"Let's keep these intentions, these paths, lightly and joyously within our essence as we drift off to sleep."
As I was falling asleep, I hoped that Carol was having better success than I in convincing myself that I had the strength and understanding to resolve our problem. I wanted it resolved, but I didn't want to pay the price. No matter how I argued with myself, I couldn't give up my anxiety about losing Carol.
Finally, exhausted from the struggle, I fell asleep.
CHAPTER 11: Neda
I awakened to the sound of Karl closing the door as he left for his class: It was early, only 7:45. I lay back in bed and wished that Carol was beside me. I wished that I had the power to pull her through time 174 years to the now of my apartment.
I had to smile at the thought of what a sensation Carol would make if I took her to the student union-her magnificent six-foot-three-inch body, her face of incredible classic beauty, and her tremendous joy and vitality would really stir things up. Talk about riots! I could see micro man fighting savagely just to get close to her.
And how would I feel? Well, I thought, from my limited micro perspective, I wouldn't want to share her with anyone, so I wouldn't even let her step out of the apartment!
I finally decided that it was a good thing I couldn't transport Carol to 1976 because 1976 wasn't ready for her, and while I was in 1976 I probably wouldn't be ready for her, either.
This last thought made me wonder what would happen when Carol and I went to Micro Island. Of course, the inhabitants would be used to seeing members of the Macro society, but they often tried to kill these visitors. How would I react if someone tried to kill Carol? I didn't have to think very long about my answer-I would fight and even kill, if I had to, in order to protect her.
Oh, that's great, I thought, now I'm going to Micro Island to perform like a medieval knight errant fighting for the life and honor of his fair lady.
I shook my head in amused frustration. Where Carol was concerned, I was developing some very micro feelings. I decided that I had better practice my Macro powers with micro people today and see if I could do better, than I had at the supermarket. Maybe I could learn how to comfortably deal with micro people before I went to Micro Island. After all, 1976 offered me an ample supply to practice on!
By the time I was through eating I had decided that when I finished writing in my journal I would go looking for threatening situations and see if I could learn to handle them.
Three hours later I was sitting at a table in the seemingly always crowded student union cafeteria drinking hot chocolate and trying to telepathically tune in to the people about me.
At first I picked up the usual micro concerns such as fear about semester. exams, excitement over this evening's basketball game or date, money worries, or frustrations at not being more successful with others. This last frustration was often sexual, particularly from the table full of men near me who were wistfully eyeing the girls as they passed by. It was their scornful sneers at one of the girls who passed that caused me to look up to see the object of their contempt.
She was a tall, thin girl, so gaunt that she appeared almost emaciated. Her hair was long and straight without any luster and hung in untidy disarray about her shoulders. Her face with its bony nose was one of the most unappealing I had ever seen. Her clothes were too loose, too long, and so nondescript that they seemed to hang on her like burlap bags.
I reached out and made contact with her mind and quickly withdrew. Never had I experienced such sadness, such misery, such bitter hopelessness. I shook my head to clear it of the repugnance, then looked at her again.
She was sadly looking about for an empty table where she could be somewhat away from others. It was close to noon and almost all the tables were filled except my small one, which had space for another person across from me. I decided to have her sit at my table. I reached out with my mind and willed her to look at me. She did and I smiled at her, gesturing at the empty seat across from me. She looked behind her and to her side to see if I wasn't addressing someone else, then looked at me with a bewildered and pathetically uncertain gaze. I sent out a flood of warm, confident, accepting thoughts. The change in her expression was slow in coming, but when it came I saw the beginnings of an incredulous look of hope.
I got up as she approached my table and helped her with the tray upon which she was precariously balancing a bowl of soup and a glass of milk. She thanked me in a low whisper, seated herself quickly, and proceeded to occupy herself with her soup, using it almost as a barrier to hide behind.
I continued to bombard her mind with the most loving and accepting thoughts that I could generate.
After about five minutes of my intense struggle to overcome her mental despair and chronic suspiciousness I began to achieve some success. She was feeling much more comfortable with me and was beginning to steal occasional glances at my face. It was then that I decided to try talking with her.
"I'm Jon Lake," I said. "I'm working on my doctorate in psychology."
She looked up at me with a startled expression. I could feel her uncertainty as to how to respond. I smiled my most engaging smile and said, "I guess you're not sure how to take my talking to you when we've never met before. I couldn't help feeling that you were lonely, and I can remember feeling that way myself."
She bobbed her head at me and then stared intently at her empty soup bowl.
I reached deep within her mind and discovered a great longing to respond to me but an equally great fear of being rejected or looking foolish-those two universal fears of micro man. I continued to beam positive, confident, and accepting thoughts to her.
I wondered what her name was and willed her to tell me. There was a short struggle, then she spoke. "My name is Neda Cricksley," she whispered in such a low voice that if I hadn't already picked her name up telepathically I'd have had to ask her to repeat it.
"Neda," I said, "I like that name and I like you, too."
