Superstition

by David Ambrose

  “Steady, Roger,” Sam said, not wanting to be left out of this, “Wolfgang Pauli was on Jung's side. They even wrote a book on the subject.”

  “I knew Pauli,” Roger said with a sniff of disapproval. “A genius, but given to flights of fancy, and he drank too much.” He pulled his chair up to the table in a way that suggested the subject was now closed.

  When he had them all around the table, Sam announced the test results on the rap recording that Joanna had heard two days ago. Even Roger, she could see, was genuinely interested.

  “The last session,” Sam continued, “marked a significant breakthrough, and I'm sure we're going to build on it. I suggest that we try to get a conversation going with Adam, first of all putting questions to him and having him answer one rap for yes, two for no.” He glanced around the group, and received nods of general assent.

  “All right,” he said, “let's give it a try.”

  He placed his hands lightly on the table in front of him. The others did the same.

  19

  Perhaps the strangest part of it, Joanna reflected later, was how quickly they all accepted the situation, talking with the imaginary Adam as though it was the most normal thing in the world. Admittedly, the need to phrase everything as a question to which a straight yes or no answer could be given was limiting, but after a while they streamlined the process. They would talk among themselves, sometimes rummaging through the stack of books on the period that they kept in the room, then place their hands on the table and toss a question to Adam that allowed him to confirm or deny something they'd been discussing. Did he know so-and-so? Had he seen this or done that or been there?

  “What were the names of those shady guys Ward mentioned?” Pete asked after a while.

  “Cagliostro and Saint-Germain,” Ward replied. “And of course the Marquis de Sade.”

  “Did you meet any of those guys, Adam?” Pete asked.

  A single rap confirmed that he had. Joanna noticed Ward's eyebrows arch slightly with interest. “All of them?” he asked.

  Another single rap.

  “This boy got around,” Pete remarked under his breath, and jumped slightly when a rap came from the table directly where his hands rested on it.

  “Did you ever see any evidence,” Ward asked, cutting through the murmur of amusement that had run around the table, “that any of them possessed unusual powers?”

  This time there was a pause, then a slightly less firm single rap.

  “You mean you did see something?”

  Another slightly tentative single rap.

  “Can you tell us what it was?”

  This time two raps for no.

  Sam caught Ward's eye, and took over the questioning.

  “I don't believe you saw anything at all, Adam. You're just making this up to please Ward, aren't you?”

  There was a silence lasting for some time, broken by Maggie.

  “Perhaps he doesn't want to talk about it,” she said, clearly not relishing this line of questioning herself. “Is that so, Adam?”

  There was an immediate and loud single rap from the table.

  “Very well, Adam,” Sam said, “if that's what you want, we'll change the subject.”

  Ward shrugged his acquiescence.

  “I want to ask about the political situation,” Barry said. “Adam, was there any point during those five years prior to 1789 when you realized that a violent revolution was inevitable?”

  There was only a slight pause before the table gave two raps for no.

  “Looking back,” Barry continued, “can you see with hindsight that it was-inevitable I mean?”

  A clear, firm rap for yes.

  “Looking back from where exactly?” The question came from Roger and was addressed to Barry.

  “Yeah, that's a good point,” Barry said. “Where exactly is he looking back from?”

  “From here,” Sam said. “He knows everything we know because he's part of us. Isn't that right, Adam?”

  Two very firm raps came from the table. Everyone looked at Sam.

  “It seems that he has a mind of his own,” Roger remarked with faint amusement. “Or thinks he has.”

  Sam grinned, keeping his hands on the table, as did the rest of them. “All right, Adam,” he said, “if you're not here with us, we're going to have to find out where you are.”

  He was about to phrase a question when there was a sound they hadn't heard before. It came from the table, but instead of a rap it was a strange scratching noise, as though something inside the wood was trying to get out.

  They looked at each other in bewilderment, wondering what it meant. Then suddenly Maggie said, “He's trying to write!”

  The explanation was so obvious that no one bothered to comment on it. Sam leaned back and reached behind him for the Ouija board, and they all lifted their hands from the table to make room for it, then placed their fingertips on the pointer.

  Sam repeated his question. “If you're not here with us, where are you?”

  Again there was a silence-long enough for them all to wonder whether they were going to get an answer at all. Then the pointer began to move, slowly at first, but gaining speed. It spelled out “I DO NOT KNOW.” And stopped.

  “That's kind of a tough one to follow,” Joanna said. “What do we ask for a supplementary?”

  There was a ripple of amused agreement from the others.

  “Why don't we just ask him if there's anything he wants to tell us?” Pete suggested. “Is there, Adam? Anything at all?”

  Again there was silence. One by one they all put further questions, each time without response.

  “Do you think he's gone?” Drew asked.

  “Perhaps the problem is that we asked a question that we ourselves have no answer to,” Ward Riley said thoughtfully. “Knowing that Adam is a composite personality created by all of us is one thing. Knowing exactly where he exists between us all is quite another.”

  “Maybe we should go back to asking straight yes or no questions,” Maggie said. “If he needs to spell something out, he'll make that scratching noise again.”

