But complete wasn’t the word. The psi had explored their every move and action. And, as if that weren’t bad enough, Waverley saw now why Eskin had been locked up.
The man was a voyeur, a Peeping Tom. A supernormal Peeping Tom, who could watch people from miles away.
Like most couples on the verge of marriage, Waverley and Doris did considerable smooching, and didn’t consider themselves any the worse for it. But it was something else again to see that smooching written down, dissected, analyzed.
The psi had picked up a complete anatomical vocabulary somewhere, because he had described every step of their courtship procedure in the correct terms. Diagrams followed, then a physiological analysis. Then the psi had probed deeper, into hormone secretions, cellular structures, nerve and muscle reactions, and the like.
It was the most amazing bit of pornography-veiled-as-science that Waverley had ever seen.
“Come in here,” Waverley said. He brought Eskin into his office. Doris followed, her face a study in embarrassment.
“Now then. Just what do you mean by this?” Waverley asked. “Didn’t I save you from the asylum?”
“Yes, sir,” Eskin said. “And believe me, I’m very grateful.”
“Then I want your promise that there’ll be no more of this.”
“Oh, no?” the man said, horrified. “I can’t stop. I have my research to consider.”
In the next half hour Waverley discovered a lot of things. Eskin could observe all those he came in contact with, no matter where they were. However, all he was interested in was their sex lives. He rationalized this voyeurism by his certainty that he was serving science.
Waverley sent him to the anteroom, locked the door, and turned to Doris.
“I’m terribly sorry about this,” he said, “but I’m sure we can resublimate him. It shouldn’t be too difficult.”
“Oh, it shouldn’t?” Doris asked.
“No.” Waverley said with confidence he didn’t feel. “I’ll figure it out.”
“Fine,” Doris said. She put the psi’s papers in an ashtray, found a match, and burned them. “Until you do, I think we had better postpone the wedding.”
“But why?”
“Oh, Sam,” Doris said, “how can I marry you and know that slimy little thing is watching every move we make? And writing it all down?”
“Now calm down,” Waverley said uncomfortably. “You’re perfectly right. I’ll go to work on him. Perhaps you’d better take the rest of the day off.”
“I’m going to,” Doris said, and started for the door.
“Supper this evening?” Waverley asked her.
“No,” she said firmly. “I’m sorry, Sam, but one thing’ll lead to another, and not while that Peeping Tom is loose.” She slammed the door shut.
Waverley unlocked the anteroom door.
“Come in here, Sidney,” he said. “You and I are going to have a fine long talk.”
Waverley explained, slowly and patiently, that what Eskin did wasn’t truly scientific. He tried to show that it was a sexual deviation or overintensification, rationalized as a scientific motive.
“But, Mr. Waverley,” Eskin said, “if I was just peeking at people, that would be one thing. But I write it all down, I use the correct terms; I classify and define. I hope to write a definitive work on the sexual habits of every human being in the world.”
Waverley explained that people have a right to personal privacy. Eskin replied that science came above petty squeamishness. Waverley tried to batter at his fortifications for the rest of the day. But Eskin had an answer for everything, an answer that fit completely into his view of himself and the world.
“The trouble is,” he told Waverley, “people aren’t scientific. Not even scientists. Would you believe it, in the sanitarium the doctors kept me locked in solitary most of the time. Just because I observed and wrote down their sexual habits at home? Of course, being in solitary couldn’t stop me.”
Waverley wondered how Eskin had lived as long as he had. It would have been small wonder if an irate doctor slipped him an overdose of something. It probably required strong self-discipline not to.
“I didn’t think that you were against me,” the psi said sorrowfully. “I didn’t realize that you were so old-fashioned.”
“I’m not against you,” Waverley said, trying to think of some way of dealing with the man. Then, in a sudden happy burst of inspiration, he had it.
“Sidney,” he said, “I think I know of a job for you. A nice job, one you’ll like.”
“Really?” the voyeur said, his face lighting up.
“I think so,” Waverley said. He checked the idea in a recent magazine, located a telephone number, and dialed.
“Hello? Is this the Bellen Foundation?” He introduced himself, making sure they knew who he was. “I hear that you gentlemen are engaged in a new survey on the sexual habits of males of Eastern Patagonian descent. Would you be interested in an interviewer who can really get the facts?”
After a few more minutes of conversation, Waverley hung up and wrote out the address. “Go right over, Sid,” he said. “I think we have found your niche in life.”
“Thank you very much,” the psychotic said, and hurried out.
The next morning Waverley’s first appointment was with Bill Symes, one of Waverley’s brightest hopes, Symes had a fine psi talent in a clear, intelligent mind.
This morning he looked confused and unhappy.
“I wanted to speak to you first, Sam,” Symes said. “I’m leaving my job.”
“Why?” Waverley wanted to know. He had thought that Symes was as well placed and happy as a psi could be.
“Well—I just don’t fit in.”
Symes was able to “feel” stresses and strains in metal. Like most psis, he didn’t know how he did it. Nevertheless, Symes was able to “sense” microshrinkage and porosity faster, and more accurately than an X-ray machine, and with none of the problems of interpretation that an X-ray inspection leaves.