After I said this I realized that for some reason I did like this girl. I had gotten beneath her unattractive surface and made contact with a part of her soul which was very satisfying to me. Without thinking, I reached out and captured one of her thin bony hands.
Again I saw the startled expression on her face, but I willed her to accept my gesture as one of kindness and genuine concern. I could feel the tension in her arm and body slowly subside. I decided it was time to take the next step.
"Tell me about yourself, Neda," I asked. "I want to know all about you." I felt her wondering why I should want to know about her. "Because I like you," I responded to this unspoken thought. "And I think I can help solve some problems that are bothering you."
"How do you know I have problems that you can help me with?" she whispered.
"Well," I replied, "everyone has some problems, and one of my goals in life is to help as many people as possible solve their problems."
She thought about this for a moment, then said, "I want to thank you for being so kind to me. I've never met anyone like you before. I don't know how or why, but I'm convinced that somehow you do like me and you do want to help me. I... I'm very grateful."
"Their you'll let me have the pleasure of getting you dessert," I said. "How about a chocolate sundae, or maybe strawberry?"
She smiled shyly and didn't respond, but I caught her thought of how good a strawberry sundae would taste.
"Okay," I said, "I'll surprise you. All you have to do is save my seat for me."
As I left our table I sent as powerful a thought as I could to the girl at the ice cream counter, and by the time I got to her she was already busily preparing two sundaes, one chocolate and one strawberry. I waited until she finished, thanked her for reading my mind, and paid her for them. All the way back to our table I could see her startled expression and feel her wonderment at the kooky possibility that she really had somehow read my mind.
The strawberry sundae proved to be the final step in overcoming Neda's shyness with me. She began talking ab
out herself. She was a twenty-year-old liberal arts junior who lived off campus with her mother and stepfather. While she didn't say so, I picked up from her mind that she desperately wanted to escape from her tyrannical mother, who hated her for being ugly, and a coarse sneering stepfather who enjoyed tormenting her about her looks.
She didn't know what she wanted to do after college and, while her grades were excellent, going to classes was a torture because of her shyness. She was majoring in English composition and literature, and her one escape was in reading and writing.
As I listened intently to her talking about her happiness in writing short stories, I noticed that the more she talked about this area in her life the more animated her face became. The dark eyes came alive and the voice rose from a whisper to an easily understandable level. I learned from her mind that I was the second person in her life that she had ever talked to about her writing. The first person had been her high school English teacher, an elderly lady who had died shortly after Neda graduated. Since this old woman had been the only friend in her life, her loss had been almost too much for Neda to endure.
I realized that Neda had completely accepted her mother's view of her as being an ugly blight on her parent's lives. Consequently she was filled with self-loathing and massive feelings of worthlessness and inadequacy. It was no wonder that she tried desperately to avoid contact with others, since she believed her appearance was completely revolting to all who saw her.
Now, how could I help Neda? Every night I had access to all the knowledge of the Macro society's Central Information. How could my Macro powers change Neda's life? What did I want to do?
'Well, I thought, I want to help her find a new life in which she can learn to like herself and the world about her. But wouldn't I need all the power and wisdom of a Rana to accomplish such a miracle? As I carefully, but surreptitiously, examined the face and figure of Neda, I wondered if even tenth-level awareness would be sufficient to change Neda's self-concept. But I decided I was going to try.
After questioning Neda about her typing ability and learning that she was a very good typist, I offered her a job typing up notes from the dissertation research that Karl and I had been doing and which he was still working on. When I finally convinced her that I really needed her help and that she would be doing me a great favor by accepting the job, I took the big plunge.
"Neda," I said, "I want you to move out of your mother's home and into an apartment at the building where I live. Yes," I said, forestalling her objection, "I know you don't have much money, but since Karl and I own the building we live in, your rent can be part of your monthly salary. Karl and I will be conveniently located near you so you'll actually be able to function not only as a typist, but also as a sort of research assistant."
I had been talking fast and off the top of my head, but now I paused to check Neda's reaction. She was so overwhelmed by me that resistance seemed impossible. I felt that somewhere in the past hour she had capitulated totally to the loving accepting thoughts I had been sending her. But then, how could a person languishing in hell turn down an invitation to heaven? I told her that I would help her move into her new quarters immediately.
Fifteen minutes later we arrived at her home in a taxi. The house was a run-down two-story stucco located in a fast-decaying neighborhood. I told our taxi driver to wait for us and then accompanied Neda to her door. There she hesitated until I calmly, but firmly, opened the door for her and ushered her inside: I immediately realized why she had hesitated, since charging toward us out of the kitchen was the most formidable-looking old harridan I had ever seen. This was Neda's mother, who was roaring at Neda about being late and eyeing me suspiciously.
After Neda tried to respond to her mother and got shouted down, I decided to lend a hand. I told Neda to go to her room and pack her belongings, then, with a gentle nudge, sent her on her way. I stopped her mother in mid-roar with a mighty PK shove that sent her reeling backwards to land with a thud on the couch.
"Be quiet, Mrs. Cricksley," I said. "I want you to hear what I've got to say."