  Once again Maggie's pragmatic common sense was accepted without comment. They went around the table, asking a question each. And once again they were met with silence.

  “He's gone,” Drew repeated. This time it was a statement of fact.

  They all sat back, taking their hands from the table as though acknowledging the truth of what she'd said.

  “I guess that's a wrap for today-no pun intended,” Sam said. Then he glanced at his watch. “Though we've still got some time if anybody wants to try anything.”

  No one seemed in any hurry to get away. But neither did they have any ideas. Barry wandered over to get some coffee. Maggie followed him. Pete got up and stretched luxuriously. Roger turned in his chair and began talking to Joanna.

  “You know what they did in Toronto with the ‘Philip’ experiment?” Pete said, taking the coffeepot from Maggie and pouring himself a cup. “Sometimes they used to sing to it and tell jokes. Hey, Adam, how about that? Would you like us to sing to you?”

  The rap that came from the table took them all by surprise, not just because of its strength, but because nobody was anywhere near it. They all stopped what they were doing and turned to look first at the table, then at one another, as though seeking confirmation of what had just happened.

  “He's back now,” Joanna said, “and with a vengeance.” She turned to look at Pete. “Okay, Pete, it's your idea. You'd better decide what you're going to sing.”

  “Hey, I can't even carry a tune,” he protested. “You're all gonna have to give me some help here.” Nobody spoke. “Oh, come on, now,” he appealed to them, “we're all in this together!”

  Once again they all exchanged looks, this time in a general attitude of, well, what the hell, why not?

  “So what do we want to sing?” Sam asked. “Show tunes? A Gregorian chant or two? Elvis? The Beatles? Greensleeves?”

  Si
nce they had no sheet music, it had to be something they all knew the words to by heart, which significantly limited their choice. They finally settled on “Ten Bottles of Beer,” reducing it to “Eight” since there were only eight of them around the table.

  Ward said he thought he could recall how it went, but he still had to be reminded of the tune by a quick solo from Barry.

  Pete started, and they all joined in the chorus at the end of his verse. Then Maggie took over, surprising them with a powerful and attractive soprano. Sam sang with great energy, but slightly off key. Next came Ward, revealing a singing voice considerably richer and more resonant than his speaking voice. It was during the chorus following Ward's solo that the table started to beat time.

  Once again it was obvious to everyone there that no one was touching the table with hand or foot. At first they faltered, but the table thumped on with such emphatic rhythm that they picked up the tempo and sang more loudly. When they'd finished their eight verses, the steady drumbeat they'd been hearing became a series of pitter-patterings that seemed to roll around the tabletop, creating a sound that was uncannily like applause.

  They were all so taken by this unexpected and somehow touching development that they broke into delighted laughter, like children.

  “He likes us! Guess you want another one-right, Adam?” Pete said, and there were no protests when the table, still untouched by any of them, delivered a reverberating rap in the affirmative.

  It took them only moments to determine that they could all manage at least a few lines of “Tom Brown's Body,” but the tune was so strong that it didn't seem to matter if they sang nonsense lyrics when they forgot the real ones. Certainly it didn't bother Adam, who thumped along as enthusiastically as before, and delivered an even louder round of applause at the end.

  “Okay, what now?” Pete asked, looking around the group.

  The table gave several more thumps of encouragement, obviously not wanting the fun to stop yet.

  “Pete, for heaven's sake,” Drew protested, laughing, “if you keep on asking, he's going to keep on saying yes.”

  “Only if we want him to! As long as he wants more, it means we're enjoying ourselves. Anybody got an idea for a song?”

  “Anything you like,” Sam said, “as long as it's not ‘My Way.’”

  They managed a robust verse or two of “America the Beautiful,” then Barry suggested the “Marseillaise,” the words of which were in one of the books they had in the room. However, their combined French accents being nothing to boast about, they dispensed with the words altogether and merely bellowed the tune at the tops of their voices. They wound up with a ragged and hoarse “Hello, Dolly!” Then, with much laughter and clearing of throats and some coughing, and accompanied by Adam's vigorous applause, they got up to pour themselves coffee or to get cold drinks from the fridge.

  “My goodness, will you look at the time!” The exclamation from Maggie caused them all to glance at their watches. To their surprise, they had overrun their usual two hours by almost forty minutes. “I have to meet my daughter. I'll be late if I don't hurry.”

  She bustled around, picking up her purse and coat. As she did so, a curious rumble started in the center of the room, causing everyone to turn.

  The table was moving of its own accord, vibrating and bumping across the concrete floor, picking up speed as it went. It traveled in a dead straight line, finally slamming with the force of a hammer blow across the door through which Maggie was intending to depart, blocking it completely.

  Nobody spoke. It was as though they couldn't believe the literal truth of what they'd just seen and were waiting for someone to confirm it for them.

  Finally it was Sam who said quietly, “He doesn't want her to go. Is that right, Adam?”

  A firm thump, deep and resonant, came from the table, which stayed where it was.

  Maggie made a little gasping sound, and the hand that went to her mouth was trembling.