Symes’s talent was on an all-or-nothing basis; either he could do it or he couldn’t. Therefore he didn’t make mistakes. Even though his talent completely shut off forty percent of the time, he was still a valuable asset in the aircraft-engine industry, where every part must be X-rayed for possible flaws.
“What do you mean, you do not fit in?” Waverley asked. “Don’t you think you’re worth the money you’re getting?”
“It’s not that,” Symes said. “It’s the guys I work with. They think I’m a freak.”
“You knew that when you started,” Waverley reminded him.
Symes shrugged his shoulders. “All right, Sam. Let me put it this way.” He lighted a cigarette. “What in hell am I? What are any of us psis? We can do something, but we don’t know how we do it. We have no control over it, no insight into it. Either it’s there or it isn’t. We’re not supermen, but we’re also not normal human beings. We’re—I don’t know what we are.”
“Bill,” Waverley said softly. “It’s not the other men worrying you. It’s you. You are starting to think you’re a freak.”
“Neither fish nor fowl,” Symes quoted, “nor good red meat. I’m going to take up dirt farming, Sam.”
Waverley shook his head. Psis were easily discouraged from trying to get their talents out of the parlor-trick stage. The commercial world was built—theoretically—along the lines of one-hundred percent function. A machine that didn’t work all the time was considered useless. A carry-over of that attitude was present in the psis, who considered their talents a mechanical extension of themselves, instead of an integral part. They felt inferior if they couldn’t produce with machinelike regularity.
Waverley didn’t know what to do. Psis would have to find themselves, true. But not by retreating to the farms.
“Look, Sam,” Symes said. “I know how much psi means to you. But I’ve got a right to some normality also. I’m sorry.”
“All right, Bill,” Waverley said, realizing that
any more arguments would just antagonize Symes. Besides, he knew that psis were hams, too. They liked to do their tricks. Perhaps a dose of dirt-farming would send Bill back to his real work.
“Keep in touch with me, will you?”
“Sure. So long, Sam.”
Waverley frowned, chewed his lip for a few moments, then went in to see Doris.
“Marriage date back on?” he asked her.
“How about Eskin?”
He told her about Eskin’s new job, and the date was set for the following week. That evening they had supper together in a cozy little restaurant. Later they returned to Doris’s apartment to resume their practice of ignoring television.
The next morning, while leafing through his magazines, Waverley had a sudden idea. He called Emma Cranick at once and told her to come over.
“How do you feel about traveling?” he asked the girl. “Do you enjoy seeing new places?”
“Oh, I do,” Emma said. “This is the first time I’ve been off my uncle’s farm.”
“Do you mind hardships? Bitter cold?”
“I’m never cold,” she told him. “I can warm myself, just like I can start fires.”
“Fine,” Waverley said. “It’s just possible . . .”
He got on the telephone. In fifteen minutes he had made an appointment for the poltergeist girl.
“Emma,” he said, “have you ever heard of the Harkins expedition?”
“No,” she said. “Why?”
“Well, they’re going to the Antarctic. One of the problems of an expedition of that sort is heat for emergencies. Do you understand?”
The girl broke into a smile. “I think I do.”
“You’ll have to go down and convince them,” Waverley said. “No, wait! I’ll go down with you. You should be worth your weight in gold to an expedition like that.”
It wasn’t too difficult. Several women scientists were going on the expedition, and after seven or eight demonstrations, they agreed that Emma would be an asset. Strong and healthy, she could easily pull her own weight. Self-warmed, she would be able to function in any weather. And her fire-making abilities . . .
Waverley returned to his office at a leisurely pace, a self-satisfied smile on his lips. Girls like Emma would be useful on Mars someday, when a colony was established there. Heat would be difficult to conserve in Mars’s thin air. She was a logical choice for a colonist.
Things like that reaffirmed his faith in the future of psi. There was a place for all psi talents. It was just a question of finding the right job, or creating one.
Back in the office, a surprise was waiting for him. Eskin, the voyeur, was back. And Doris Fleet had a wrathful look in her eyes.
“What’s wrong, Sid?” Waverley asked. “Back to pay us a visit?”
“Back for good,” Eskin said unhappily. “They fired me, Mr. Waverley.”
“Why?”
“They’re not real scientists,” Eskin said sadly. “I showed them my results on their test cases, and they were shocked. Can you imagine it, Mr. Waverley? Scientists—shocked!”
Waverley suppressed a grin. He had always had a feeling that surveys of that sort uncovered about a sixteenth of the truth.
“Besides, they couldn’t keep their scientific detachment. I ran a series of studies on the scientists’ home lives for a control factor. And they threw me out!”
“That’s a pity,” Waverley said, avoiding Doris Fleet’s look.
“I tried to point out that there was nothing wrong in it,” Eskin said. “I showed them the series I’ve been running on you and Miss Fleet—”
“What?” Doris yelped, standing up so suddenly she knocked over her chair.
“Certainly. I keep my reports on all subjects,” the psi said. “One must run follow-up tests.”
“That does it,” Doris said. “I never heard such a—Sam! Throw him out!”
