End to Ordinary History

by Michael Murphy

  Looking around at them, Kirov relaxed. Face to face, the group was not as forbidding as he had thought it might be. Whoever had chosen its members had been lenient, thinking perhaps that other reviews would be more critical in the weeks to come. Tougher questions would be asked higher up, especially in the Academy’s ruling Praesidium.

  But one of the psychologists broke the genial atmosphere. “Have you confidence in this UFO study?” he asked Kirov with clear disdain. “Your interviews with peasant ladies were criticized at our institute. We were surprised to find them here. The hypnotic regressions you used are quite suspect. . .”

  But his words were interrupted. Muhammad Khan came in, bent but stately in an Uzbek robe, his lined, bearded face shining with humor and kindness. He smiled at each person in turn, fixing them with his shrewd green eyes. Kirov felt a thrill. How a man of such presence could thrive in the politics of the religious boards was a testimony to Islam, he thought, or to some Sufi path he must follow. The two psychologists avoided his glance, and Karpov seemed slightly annoyed. Only Strugatsky and Alexeyev returned the sheik’s look with steady faces.

  “Kirov,” the old man sighed. “What entertainments do you have for us? I am intrigued by your summaries.” He took a roll of papers from his robe and shook them sternly. “But I have written warnings on them with some lines from the Koran you might not like.” He nodded toward the psychologist who had been speaking. “But I interrupted you,” he said. “Please go on.”

  The psychologist continued with his objections to the UFO study, then deferred to his colleague from the university. With a flat, metallic voice, the second psychologist began to criticize psychic research. He reminded the group that throughout its long history the field of parapsychology had produced uncertain results in the Soviet Union and the West. Kirov could see by the reactions that this would be a lively discussion. The two psychologists, it was clear, would oppose him.

  “The tone of these summaries is disturbing,” continued the second psychologist, who appeared to be the senior of the two. “One gets the feeling in reading them that psychic research produces consistently positive results. But that is not the case. The American, Rhine, gets only—what is it?—a one percent positive result after forty years of work. And he has been criticized for not reporting his negative findings. Vasiliev’s work was the same. There is general agreement at the university that such research cannot be trusted. Our colleagues are adamant about it.”

  “And yet there is enormous interest in these fields,” Leonid Karpov said with ostentatious irony. “You must know how many Westerners come to the Soviet Union in search of our psychic discoveries!” He held up an American book on the subject that he had indirectly helped to write. “Some come from Western intelligence agencies. Other governments are interested in these matters.”

  “But not Western scientists,” the senior psychologist said. “In a poll of academic opinion in the United States, seventy to eighty percent of the scientists interviewed said there was no such thing as ESP. Most of the others were neutral. It is not governments that are interested, only a few members of them. Without meaning offense, I must say that there are superstitious people everywhere. That book is an excellent example. As disinformation, of course, it was a masterpiece.”

  Karpov seemed unoffended at the psychologist’s remark. “It is not hard,” he replied with a smile, “to convince Westerners that Russia is doing mysterious things. It isn’t hard to guide them to people like Edward Naumov.” The mention of Naumov brought smiles from the psychologists. The man was famous in Moscow for his attempts to rally support for parapsychology among both Russians and Westerners. Soviet academics had tried to silence him on several occasions.

  “But Comrade Karpov,” Kirov said. “We do have projects like those the Americans imagine: Project Elefant, the Yoga Institute in Tashkent, our psychokinesis projects at the universities. Foreign intelligence is not stupid in these matters. I even hear that our space program is conducting experiments.” From Strugatsky’s look Kirov knew he was aware of the experiment on the Marichuk flight. “So we must keep this in perspective. Our government has been committed to work in these fields for more than fifteen years, and now the Americans are in it, too. You have our espionage reports. Our academicians do well to remind us about the uncertainty of psychic research, but they must not forget our government’s continuing interest in the subject.”

  Having appraised each man at the table, Kirov had decided that Alexeyev, Karpov, and Strugatsky were the three he would try to persuade. All would have influence in the Academy’s Praesidium. The psychologists would aid his arguments by their predictable negativity. It was as if this committee had been chosen by someone friendly to his cause.

  “We are not questioning people’s belief in the subject.” The senior psychologist frowned. “We are only saying that ESP is a phantom effect.”

  “Our concern in this study,” Kirov answered affably, “goes beyond ESP, of course. You have our summaries. I think it will help our discussion, though, if I develop the lines of our thinking.” He looked around to them all for agreement that he should proceed. Muhammad Khan’s nod held a hint of reassurance.

