by Mark Clifton
"Now suppose, within that framework, a biologist fished a minnow out of a stream, carried it dry to his laboratory and proceeded to analyze it. You and I know the minnow would die in transit. Now he observes that it does not breathe air, and could not have breathed air down in the water, therefore it does not represent a life form at all. That is his real world condition, isn't it?"
"Yes,” he agreed hesitantly. “But there would be so many other evidences that it does represent life. He would have to be extremely stupid not to recognize that his basic rules defining life were wrong.
"Let us concede,” I said dryly, “that he is very stupid. But let us be kind. Let us say that it is the entire framework of thought in which he finds himself which is stupid. All his life, he has been educated to this framework. Science and society have weighted him down with immutable laws. To question them would represent nothing less than chaos."
"Yes,” he urged me now to go on.
"We come along, you and I, and we operate in a different framework of thought. In our world condition, fish obtain oxygen directly from water. But we could not prove that to him."
"I don't see-"
"Look,” I said patiently, “since his base law requires life to breathe air, he would demand, as proof of our contention, that we show it breathing air. We couldn't do it. He will not give up the foundation of his science. We can't prove our claim until he does."
"Stalemate,” Auerbach agreed. “But where does that leave us?"
"It leaves us with the conception that there may be any number of frameworks, separated from one another by perhaps the thinnest of partitions, each containing its own set of real world conditions, natural laws, consistent within itself, obeying its own logic, having its own peculiar cause-effect sequences."
"And one of these substitutes down for up?” he asked skeptically.
"Some of the most noted thinkers the world has ever produced contend that the mind is the only reality,” I said slowly. “Now suppose we have a child of an ignorant parent. The child has been neglected, left to vegetate alone in its room, never associates with other children, never has the opportunity to learn what our framework of thinking calls natural law, real world conditions. Such a child might formulate for itself a real world matrix quite different from ours."
Auerbach was silent, but looked at me fixedly.
"For one example, it might take things very literally,” I said. “It might form natural laws out of slang phrases. The child's mother uses the phrase, ‘It just burns me up.’ Suppose then the child, when it was vexed, just literally ‘burned things up.’ Ever hear of a poltergeist?"
"Oh come now, Kennedy,” he remonstrated, “that fairy tale stuff."
"There are hundreds of carefully documented case histories,” I said, without getting heated about it. “Refusal to look at poltergeist phenomena is on the order of the biologist refusing to consider the minnow alive. Things just catch on fire where these poltergeists are. Things just fly through the air where they are. There must be an explanation. We know that."
"We have some statements to that effect,” he corrected.
"We have some statements about what is our own basic natural law, too,” I countered. “And that's all we have. Just some statements."
"And such statements apply only within the partitions of the framework?” he asked, neither skeptically nor in agreement. He looked up at the cylinder again. “So your explanation for that is a poltergeist phenomenon?” he mused.
"Yes."
"I wish you had some other explanation,” he said. “I don't like that one. Almost any other kind of an explanation would be better."
"So do I,” I answered in complete agreement, “but that's the only one I've got. You see, I saw a poltergeist activate it. Apparently the force of her mind, acting on it, stored it with impulses from her own framework of reality. It would not be particular what it learns, so long as what it learns is consistent with the process used in learning it."
He sighed deeply. “I wish that biologist hadn't picked up that minnow,” he said, wistfully.
* * * *
After my secretary had made suitable protocol negotiations with the general manager's secretary, I headed for Old Stone Face's office, Mr. Henry Grenoble, that is. On the way out of my office, I had trouble with my feet. I was almost floating as I walked along, carrying the cylinder. I detoured over by Receiving and surreptitiously weighed myself on the scales. They read thirty pounds.