“What good will that do?” Waverley asked. “He’ll just go on observing us.”
Doris stood for a moment, her lips pressed into a thin line. “I won’t stand for it!” she said suddenly. “I just won’t!” She picked up her handbag and started toward the door.
“Where are you going?” Waverley asked.
“To enter a nunnery!” Doris shouted, and disappeared through the door.
“She wasn’t the girl for you, anyhow,” the psi said. “Extremely prudish. I’ve been observing your sexual needs pretty closely, and you—”
“Shut up,” Waverley said. “Let me think.” No answer sprang into his mind. No matter what job he found for Eskin, the man would still go on with his observations. And Doris wouldn’t marry Waverley.
“Go into the other room,” Waverley said. “I need time to think.”
“Shall I leave my report here?” The psi said, showing him a stack of papers two inches thick.
“Yeah, just drop it on the desk.” The psi went into the anteroom, and Waverley sat down to think.
Over the next few days, Waverley gave every available minute to the voyeur’s problem. Doris didn’t come back to work the next morning, or the morning after that. Waverley called her apartment, but no one answered.
The poltergeist girl left with the Antarctic expedition, and was given a big fanfare by the press.
Two telekinetic psis were found in East Africa and sent to Wild Talents.
Waverley thought and thought.
A man dropped into the office with a trained-dog act, and was very indignant when he heard that Wild Talents was not a theatrical agency. He left in a huff.
Waverley went on thinking.
Howard Aircraft called him. Since Bill Symes had left, Inspection had become the plant’s worst bottleneck. Production had been geared to the psi’s methods. When he was doing well, Symes could glance at a piece of metal and jot down his analysis. The part didn’t even have to be moved.
Under the older method of X-ray inspection, the parts had to be shipped to Inspection, lined up, put under the machine, and the plates developed. Then a radiologist had to read the film, and a superior had to pass on it.
They wanted Symes back.
The psi returned. He had had his fill of farming in a surprisingly short time. Besides, he knew now that he was needed. And that made all the difference.
Waverley sat at his desk, reading over the voyeur’s reports, trying to find some clue he might have missed.
The man certainly had an amazing talent. He analyzed right down to the hormones and microscopic lesions. Now how in hell could he do that? Waverley asked himself. Microscopic vision? Why not?
Waverley considered sending Eskin back to Blackstone. After all, the man was doing more harm than good. Under psychiatric care, he might lose his compulsion—and his talent, perhaps.
But was Eskin insane? Or was he a genius with an ability far beyond the present age?
With a nervous shudder, Waverley imagined a line in some future history book: “Because of Dr. Waverley’s stupidity and rigidity in dealing with the genius Eskin, psi research was held up for—”Oh no! He couldn’t chance that sort of thing. But there had to be a way.
A man who could—of course!
“Come in here, Eskin,” Waverley said to the potential genius.
“Yes, sir,” the psi said, and sat down in front of Waverley’s desk.
“Sid,” Waverley said, “how would you like to do a sexual report that would really aid science? One that would open a field never before explored?”
“What do you mean?” the psi asked dubiously.
“Look, Sid. Straight sexual surveys are old stuff. Everybody does them. Maybe not as well as you, but they still do them. How would you like it if I could introduce you to an almost unexplored field of science? A field that would really test your abilities to the utmost?”
“I’d like that,” the psi said. “But it would have to do with sex.”
“Of course,” Waverley said. “But you don’t care what aspect of sex, do you?”
“I don’t know,” Eskin said.
“If you could do this—and I don’t know that you can—your name would go down in history. You’d be able to publish your papers in the best scientific journals. No one would bother you, and you could get all the help you want.”
“It sounds wonderful. What is it?”
Waverley told him, and watched Eskin closely. The psi considered. Then he said, “I think I could do that, Mr. Waverley. It wouldn’t be easy, but if you really think that science—”
“I know so,” Waverley said, in a tone of profoundest conviction. “You’ll need some texts, to get some background on the field. I’ll help you select them.”
“I’ll start right now!” the psi said, and closed his eyes for greater concentration.
“Wait a minute,” Waverley said. “Are you able to observe Miss Fleet now?”
“I can if I want to,” the psi said. “But I think this is more important.”
“It is,” Waverley told him. “I was just curious as to whether you could tell me where she is.”
The psi thought for a moment.
“She isn’t doing anything sexual,” he said. “She’s in a room, but I don’t know where the room is. Now let me concentrate.”
“Sure. Go ahead.”
Eskin closed his eyes again. “Yes, I can see them! Give me pencil and paper!”
Waverley left him as Eskin began his preliminary investigations.
Now where had that girl gone? Waverley telephoned her apartment again, to see if she had come back. But there was no answer. One by one, he called all her friends. They hadn’t seen her.
Where? Where in the world?
Waverley closed his eyes and thought: Doris? Can you hear me, Doris?
There was no reply. He concentrated harder. He was no telepath, but Doris was. If she was thinking of him . . .
Doris!
Sam!
No message was necessary, because he knew she was coming back.
“Where did you go?” he asked, holding her tightly.
“To a hotel,” she said. “I just waited there and tried to read your mind.”
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