The Kindness of Women by J. G. Ballard

England, still trapped by its memories of the Second World War, for the third war yet to come. Then the atomic flash that I had seen over Nagasaki would usher these drab fields and the crumbling gothic of the university into the empire of light.
    *   *   *
    Every afternoon, as I left the dissecting room, I passed the blue Chevrolet parked outside the Psychology Department, owned perhaps by some visiting Nobel Prizewinner from Harvard or M.I.T. Admiring the car, and the Stan Kenton gramophone record on the rear shelf, I noticed a windshield sticker inviting volunteers to take part in a new experimental project. Almost all the department’s volunteers were medical students, who could be counted on to walk the treadmills with electrical leads taped to their chests and ride exercise bicycles without gagging into the mouthpieces.
    I hesitated before pushing back the swing doors of the designated office, wondering if I would rather spend the afternoon with one of the physiology demonstrators and her cracked nails. A lecturer knelt on the floor, hard at work repairing an electric coffee percolator. He ignored me until he had finished and handed the machine to a tall, dark-haired schoolgirl in her late teens who was standing beside the secretary’s desk.
    â€œGood … Coffee first, psychology second.” Looking up at me, he asked: “Another victim? We need all the volunteers we can get. Miriam, fill out his death certificate.”
    Already I had recognised the rising star of the Psychology Department, Dr. Richard Sutherland, presumably the owner of the Chevrolet and the Stan Kenton record. More like a film actor than a Cambridge don, he was a handsome Scotsman with a shock of red hair that he combed out to maximum effect. He wore basketball sneakers, tartan shirt, and jeans, clothes seen in Cambridge only on off-duty American servicemen. On the wall behind him were the wooden propeller of a Tiger Moth, a New Jersey licence plate, and a framed photograph of himself with von Neumann. Sutherland had taken his doctoral degree at Princeton, and it was even rumoured that he had appeared on television, inconceivably fast behaviour for a Cambridge academic.
    He cast an affable eye over me, as if he already had a serviceable grasp of my motives. “You’re a first-year med…? How did I guess? The formalin—you all smell like Glasgow undertakers. Let me show you what we’re testing.”
    Watched by the schoolgirl’s approving but arch eyes, he took me rapidly through the experiment, which would test the persistence of after-images in the optical centres of the brain.
    â€œYou’ll find it fascinating—you can actually see the brain working—assuming you medicos have a brain, something Miriam inclines to doubt. First we’d like you to fill out this questionnaire. We need to get an idea of your psychological profile. Do introverts have more persistent after-images than extroverts? Nothing personal, we don’t need to know if you lusted after your grandmother.”
    â€œShe lusted after me.”
    â€œThat’s the spirit. Miriam, take over, he’s ready to confess.”
    â€œI’m looking for the thumbscrew, Dr. Richard.”
    Sutherland lifted an American ski jacket from the door peg. “Miriam’s in the sixth form at the Perse School, she’s helping out while my secretary has a baby. See you after my lecture.”
    He left us while Miriam took me through the questionnaire. She read out the entries in a mock-solemn voice, strong eyes watching me without expression as I fumbled over my replies. Her fingers played with the beads of her bracelet, as if adding up her first impressions of me. A modest score, I guessed. Despite the school uniform, she was only a year younger than me, and in complete command of the office, handling the bulky folders like an experienced bookkeeper. Her loosened school tie, creased tunic, and the laboratory