“Mmmm?” he said, and suddenly looked around. He seemed confused.
“Oh! Oh? What?” he said faintly.
“Would you like me to help you back to bed?”
“Oh. Oh, thank you, yes. Yes, that would be kind.”
Though clearly dazed and bewildered, Mr. Elwes was quite able to get himself back into bed, and all the orderly needed to supply was reassurance and encouragement. Once Mr. Elwes was well settled, the orderly nodded politely to Standish and Kate and made his exit.
Mr. Elwes quickly lapsed back into his trancelike state, lying propped up against an escarpment of pillows His head dropped forward slightly and he stared at one of his knees poking up bonily from under the covers.
“Get me New York,” he said.
Kate shot a puzzled glance at Standish, hoping for some kind of explanation, but got none.
“Oh, OK,” said Mr. Elwes, “it’s five forty-one something. Hold on.” He spoke another four digits of a number in his dead, flat voice.
“What is happening here?” asked Kate at last.
“It took us rather a long time to work it out. It was only quite by the remotest chance that someone discovered it. That television was on in the room . . .”
He pointed to the small portable set off to one side of the bed.
“ . . . tuned to one of those chat program things, which happened to be going out live. Most extraordinary thing. Mr. Elwes was sitting here muttering about how much he hated the BBC—don’t know if it was the BBC, perhaps it was one of those other channels they have now—and was expressing an opinion about the host of the program, to the effect that he considered him to be a rectum of some kind, and saying furthermore that he wished the whole thing was over and that, yes, all right, he was coming, and then suddenly what he was saying and what was on the television began in some extraordinary way almost to synchronize.”
“I don’t understand what you mean,” said Kate.
“I’d be surprised if you did,” said Standish. “Everything that Elwes said was then said just a moment later on the television by a gentleman by the name of Mr. Dustin Hoffman. It seems that Mr. Elwes here knows everything that this Mr. Hoffman is going to say just a second or so before he says it. It is not, I have to say, something that Mr. Hoffman would be very pleased about if he knew. Attempts have been made to alert the gentleman to the problem, but he has proved to be somewhat difficult to reach.”
“Just what the shit is going on here?” asked Mr. Elwes placidly.
“Mr. Hoffman is, we believe, currently making a film on location somewhere on the west coast of America.”
Standish looked at his watch.
“I think he has probably just woken up in his hotel and is making his early morning phone calls,” he added.
Kate was gazing with astonishment between Standish and the extraordinary Mr. Elwes.
“How long has the poor man been like this?”
“Oh, about five years I think. Started absolutely out of the blue. He was sitting having dinner with his family one day as usual when suddenly he started complaining about his caravan. And then shortly afterward about how he was being shot. He then spent the entire night talking in his sleep, repeating the same apparently meaningless phrases over and over again and also saying that he didn’t think much of the way they were written. It was a very trying time for his family, as you can imagine, living with such a perfectionist actor and not even realizing it. It now seems very surprising how long it took them to identify what was occurring. Particularly when he once woke them all up in the early hours of the morning to thank them and the producer and the director for his Oscar.”
Kate, who didn’t realize that the day was still only softening her up for what was to come, made the mistake of thinking that it had just reached a climax of shock.
“The poor man,” she said in a hushed voice. “What a pathetic state to be in. He’s just living as someone else’s shadow.”
“I don’t think he’s in any pain.”
Mr. Elwes appeared to be quietly locked in a bitter argument which seemed to touch on the definitions of the words “points,” “gross,” “profits” and “limo.”
“But the implications of this are extraordinary, aren’t they?” said Kate. “He’s actually saying these things moments before Dustin Hoffman?”
“Well, it’s all conjecture of course. We’ve only got a few clear instances of absolute correlation, and we just haven’t got the opportunity to do more thorough research. One has to recognize that those few instances of direct correlation were not rigorously documented and could more simply be explained as coincidence. The rest could be merely the product of an elaborate fantasy.”
“But if you put this case next to that of the girl we just saw . . .”
“Ah, well, we can’t do that, you see. We have to judge each case on its own merits.”
“But they’re both in the same world . . .”
“Yes, but there are separate issues. Obviously, if Mr. Elwes here could demonstrate significant precognition of, for instance, the head of the Soviet Union or, better still, the President of the United States, then clearly there would be important defense issues involved, and one might be prepared to stretch a point on the question of what is and what is not coincidence and fantasy, but for a mere screen actor—that is, a screen actor with no apparent designs on political office—I think that, no, we have to stick to the principles of rigorous science.
“So,” he added, turning to leave, and drawing Kate with him, “I think that in the cases of both Mr. Elwes and, er, what-was-her-name, the charming girl in the wheelchair, it may be that we are not able to be of much more help to them, and we may need the space and facilities for more deserving cases.”
Kate could think of nothing to say to this and followed, seething dumbly.
“Ah, now here we have an altogether much more interesting and promising case,” said Standish, forging on ahead through the next set of double doors.
Kate was trying to keep her reactions under control, but nevertheless even someone as glassy and Martian as Mr. Standish could not help but detect that his audience was not absolutely with him. A little extra brusqueness and impatience crept into his demeanor to join forces with the large quantities of brusqueness and impatience which were already there.