Her mouth was open but no sound came out, and her eyes were enormous as she finally managed to gasp, "You pushed me!"
"Really, Mrs. Cricksley," I replied, "you know that I didn't touch you. Now pay attention to me. I've offered your daughter a job as typist and research assistant to myself and my partner. We're doing psychological research at the university. I've asked her to take an apartment near the university so she'll be closer to her work. I'll advance her enough on her salary so that she can pay the rent and live quite comfortably. Now do you have any questions?"
Mrs. Cricksley was obviously not used to being dominated and treated in such a confidently imperious manner. She opened and closed her mouth, for all the world like an ugly flounder that has just found itself beached. I decided to keep the pressure on before she could jump back into the water.
"Of course," I continued, "this will relieve you of the considerable financial burden of caring for your daughter and providing her with an education. Naturally her salary will be sufficient, to comfortably cover the tuition for her remaining years of college."
I had decided to go all the way. Since Karl and I had invested our inheritance in the apartment building we lived in, we had more than sufficient funds for our rather modest needs and could afford my project with Neda without too much difficulty.
Mrs. Cricksley was shaking her head in a bewildered manner. Things were happening just too fast for her to comprehend. Was she really going to be able to unload that ugly blight of a daughter? she was thinking. I easily picked up her thoughts. However, it was painful for me to tune into the old woman's mind. There was no physical ugliness that could match the mental ugliness of her mind. It was a seething caldron of spite, greed, jealousy, and crawling hatreds. I withdrew my mind contact with a violent shudder of revulsion.
At that moment Neda entered the room with all her worldly possessions in a small battered suitcase. When her mother protested the ownership of the suitcase I swiftly handed her a twenty-dollar bill saying that I was sure that this would amply repay her. She was still looking greedily at the bill in her hand when I took the suitcase from Neda and hurried her out of the house to the waiting taxi.
Shortly over an hour later, having stopped off at a supermarket (a different one!) and purchased some forty dollars' worth of food, I was busily stocking the refrigerator of Neda's new apartment. It was a large three room apartment with bedroom, living room, and kitchen, and was nicely furnished. Neda walked about it in a happy daze. She kept saying, "I don't know what to say, and I don't know how to thank you, Mr. Lake."
"Please call me Jon," I kept saying as I put away her groceries. "And remember, I live just one floor above you in apartment 303 in case you need anything. I'll have the phone connected tomorrow so you can call me any time.
Neda came partially out of her daze and asked, "But when do I start to work and where?"
"Tomorrow," I said, "you can start to work right here in your apartment. I'll come back this evening with my typewriter, which I'll leave with you. It's a little portable electric. Easy to use."
Then I persuaded her to sit down with me in her comfortable new living room. For the next half-hour I encouraged her to talk about her writing and reassured her that she could continue, taking all the courses she wanted at the university, although I felt she looked upon her new job as an opportunity to drop her courses. All the while I was there, I kept up a steady flow of the most positive and confident telepathic messages. By the time I left her she was almost glowing with happiness and her face didn't look anywhere near as ugly as when I had first seen it.
By the time I got back to my apartment, I was ready for a rest. All this practice of my new powers had taken its toll, and it felt good to sit down. After resting a few minutes I brought this journal up to date.
When Karl came in I handed him my journal and headed for the kitchen to cook up a couple of steaks.
I caught myself
wishing for the mealtime conveniences of 2150.
Since I had left Neda I had tuned in to her every fifteen or twenty minutes to give her another mental shot of loving acceptance and confidence. It seemed to be working well.
Over dinner Karl, and I discussed my project with Neda and I solicited his help. He was perfectly agreeable to my wanting us to help her and said that he would be glad not to have to depend on the university typing pool any longer. I didn't reveal my long-range plans for Neda, which involved shaping an entirely new self-concept for her. I decided I would let Karl meet her and then we could talk further about my plans.
About eight that evening Karl and I went, typewriter in hand, down to Neda's apartment. She welcomed us with a little shyness but talked rather easily with Karl about the typing requirements of our research. I let him do almost all the talking, and when we left, almost an hour later, I was congratulating myself on my progress with Neda. However, Karl brought me back to reality.
"Really, Jon," he said when we were back in our apartment, "you weren't kidding when you said she was homely."
"You weren't very impressed," I commented.
Karl laughed and said, "I was impressed all right! Come on, Jon. She's probably a very nice person, but did you look at her? My God, she's a walking disaster area!"
"Hmm," I responded. "You really think it's that bad, huh?"
Karl shook his head. "You know, it seems to me that if you were going to buy her groceries and provide her with an apartment, you could have at least provided her with some decent clothes, too."
"Yeah, I know, Karl," I agreed, "they're pretty bad. I wanted to fix her up with something better, but I don't know anything about women's clothes. I thought one of your girlfriends could help you pick out some nice things for you to give her."
"You want me to do this?" Karl asked with a startled expression.
"Of course," I explained, "the more positive male attention we can give her, the sooner we'll be able to change her self-concept from one of self-loathing to one of self-confidence."
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