"Obviously out of order,” I found myself giggling, and wondered if the mood had anything to do with my sensation of weightlessness. Suddenly from the odd looks of employees, it occurred to me that I was buoyantly tripping down the corridor on my toes and giggling to myself. I blushed and tried to look stern. It wasn't easy to stride purposefully when you weren't sure your feet were touching the floor. I hoped they wouldn't think I was drunk, or worse.
"Morning, Henry,” I said to the general manager, and received his noncommittal nod. I wasn't his fair-haired boy, but neither was I a thorn in his side. We got along all right by mutual and tacit agreement to leave one another alone. It was the regret of his life that such inefficient machines as people had to be used in his plant, and he was glad enough to leave their management to my care.
I walked over to a straight chair, put the cylinder down under its seat, and watched the chair float upward toward the ceiling. Old Stone Face watched it, too.
I had the satisfaction of seeing a slight widening of his eyes, a quick breath, and a slight thinning of his lips. Obviously, he thought it cataclysmic. I pulled the chair down by grabbing hold of one of its legs, and retrieved the cylinder.
I stooped down and placed it under one corner of the desk.
"Lift,” I said.
He took hold of the desk corner hesitantly, as if he were reaching for a pen to sign a raise authorization. The desk corner tilted upward and slid some papers off on to the floor. I reached under and pulled out the cylinder. I handed it to him, this time taking care that it didn't shoot out of his hands toward the ceiling. He felt how heavy it was, in reverse. Out of habit, he laid it down on the desk top, but I was ready for that. I grabbed it about two feet up in the air. Too many broken up ceilings would really start gossip in the building maintenance crew.
Old Stone Face reached for it again, and headed for his little private bathroom. I followed him to the door, and watched him step on the scales. He came out, and handed me the cylinder.
"And I've been trying to do it by dieting,” he commented. He sat down at his desk and picked up the phone.
"Get me the Pentagon,” he commanded. “Yes, sure, the one in Washington. I don't suppose anybody's walked away with that in their pocket yet. The last time I was in Washington it was still there.” He put the receiver back on the hook. “She wants to know if I mean the one in Washington,” he commented without expression.
"Now took, Henry,” I said warily, “aren't you jumping the gun a little? You haven't asked any questions. You don't know what this is. You don't know how it was made. You don't know any of the scientific principles behind it. You don't know if we've got legal rights to it. You don't know how it works or why."
"Details,” he said contemptuously. “You've got it, haven't you? A man made it, didn't he? What a man can make once he can make again, can't he? What do I care about the legal details? We got lawyers, haven't we? What do I care about scientific hows and whys? We got experts, haven't we? Why should I ask questions at all? We got antigravity, haven't we? Don't answer. I know the answers.
"They weren't precisely the questions I would have asked, but then, each to his own framework. Then it struck me with a twist of my stomach muscles. I hadn't realized. I'd been so busy thinking about poltergeists and frameworks of different natural law. I'd been thinking in terms of cybernetics, ability to store impulses, even wrong ones.
"Could be antigravity,” I agreed in an awed tone.
"What else did you think it was?” he asked.
"I'd r
ather not say,” I murmured.
"Who made it?” he asked.
"Auerbach, partly,” I answered.
"Who's he?"
"Research chemist. Works under Boulton."
"Why didn't Boulton bring it to me? Don't answer. Boulton wouldn't believe it would work. What do we keep Boulton around here for? Don't answer. I hired him. Well don't just stand there. Tell Auerbach to get busy. Promote him. Tell him to put them into mass production."
"It's not that simple,” I said, and wondered how to tell him.
"Don't give me alibis.” His face took on an expression which he apparently hoped was conciliatory. “Ralph, don't you start giving me any of this stall about further research, testing, difficulties, all that folderol. Just put it into production."
"It's a custom made job,” I said, trying to slow him down. “Only an experimental model."
"Custom made today, production line tomorrow,” he shook his head in exasperation. “Well, what's holding you up?"
"Money, for one thing,” I clutched at the first excuse I could think of, and wished it were as simple as that.
He grabbed the phone again.