  “It's all right,” Sam said, watching her. “He likes you, that's all. Which isn't surprising, because we all do.” He started forward. “Give me a hand, will you, Barry?” he asked casually.

  There was no resistance as, one at each side, they picked the table up and carried it back to the center of the room and put it down where it had been. It stayed there, as though whatever force had been in it had been neutralized by their touch.

  “Sorry if we've made you late, Maggie,” Sam said. “Our apologies to your daughter-and we'll see you next week.”

  “Yes. Good night.” The words were barely a whisper as she hurried across the room, through the door, and disappeared up the stairs.

  Those who remained were strangely subdued, not wanting to talk about the incident and using the lateness of the hour to leave quickly. In the end only Joanna and Sam remained, along with Pete, who was busy with the cameras and recording equipment at one side.

  “Got it!” he exclaimed triumphantly, after playing back a fragment on a small monitor screen. “It's fantastic, Sam. We've got the whole damn thing in perfect living color!”

  20

  Two things got Joanna off the hook with her editor. The first was a video of the table slamming around the room of its own accord. The second was Roger Fullerton's offer to let his name be used in her article.

  “One of the world's leading physicists endorsing a spook hunt? That's historic! I won't ask how you did it, but congratulations.”

  He winked. She wished he hadn't. Taylor Freestone did not have the gift of casual intimacy, though he liked to believe it was one of his many social graces.

  “Forget the UN. I'll put somebody else on the Kennedys. You're back on this full time.”

  She walked to the restaurant where she was meeting Sam and Roger for lunch. Roger's offer to let his name be used had surprised her as much as it had delighted Sam. “I still think it's all a waste of time and probably a complete dead end,” he'd said, typically enough. “But there's obviously something going on, and I don't mind standing up and saying so.”

  The rest of the group, aside from Pete and Sam himself, still chose to remain anonymous. Barry didn't think it would do much for his plumbing sales to be thought of as something out of the ordinary. Joanna told him he reminded her of her mother. He laughed and said he would try to take it as a compliment. Drew went along with Barry. Maggie shrank from the idea of any invasion of her privacy. Ward Riley, too, preferred not to be named.

  Sam and Roger stood up as she approached. It was the same restaurant and the same table at which she and Sam had first lunched together after the incident with Ellie Ray outside the television studio. She marveled for a second at how far in the past all that seemed now. They could see that she was pleased about something, and she told them about her editor's decision. Roger, whose treat lunch was, ordered a bottle of champagne.

  “Here's to you both,” he said, raising his glass. “I'm willing to admit, Sam, that you've proven your point. My only question now is what exactly is your point?”

  Joanna pressed the start button on her tape recorder, which she had set down on one corner of the table. The real purpose of this lunch, apart from general sociability and an enjoyment of one another's company, was to provide further background for what she was writing.

  “ My question,” Sam said, “is whether what we have seen is a violation of local causality or not.”

  Attuned as he was by now to the slightest interrogatory twitch of Joanna's eyebrow, he leaned forward and picked up a metal pepper shaker, moving it a few inches on the white tablecloth. “That is local causality. If, however, I'd moved my hand through the air, and somebody else's pepper shaker on another table, or even in a different restaurant, had moved…that would be nonlocal causality.”

  “Or at least,” Roger demurred, “it would appear to be.”

  “Local causality is a central plank of our concept of reality,” Sam continued. “On a commonsense level it's obvious that nothing moves unless you push it.”

  “B
ut we've seen that it does,” Joanna said.

  Roger held up a cautioning finger. “Ah, but have we? If there were some invisible force that emanated from our minds and pushed things around in the way that that table was pushed around the other day, then local causality would be restored. Unfortunately there is absolutely no evidence that such a force exists.”

  “But we saw that it exists,” Joanna protested. “Surely it could be electromagnetism or ‘mindwaves,’ or some function of the nervous system. Or something — ‘psi,’” she added as a last desperate suggestion, and saw Roger's mouth turn down with disapproval. “I know,” she said, “you're allergic to that word.”

  “Unexplained phenomena do not suddenly become explained just by sticking a meaningless label on them.”

  “At least we've gotten you to accept that unexplained phenomena exist,” Sam remarked with a chuckle, proffering his glass as the waiter returned to refill their champagne and distribute menus.

  “I've never doubted that such things exist,” Roger responded imperturbably. “Lightning was unexplained until man discovered electricity.” He opened his menu with a deft flick of his fingers, like a conjuror producing something out of thin air. Conversation was suspended for some minutes while they ordered.

  “I want to go back to what you were saying about nonlocality,” Joanna said. “The general impression that people like me have, nonscientific laymen, is that quantum physics has been coming up with stuff since the turn of the century that makes nonsense of all our commonsense ideas of cause and effect.”

  “That's true only up to a point,” Roger said. “I've always thought there should be some law against the kind of psychobabbling New Age half-wits who invoke quantum physics as justification for any and all of their grab bag of muddled theories…”

  He stopped as Sam began mischievously winding an invisible handle in the air.