Part 6 (1/2)
”That's probably his father,” the voices whispered behind his ears.
”Yes; the archetype. He'll bring up the Mother, too, I'll bet....”
As in those paintings of the primitives where kings and queens are very tall and common folks are very small, Lee saw her now: Mother. That had been just after induction when he had brought her what he thought was joyous news. Her face filled the whole screen. It looked as if composed from jagged ectoplasms, quite transparent except for the eyes. Deep and burning with pain they were, boring into his own. And there was smoke coming out of her mouth and it formed words: ”But, Semper, you are still a child. One mustn't use children for this sort of thing; one mustn't.”
Every letter of these smoke-written words seemed to be flying toward him on wings....
”Terrific,” the voices murmured at Lee's back. ”Remember the case history? She died of cancer six months after he went overseas.” ”Yes, I remember; he's never seen her again. He's probably built up a strong complex out of that one, too.”
On the screen now danced images almost totally abstracted from the realities of the filmed doc.u.mentaries from the war.
They were whirling columns of smoke; they were like the vast, dark interior of a huge thunderhead cloud through which a glider soars, illuminated only by the flashes of lightning as for split seconds they revealed a fraction of some horrible reality: A burning ocean with screaming human faces bobbing in the flames. The whirling tracks of a tank going across some writhing human body and leaving it flat in its tracks, sprawling like an empty coat dyed red. And then the swirling, howling darkness closing in again....
”Interesting eh?” A voice broke through his cataleptic trance and the other answered: ”Beautiful; almost a cla.s.sical case. Great plasticity of imagination.” ”Yes; that's exactly what sets me wondering; the fellow should have cracked up by all the rules of the game.” ”How do we know that he hasn't? Maybe he was psycho and they didn't notice; they had some G.o.dawful a.s.ses for psychiatrists in war medicine. It's quite a possibility; well, his image production is ebbing now; I don't expect anything new of significance, what do you think?” ”Now; we've got what we wanted anyway. Let's take him out of it; but go easy on the rheostats.”
The projector stopped. The masterful, the ghostly fingers which had been playing on the keyboard of his mind very slowly receded from a furious fortissimo to a pianissimo. At first only the flutterings of the diaphragm eased, then the violent palpitations of a foreign pulse slipped off the heart; the liberated lungs expanded; tremors were running through the body as through the ice of a frozen river at spring; and then at last the mind escaped from its captivity.
Gradually as in a cinema after the show the lights reappeared. Blinking, Lee stared at the man who stood over him taking his pulse; it was Bondy.
Mellish stood at the foot of the table with his back to Lee; he seemed to watch some apparatus which made noises like a teletype machine.
Swinging his legs off the table Lee said:
”I'm okay; you needn't hold my hand.”
But then he noticed that he wasn't. His head spun, his whole body was wet with perspiration, he felt very weak and limp. He swayed and buried his face in his hands trying to gain his balance, trying to shake off the trance. ”Excuse me,” he said. ”I'm a bit dizzy.”
As he opened his eyes again the two medics were standing right in front of him and smiling down on him with their bland, professional smiles.
Lee felt the upsurge of intense dislike. He had seen those smiles before, often--too often: they seemed to be standard equipment with the medical profession whenever a fellow was about to be dispatched to the ”table”, or worse, to the psychopathic ward. Instinct told him that there was something in the air and also that his best bet would be a brave show of normalcy:
”This test, these new methods of psychoa.n.a.lysis, they are extremely interesting,” he said with an effort.
”Thank you, Dr. Lee,” it was Mellish who spoke. ”We knew you would find the experience worthwhile even if we put you under a considerable strain. A complete a.n.a.lysis in those olden days of Dr. Freud took three years; now thanks to The Brain we get approximately the same results within as many hours; that's some progress, isn't it?”
”Enormous,” Lee said dryly while his eyes wandered over to Bondy; he knew the pattern, it would be Bondy's turn now to have a shot at him.
There it came; and how he loathed the false heartiness of that voice.
”Dr. Lee, I'm afraid we have a bit of bad news for you--your test--the results have been negative. You have failed.”
”Failed?” For a fraction of a second Lee's heart stopped beating. ”In what sense? And what does that mean?”
Now it was Mellish's turn. ”Dr. Lee, there must be frankness amongst colleagues and as a fellow scientist you'll understand. In the first place the decision isn't ours; we merely conduct the test on behalf of The Brain. The Brain, as you know, is the most highly developed machine in all the world. Its functions, its whole existence depend entirely upon the human skills and the human loyalties amongst its staff. A three-billion-dollar investment, plus the vital role of The Brain in our national defence, justify the extreme precautions which we are forced to take for its protection.”
”What exactly are you driving at?”
”Please don't take it as an insult,” now it was Bondy again. ”There's nothing personal in this. It's merely that your emotional-reaction chart definitely shows a certain antagonism which from childhood-experience and war-experience you have built up against technology. It's nothing but a potential; it is confined to your subconscious. But even a potential danger of subconscious revolt is more than The Brain can risk amongst its a.s.sociates. We fully appreciate the wish of our Dr. Scriven to enlist your very valuable aid, but....”
”I see” Lee interrupted, ”but you would feel safer if I were to return to Australia by the next plane.”