They paced down the corridor for a few seconds in silence. Kate was looking for other ways of casually introducing the subject of recent admissions, but was forced to concede to herself that you cannot attempt to introduce the same subject three times in a row without beginning to lose that vital quality of casualness. She glanced as surreptitiously as she could at each door they passed, but most were firmly closed, and the ones that were not revealed nothing of interest.
She glanced out of a window as they walked past it and noticed a van turning into a rear courtyard. It caught her attention in the brief instant that it was within her view because it very clearly wasn’t a baker’s van or a laundry van. Baker’s vans and laundry vans advertise their business and have words like “Bakery” and “Laundry” painted on them, whereas this van was completely blank. It had absolutely nothing to say to anyone, and it said it loudly and distinctly.
It was a large, heavy, serious-looking van that was almost on the verge of being an actual lorry, and it was painted in a uniform dark metallic gray. It reminded Kate of the huge gunmetal-gray freight lorries that thunder through Bulgaria and Yugoslavia on their way from Albania with nothing but the word “Albania” stenciled on their sides. She remembered wondering what it was that the Albanians exported in such an anonymous way, but when on one occasion she had looked it up, she found that their only export was electricity—which, if she remembered her high school physics correctly, was unlikely to be moved around in lorries.
The large, serious-looking van turned and started to reverse toward a rear entrance to the hospital. Whatever it was that the van usually carried, Kate thought, it was about either to pick it up or deliver it. She mov
ed on.
A few moments later Standish arrived at a door, knocked at it gently and looked inquiringly into the room within. He then beckoned to Kate to follow him in.
This was a room of an altogether different sort. Immediately within the door was an anteroom with a very large window through which the main room could be seen. The two rooms were clearly soundproofed from each other, because the anteroom was decked out with monitoring equipment and computers, not one of which but didn’t hum loudly to itself, and the main room contained a woman lying in bed, asleep.
“Mrs. Elspeth May,” said Standish, and clearly felt that he was introducing the top of the bill. Her room was obviously a very good one—spacious and furnished comfortably and expensively. Fresh flowers stood on every surface, and the bedside table on which Mrs. May’s knitting lay was of mahogany.
She herself was a comfortably shaped silver-haired lady of late middle age, and she was lying asleep half propped up in bed on a pile of pillows, wearing a pink woolly cardigan. After a moment it became clear to Kate that though she was asleep she was by no means inactive. Her head lay back peacefully with her eyes closed, but her right hand was clutching a pen which was scribbling away furiously on a large pad of paper that lay beside her. The hand, like the wheelchair girl’s mouth, seemed to lead an independent and feverishly busy existence. Some small pinkish electrodes were taped to Mrs. May’s forehead just below her hairline, and Kate assumed that these were providing some of the readings dancing across the computer screens in the anteroom in which she and Standish stood. Two white-coated men and a woman sat monitoring the equipment, and a nurse stood watching through the window. Standish exchanged a couple of brief words with them on the current state of the patient, which was universally agreed to be excellent.
Kate could not escape the impression that she ought to know who Mrs. May was, but she didn’t, and was forced to ask.
“She is a medium,” said Standish a little crossly, “as I assumed you would know. A medium of prodigious powers. She is currently in a trance and engaged in automatic writing. She is taking dictation. Virtually every piece of dictation she receives is of inestimable value. You have not heard of her?”
Kate admitted that she had not.
“Well, you are no doubt familiar with the lady who claimed that Mozart, Beethoven and Schubert were dictating music to her?”
“Yes, I did hear about that. There was a lot of stuff in color supplements about her a few years ago.”
“Her claims were, well, interesting, if that’s the sort of thing you’re interested in. The music was certainly more consistent with what might be produced by each of those gentlemen quickly and before breakfast than it was with what you would expect from a musically unskilled middle-aged housewife.”
Kate could not let this pomposity pass.
“That’s a rather sexist viewpoint,” she said. “George Eliot was a middle-aged housewife.”
“Yes, yes,” said Standish testily, “but she wasn’t taking musical dictation from the deceased Wolfgang Amadeus. That’s the point I’m making. Please try and follow the logic of this argument and do not introduce irrelevancies. If I felt for a moment that the example of George Eliot could shed any light on our present problem, you could rely on me to introduce it myself—Where was I?”
“I don’t know.”
“Mabel. Doris? Was that her name? Let us call her Mabel. The point is that the easiest way of dealing with the Doris problem was simply to ignore it. Nothing very important hinged on it at all. A few concerts. Second-rate material. But here, here we have something of an altogether different nature.”
He said this last in hushed tones and turned to study a TV monitor which stood among the bank of computer screens. It showed a close-up of Mrs. May’s hand scuttling across her pad of paper. Her hand largely obscured what she had written, but it appeared to be mathematics of some kind.
“Mrs. May is, or so she claims, taking dictation from some of the greatest physicists. From Einstein and from Heisenberg and Planck. And it is very hard to dispute her claims, because the information being produced here, by automatic writing, by this . . . untutored lady, is in fact physics of a very profound order.
