absolutely wrong.”
Hector tugged at his beard. “This–this long period of sleep. You think it was purely due to sensory overload?”
“No, another factor is involved.”
“Memory!” Kneller exclaimed.
“Precisely. Much, perhaps most, of the overload is not due to present-time input, but to a kind of stock-taking which represents to consciousness all the data already in store.” Malcolm gave a wry smile, passing his fingers through his untidy brown hair. “Believe you me, that’s exhausting! And not entirely pleasant. But in my case at any rate it has come under control–or at least not got out of control.”
Nodding, Kneller said, “It fits. Oh, yes, it all fits.”
“What worries me”–Ruth spoke up with mingled diffidence and defiance–“is this. Malcolm claims he’s perfectly all right now, he feels fine. Maybe he is okay. But the only other person we know about who’s undergone the experience does seem to have suffered some sort of–well, derangement! Giving a capsule of VC to a complete stranger: can you call that rational? Quite apart from the question of using himself as a guinea-pig!”
Once more Kneller and Randolph exchanged meaningful looks. The latter said, “We’re not certain he did dose himself deliberately. You see, the supportive medium we use to–to breed VC, as it were, is volatile, and though we maintain strict precautions it’s true that Dr Post opened the sealed vats several times as often as anybody else. Just one faulty filter-mask could have allowed a threshold quantity to be inhaled.”
“So you know there is a threshold quantity,” Malcolm said.
“Yes, we’ve demonstrated it with rats, chickens, hamsters … It’s tiny. Of the order of a few million molecules.”
“Proportionately, would it be larger or smaller in the case of a human being?”
Randolph hesitated. “Conceivably, smaller. In view of our more complex nervous systems.”
He took a gulp of his half-forgotten beer. “But there’s another reason for assuming Maurice inhaled VC by accident, even though he did later–ah–abstract a sample from the lab, a possible sign of derangement one must concede. You see, he was always meticulous about his research work. We’ve turned over his home, his office, his lab, and found no trace of any record of his experiences. Even if he had decided to experiment on himself without telling us, which I can’t accept, it would have been foreign to his character not to leave a detailed day-by-day description of the consequences.”
“It’s still possible one may be found,” Kneller grunted. “Right this minute our Institute is infested with–”
“Wilfred, you’re not supposed to talk about that!” Randolph snapped.
“The hell with them. I hate their guts, and in particular I hate that smarmy time-serving boot-licker Gifford! He has no right to call himself a scientist!”
“Let me guess,” Malcolm said. “You’ve been invaded by government investigators? Ministry of Defence?”
“Home Office … or so they claim. In fact I think you may well be right. At any rate they have all the nastier habits of the trained security man. Currently they’re looking for records Maurice might have left at a secret address in our computers, and our work is at a standstill. It’s all we can do to keep the test animals fed.”
There was a pause. Eventually Malcolm said, “Wasn’t there mention in the papers of a note which Dr Post left?”
Kneller nodded. “A weirder farrago of rubbish you never saw. That’s why I’m so relieved–I really am–to find you so … well, rational!”
“Do you happen to have a copy?” Malcolm murmured.
Slightly sheepish, Kneller felt in his pocket. “As a matter of fact, I did manage to make a photostat. I’ve spent half Christmas puzzling over it, and I’m no wiser. Here.”
Malcolm took the sheet of paper he was offered, glanced at it, and passed it to Ruth. Having read it more slowly, she exclaimed, “Why,
Hector tugged at his beard. “This–this long period of sleep. You think it was purely due to sensory overload?”
“No, another factor is involved.”
“Memory!” Kneller exclaimed.
“Precisely. Much, perhaps most, of the overload is not due to present-time input, but to a kind of stock-taking which represents to consciousness all the data already in store.” Malcolm gave a wry smile, passing his fingers through his untidy brown hair. “Believe you me, that’s exhausting! And not entirely pleasant. But in my case at any rate it has come under control–or at least not got out of control.”
Nodding, Kneller said, “It fits. Oh, yes, it all fits.”
“What worries me”–Ruth spoke up with mingled diffidence and defiance–“is this. Malcolm claims he’s perfectly all right now, he feels fine. Maybe he is okay. But the only other person we know about who’s undergone the experience does seem to have suffered some sort of–well, derangement! Giving a capsule of VC to a complete stranger: can you call that rational? Quite apart from the question of using himself as a guinea-pig!”
Once more Kneller and Randolph exchanged meaningful looks. The latter said, “We’re not certain he did dose himself deliberately. You see, the supportive medium we use to–to breed VC, as it were, is volatile, and though we maintain strict precautions it’s true that Dr Post opened the sealed vats several times as often as anybody else. Just one faulty filter-mask could have allowed a threshold quantity to be inhaled.”
“So you know there is a threshold quantity,” Malcolm said.
“Yes, we’ve demonstrated it with rats, chickens, hamsters … It’s tiny. Of the order of a few million molecules.”
“Proportionately, would it be larger or smaller in the case of a human being?”
Randolph hesitated. “Conceivably, smaller. In view of our more complex nervous systems.”
He took a gulp of his half-forgotten beer. “But there’s another reason for assuming Maurice inhaled VC by accident, even though he did later–ah–abstract a sample from the lab, a possible sign of derangement one must concede. You see, he was always meticulous about his research work. We’ve turned over his home, his office, his lab, and found no trace of any record of his experiences. Even if he had decided to experiment on himself without telling us, which I can’t accept, it would have been foreign to his character not to leave a detailed day-by-day description of the consequences.”
“It’s still possible one may be found,” Kneller grunted. “Right this minute our Institute is infested with–”
“Wilfred, you’re not supposed to talk about that!” Randolph snapped.
“The hell with them. I hate their guts, and in particular I hate that smarmy time-serving boot-licker Gifford! He has no right to call himself a scientist!”
“Let me guess,” Malcolm said. “You’ve been invaded by government investigators? Ministry of Defence?”
“Home Office … or so they claim. In fact I think you may well be right. At any rate they have all the nastier habits of the trained security man. Currently they’re looking for records Maurice might have left at a secret address in our computers, and our work is at a standstill. It’s all we can do to keep the test animals fed.”
There was a pause. Eventually Malcolm said, “Wasn’t there mention in the papers of a note which Dr Post left?”
Kneller nodded. “A weirder farrago of rubbish you never saw. That’s why I’m so relieved–I really am–to find you so … well, rational!”
“Do you happen to have a copy?” Malcolm murmured.
Slightly sheepish, Kneller felt in his pocket. “As a matter of fact, I did manage to make a photostat. I’ve spent half Christmas puzzling over it, and I’m no wiser. Here.”
Malcolm took the sheet of paper he was offered, glanced at it, and passed it to Ruth. Having read it more slowly, she exclaimed, “Why,
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