"Get me the controller,” he barked, and waited. “Tim! What took you so long? Give Kennedy all the money he wants!” He listened for a moment and then turned to me. “He wants to know if you'll need more than a hundred dollars. He's got systems, or something.” He turned back to the phone without waiting for my reply. “Well,” he conceded, “I didn't actually mean all the money he wants. Let me know if he draws over a million dollars."
He took the receiver away from his ear and looked at it in puzzlement.
"Must have fainted,” he commented dryly, and hung up.
"But,” I tried to object, thinking how the organization would be split wide open if I went out into the plant and started carrying out his instructions-all the noses out of joint, the toes stepped on. “I'm just the personnel director. I'm not a plant superintendent. I can't go around building buildings, setting up production lines-even if I knew how."
"Get going,” he said. “I don't want any more alibis. All I want is a steady stream of antigravity units. That's not too much to ask for, I'm sure!"
"Maybe a million dollars won't do it,” I said hopefully, and truthfully, as I reached for the door.
"Well, all right,” he almost shouted. “We'll get a billion, then. We'll get a hundred billion. What do you think we got taxpayers for?"
"You've been spending too much time in Washington,” I commented, as I went through the door. “You're beginning to talk like them.
"Maybe Old Stone Face hadn't heard about things which money can't buy-such as a little girl who looks at you from behind strings of black hair. Maybe he hadn't heard about frameworks where money wasn't a consideration. Maybe he hadn't heard about a matrix where the question, “If you're so smart, why ain't you rich?” was on the order of the question, “if it's alive, why don't it breathe air?” Maybe he hadn't heard about frameworks, period.
I hoped I wouldn't have to be the one to tell him about them.
Annie Malasek was waiting for me in the outer personnel waiting room. She had little Jennie by the hand. Annie looked stem, Jennie looked penitent. Annie stopped me as I started past her.
"I just came over to tell you, Mr. Kennedy,” she began, “I found out what Jennie did to your nice office last night. I whipped her good. Tell Mr. Kennedy you're sorry, Jennie.” She looked down at Jennie sternly, and squeezed her hand.
"I'm sorry,” Jennie mumbled.
"Tell Mr. Kennedy you won't do it again,” Annie went on remorselessly.
"I won’ do it again,” Jennie repeated dutifully.
"Tell Mr. Kennedy you're going to be a good little girl from now on, and not burn things up or throw things,” Annie pursued with a determined gleam in her eye.
"Good girl,” Jennie murmured, and rubbed the arch of one foot with the toe of the other.
I looked at them both, and for once I didn't have anything to say.
* * * *
There were more conferences with Auerbach. Yes, he could produce more cylinders. Some of the synthetic protein strings were a bit tricky, but otherwise it wouldn't be difficult to duplicate the cylinder. No, just an ordinary laboratory would do, at least until we went into mass production. That's nice, he'd always wanted to be a department head. The latter was said absently, and I doubted he had even heard me.
"How are you going to activate the cylinders?” he asked curiously. I noticed the particular use of the second person pronoun, because in everything else it was “we.” Activating them was not his responsibility.
There were conferences with Boulton, whose nose was out of joint that Auerbach had been taken out from under his jurisdiction without consulting him about it. For the sake of organization I had to mollify him. There were conferences with the plant superintendent, who could throw all sorts of petty hazards in my way if he were pulling against me. There were conferences with the controller, the carpenter boss. In short there were people, and therefore there were personal tensions to be unsnarled.
* * * *
There was another conference in Old Stone Face's office, this time with a pink cheeked colonel, sent out as an advance scout from the Pentagon. From the look of him it was the most dangerous scouting mission he had ever tried. His pink cheeks grew red as he watched me go through my act with the antigrav cylinder. His pink cheeks grew purple when I evaded his questions with something approaching idiocy. He was certainly not one I wished to introduce to frameworks and partitions. He was a rocket man, himself.