“From the late Einstein we are getting more and more refinements to our picture of how time and space work at a macroscopic level, and from the late Heisenberg and Planck we are increasing our understanding of the fundamental structures of matter at a quantum level. And there is absolutely no doubt that this information is edging us closer and closer toward the elusive goal of a Grand Unified Field Theory of Everything.
“Now this produces a very interesting, not to say somewhat embarrassing, situation for scientists because the means by which the information is reaching us seems to be completely contrary to the meaning of the information.”
“It’s like Uncle Henry,” said Kate suddenly.
Standish looked at her blankly.
“Uncle Henry thinks he’s a chicken,” Kate explained.
Standish looked at her blankly again.
“You must have heard it,” said Kate. “ ‘We’re terribly worried about Uncle Henry. He thinks he’s a chicken.’ ‘Well, why don’t you send him to the doctor?’ ‘Well, we would, only we need the eggs.’ ”
Standish stared at her as if a small but perfectly formed elderberry tree had suddenly sprung unbidden from the bridge of her nose.
“Say that again,” he said in a small, shocked voice.
“What, all of it?”
“All of it.”
Kate stuck her fist on her hip and said it again, doing the voices with a bit more dash and Southern accents this time.
“That’s brilliant,” Standish breathed when she had done.
“You must have heard it before,” she said, a little surprised by this response. “It’s an old joke.”
“No,” he said, “I have not. We need the eggs. We need the eggs. We need the eggs. ‘We can’t send him to the doctor because we need the eggs.’ An astounding insight into the central paradoxes of the human condition and of our indefatigable facility for constructing adaptive rationales to account for it. Good God.”
Kate shrugged.
“And you say this is a joke?” demanded Standish incredulously.
“Yes. It’s very old, really.”
“And are they all like that? I never realized.”
“Well—”
“I’m astounded.” said Standish, “utterly astounded. I thought that jokes were things that fat people said on television and I never listened to them. I feel that people have been keeping something from me. Nurse!”
The nurse who had been keeping watch on Mrs. May through the window jumped at being barked at unexpectedly like this.
“Er, yes, Mr. Standish?” she said. He clearly made her nervous.
“Why have you never told me any jokes?”
The nurse stared at him and quivered at the impossibility of even knowing how to think about answering such a question.
“Er, well . . .”
“Make a note of it, will you? In future I will require you and all the other staff in this hospital to tell me all the jokes you have at your disposal, is that understood?”
“Er, yes, Mr. Standish—”
Standish looked at her with doubt and suspicion.
“You do know some jokes, do you, nurse?” he challenged her.
“Er, yes, Mr. Standish. I think, yes, I do.”
“Tell me one.”
“What, er, now, Mr. Standish?”
“This instant.”
“Er, well, um—there’s one which is that a patient wakes up after having, well, that is, he’s been to, er, to surgery, and he wakes up and, it’s not very good, but anyway, he’s been to surgery and he says to the doctor when he wakes up, ‘Doctor, doctor, what’s wrong with me, I can’t feel my legs.’ And the doctor says, ‘Yes, I’m afraid we’ve had to amputate both your arms.’ And that’s it really. Er, that’s why he couldn’t feel his legs, you see.�
��
Mr. Standish looked at her levelly for a moment or two.
“You’re on report, nurse,” he said.
“Yes, Mr. Standish.”
He turned to Kate. “Isn’t there one about a chicken crossing a road or some such thing?”
“Er, yes,” said Kate doubtfully. She felt she was caught in a bit of a situation here.
“And how does that go?”
“Well,” said Kate, “it goes, ‘Why did the chicken cross the road?’ ”
“Yes? And?”
“And the answer is ‘To get to the other side.’ ”
“I see.” Standish considered things for a moment. “And what does this chicken do when it arrives at the other side of the road?”
“History does not relate,” replied Kate promptly. “I think that falls outside the scope of the joke, which really only concerns itself with the journey of the chicken across the road and the chicken’s reasons for making it. It’s a little like a Japanese haiku in that respect.”
Kate suddenly found she was enjoying herself. She managed a surreptitious wink at the nurse, who had no idea what to make of anything at all.
“I see,” said Standish once again, and frowned. “And do these, er, jokes require the preparatory use of any form of artificial stimulant?”
“Depends on the joke, depends on who it’s being told to.”
“Hmm, well, I must say, you’ve certainly opened up a rich furrow for me, Miss, er. It seems to me that the whole field of humor could benefit from close and immediate scrutiny. Clearly we need to sort out the jokes which have any kind of genuine psychological value from those which merely encourage drug abuse and should be stopped. Good.”
He turned to address the white-coated researcher who was studying the TV monitor on which Mrs. May’s scribblings were being tracked.
“Anything fresh of value from Mr. Einstein?” he asked.
The researcher did not move his eyes from the screen. He replied, “It says. ‘How would you like your eggs? Poached or boiled?’ ”
Again Standish paused.
“Interesting,” he said, “very interesting. Continue to make a careful note of everything she writes. Come.” This last he said to Kate and made his way out of the room.
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