  “We may disagree,” Kirov began, “about the extent of foreign governments’ support for psychic research, but none of us can deny the growing interest abroad in the mind’s greater mysteries. To keep track of foreign work with hypnosis and parapsychology, our Academy and universities now employ several translators. At least one hundred articles a month on these subjects are translated from English, French, and German into Russian. And more translators are needed for work on biofeedback, meditation, sports psychology, super-learning, creativity, and the physiology of altered states. These fields are developing swiftly abroad, and are beginning to attract interest here among people in all walks of life. Students in all our universities are calling more attention to them.” Kirov glanced at the psychologists. “And some of our professors, too. Even now, the Academy of Social Sciences is proposing a study of traditional cultures like those in the Caucasus to see what their shamans might teach us. At Kazakh State University, studies of the bio-field are well advanced. Everywhere, students and professors alike are considering issues like those now before this commission. What is the nature of our hidden reserves? they ask. How may we harness our powers for health and creativity? How may our self-imposed limits be overcome? We deny this call by our students and academics at our nation’s risk. If we do not respond, they will pursue these interests in private, often in bizarre and destructive ways. By sponsoring such explorations, though, the government and the Academy would stimulate our people’s creative energies rather than deny them. They would demonstrate our scientific and cultural innovation for all the world to see. To that end, I have proposed the all-union institute on hidden reserves described in my report. It would sponsor research in the fields I have mentioned, and help coordinate similar programs at various universities and institutes. Are there any questions so far?”

  Alexeyev’s small blue eyes had a sly look. “Eminently sensible,” he said, pulling at his beard. “What you have said so far cannot be argued. But I expected something more interesting, about our cosmonauts’ visions perhaps!”

  Kirov couldn’t tell whether Alexeyev was trying to be helpful or not. “The visions will come later,” he said. “And you will find them entertaining, indeed. But the mandate of this commission calls for practical proposals first. We are asked to find ways in which unusual capacities like those revealed through hypnosis and parapsychology might be understood and developed. The Committee for Science and Technology asks if such an effort might contribute to the solution of our larger social problems. They have suggested that the study of creativity, for example, might help us develop more gifted scientists and engineers, more teachers and diplomats. They ask if the study of ancient healing methods might help the sick, or if the study of the bio-field might increase our understanding of will and emotion. In their mandate to the Academy they l
ist fourteen disciplines neglected by conventional science that might contribute to the national good. The Soviet Union, they argue, leads the world in some of them—like the study of the bio-field. It is a national disgrace if we do not support them simply because they cause controversy among our academics. You may read the Committee’s statement if you like. It is included in the files I will give you.”

  Kirov stood and handed each member of the group documents to supplement his report. There was silence while everyone examined them.

  The two psychologists looked sullen and a little confused. “I think you are exaggerating the scientific status of parapsychology abroad,” the older one said. “I have never met a European scientist who believed in ESP. You are wrong to call the subject a challenge from the West.”

  “That is what many Soviet scientists said about cybernetics,” Kirov said. “We were ten years late getting into the field, as everyone at this table knows, and that has cost us dearly in computers and navigational systems. We’ve been wrong about new findings in genetics and in the field of general relativity. By avoiding controversial work, Soviet science often fails to capitalize on its native strengths. This is especially true with hidden reserves. Our nation could lead the world in this field, but our academics neglect the subject and some campaign against it. But why? If something interests our people and stimulates their creativity, why not trust it? Our people seem gifted in fields like parapsychology . . .”

  “You are talking about my field,” Alexeyev interrupted. “Given our ethnic richness, the study of shamanism should be more advanced here than anywhere else in the world. But we are crippled by the desire for respectability. If I were to publish my observations of Siberian shamans, the Academy would reprimand me and discourage the circulation of my articles abroad. The truth is, I would be nervous telling this group what I’ve seen. Our cosmonauts’ apparitions would be everyday events for some of the sorcerers I’ve seen.”

  Again there was silence. The senior psychologist picked up one of Kirov’s files and read it with irritation. Everyone but the sheik studied the documents on the table.

  Muhammad Khan, however, was absorbed in meditation. “In your written summaries,” he murmured, “you said there were certain ‘inexplicable events’ that prompted this study, events ‘alarming to our ordinary view of the world.’ Could you give us examples of them? So far, what you have said is not alarming, though it might make some of us unhappy.” He glanced at the psychologists. “Kirov, your study is very careful—I have seen it all before. But the results of research in these fields are modest. What are the inexplicable events you referred to?”

  Muhammad Khan was opening the way for an account of Marichuk’s visions. Kirov decided to follow his lead. Emphasizing the caution he felt about the incident, he told the story step by step: his contacts with Lester Boone and the German industrialists, their loan of Ramón to Project Elefant, and the boy’s possessions during his attempts to contact the capsule. As he described the incident, he reached for papers by his side. “This story is so incredible,” he said, shoving a folder to the center of the table, “that you might want to see this statement from the directors of the cosmonaut mission confirming the telepathic attempts.”

  “Is this story true?” Karpov turned to Strugatsky. “It sounds like one of our disinformation efforts.”

  The space scientist made no attempt to qualify Kirov’s remarks. “The story is correct,” he said without emotion. “Though our interpretations of it may differ.”

  “I would like to hear yours,” Kirov said. “You have studied the space-capsule tapes more than we have, and you know about the cosmonauts. Is there any connection between the mens’ visions and the apparitions in Novosibirsk? Three people at Project Elefant saw something like Marichuk’s apparition. The coincidence is striking.”

  “I haven’t talked to the people in Novosibirsk,” Strugatsky answered coolly. “Though these papers make a case for the similarity. Yet it is all so far-fetched. I am not clear about the connection you see. You think there were something like ghosts involved?” He smiled with genuine amusement. “Or what? Certainly you don’t mean that.”