Auerbach was at that conference, and where I had been idiotic, the good doctor was a glib double talker. He sounded so impressive that it didn't occur to anybody he wasn't making sense.
Since the colonel didn't believe what he saw, and didn't understand what he heard, the brass staff, deployed well back of the front lines, would have got a very poor report from their advance scout had we not been Computer Research and had not Old Stone Face been a frequent visitor to the Pentagon. In this case the colonel was afraid to embroider what he saw with too much of his own opinion. We were duly notified of an impending visitation from a full dress parade of brass and braid. Stirred to unusual action, no doubt, by the plaintive and public outcry of a country-boy Congressman, “But what do all of them do, over there in that big building?"
During this time my staff, like good boys and girls, took over the burden of my work without complaint. I spent a great deal of my time in Auerbach's new laboratory.
We tried all sorts of attempts to make the antigrav aspect of the first cylinder rub off on others he had made. We let them lay coyly side by side for hours and days. We lashed the first to another and let it zoom up to the now padded ceiling. We tried shocking them, freezing them, heating them. Nothing worked. Either the new cylinders had already learned that down was down-that old tired framework-or more likely hadn't learned anything at all.
We thought at them. We stood there, Auerbach and I, working singly, working in tandem, thinking at them. Apparently our thoughts didn't amount to much; or we had learned too early in life that you can't get any effect on a physical object by just thinking about it. They just lay there, fat, oily, and inert.
Auerbach went back to his test tubes and beakers, trying to see if antigrav wasn't inherent, somehow, in the chemical arrangements. He had accepted the hypothesis of other frameworks as an intellectual exercise, but he still hoped to prove they were not a reality, that the aspect could be accounted for within the framework he knew. He had not accepted the partitions, that his real world condition was circumscribed, confined, limited.
I went back to Jennie.
* * * *
Obviously, to me, it was the mental force of her fear, hatred, anger, survival potential, whatever it was, acting through whatever framework she had devised for herself, which activated the first cylinder. So I gave up being stubborn, and called for little Jennie Malasek once more.
She c
ame in the door of my office and stood as she had before. This time her hair was pulled back tightly and tied with a ribbon. So she hid behind a glaze over her eyes, instead.
I had about a dozen of the cylinders on the top of my desk, and had a lot of mixed hope and hopelessness within me. I wondered if the admonishments of her mother had had any basic effect upon her. I wondered if the additional attention she was now getting over in the nursery, since the teachers had learned I had taken notice of her, had changed anything in her.
"I didn't tell your mother on you, when you messed up my office that time,” I said as an opening sentence.
She didn't answer, just looked at me impassively. But it did seem that she blushed a little. Had she grown ashamed of throwing things and burning things up?
"Just a secret between you and me,” I said. “I don't think it is wrong to throw things the way you did. I think it was very clever."’ She didn't answer.
"I wish you would do it again. I'd like to see you do it."
"I can't,” she whispered in a very small voice. “I'm a good girl now.
Oh no. Character doesn't change that fast. Maybe she thought she was a good girl, but down underneath-
"I don't think you're a good girl,” I said with a sneer. “I think you're a very naughty girl, a nasty little girl."
I hoped, how I hoped she would flare up in anger, or protection, and hurl the cylinders at me. I hoped to get a face full of ashes, and office full of broken windows and flying cylinders.
Her face still did not change its expression. She still stood there, impassive. Her only reaction was two large, crystal tears which formed in the corners of her eyes and began to roll slowly down her cheeks.
I flipped my intercom and called Sara.
"Take her back to the nursery, Sara,” I said wearily.
Sara came in, saw the tears, and without speaking to me, she took Jennie's hand and led her away.
I sat at my desk and hated myself with contempt and loathing. There were times when I didn't like my job-when I didn't like myself for being skilled enough to do it. There were times when people became a little more than just some material to be shaped and directed into the best use for it.