 22997-h.txt or 22997-h.zip *******</p> +<p>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:<br /> +<a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/2/9/9/22997">http://www.gutenberg.org/2/2/9/9/22997</a></p> +<p>Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed.</p> + +<p>Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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