  “It is extremely far-fetched.” Kirov returned Strugatsky’s look of amusement. “But we must stay with the facts. You can find them in the protocols of Project Elefant. No one there knows about the capsule incident, even now. You have heard the tapes yourself. Everyone here should do that. Both men were convinced they saw a luminous ‘humanoid’ shape that wanted to communicate. Marichuk watched it for nearly three hours! But how to understand it? I would like to suggest a straightforward answer—that some kind of force was involved, a force with extension in space and a guiding intelligence. Remember, it appeared to six people: Marichuk, Doroshenko, the boy Ramón, and three people at Project Elefant. The similarity is undeniable.”

  “The tapes are terrifying,” Strugatsky said gravely, looking around at the others. “I think each of you should hear them. They are much more vivid than the transcripts in Kirov’s report.”

  “This incident,” Kirov said, “is strange beyond belief. But as scientists we should remember how often such visions occur to stable and unsuspecting people. Most of us are ignorant of this. That is why I have included our UFO study; not to argue that men in spaceships come from other planets, but to demonstrate the frequency and intensity of these visions among all sorts of people here and abroad. Of course, this does not prove that there is an objective reality to the things these people have seen, but it is suggestive. And thirdly, our older traditions bear witness to such phenomena.” He leaned back with an ironic smile. “I know this violates all our modern instruction, but undeniable correspondences exist between the ancient descriptions of such events and the naïve perceptions of people like our cosmonauts. Many people we’ve interviewed over the last ten years have seen things like Marichuk’s apparition. We are dealing with something that will not go away, something intrinsic to human nature, something that transcends cultural conditioning and common sense. Surely it deserves study.”

  “You are forcing a big pill down our throat,” the senior psychologist said. “These things may be worthy of study, but to leap from there to ‘older traditions’—I hope you don’t mean angels. I’d like to hear what our representative from the space program says about these men.”

  “It was a shock to us,” Strugatsky said. “Marichuk had been a pilot for fifteen years and had no nervous problems. I have studied his file for weeks. There was nothing to warn us about this incident. Nothing. Our entire staff has reviewed it. Since the early 1960s we have not accepted anyone into the cosmonaut program who has had a mental breakdown, because we learned in our first flights that any kind of instability might worsen in space. We have been extremely careful. I invite you to review our files.”

  “Now, Kirov,” the senior psychologist said with a frown, “what connection do you see between these apparitions and the telepathy experiment? You believe the Argentine boy awakened some kind of ‘disembodied entity? I hope you realize how preposterous that sounds.”

  “Able scientists entertain these notions,” Kirov answered. “Several have confided their interest to me. If we count bodies, of course, you will win. But science does not progress by taking votes. It proceeds on the basis of facts and helpful theories. I am simply proposing that our government encourage a more thorough study of these things. These questions, finally, are forcing themselves upon us.”

  “You can’t count bodies to do science,” Boris Alexeyev said wearily. “And you can’t count angels to understand God. Do you know that saying, Kirov?”

  Kirov nodded, puzzled at the anthropologist’s intent.

  “You cannot count angels,” Alexeyev said with a resonant voice. “But counting them is only one problem. How can you get them to sit still? Shamans have tried to show them to me, but they have always moved too fast.” He blinked as if some imaginary form had just flown past him, and everyone except the psychologists smiled.

&nb
sp; “These scientists who have confided in you,” the senior psychologist said with contempt, “what have they said about disembodied entities? Have they seen them?”

  “At the Yoga Institute in Tashkent,” Kirov answered, “a study of yogis is underway. Psychologists there have produced illusions among unsuspecting subjects, and attribute them to telepathic suggestion. They have also discussed the possibility that such efforts might empower energies we know nothing about. In the yoga tradition, there is a distinction between hallucination and subtle entities, the same kind of distinction that exists in Islam.” He nodded toward Muhammad Khan. “And in every other traditional psychology.”

  “Not only is there such a distinction,” the sheik said quietly, “but even finer differences between the kinds of apparitions one might see in contemplative practice.” The old man fixed the gaze of each psychologist in turn, then turned to Strugatsky. “The point is clear, I think. This incident raises questions that must be answered. It is good that our government has asked for this study.”

  Karpov and Strugatsky nodded their agreement. Would they back his proposal, Kirov wondered. The chemistry of the meeting, it seemed, had put them on his side.

  It was time to end his presentation by showing them Atabet’s maps. Kirov briefly described the incident and held up Strelnikov’s note of confirmation. But as he did, there was a noise at the door. An argument had started in the hallway. Then, without warning, Kozin came into the room. “Comrade Kirov,” he said with a shaking voice, “you did not give me the correct time for this meeting. And the man at the door doesn’t have my name on his list! What is the meaning of this?”

  Though Kirov felt a sense of shock, he did not show it. “You are not on the committee,” he said calmly. “It must be your mistake.”

  Kozin stood trembling by the secretary, holding a paper for them all to see. “Then explain this!” he said. “This is the original committee list. I was never told about my removal from it!”