_[15]_
_Pok! Pok! Ping!_
_Pok! Pok! Ping!_
_Pok! Pok! Ping!_
_Pok! Pok! Ping!_
The action around the handball court was beautiful to watch. The robotmechanism behind Bart Stanton would fire out a ball at random intervalsranging from a tenth to a quarter of a second, bouncing them off thewall in a random pattern. Stanton would retrieve the ball before it hitthe ground and bounce it off the wall again to strike the target on themoving robot. Stanton had to work against a machine; no ordinary humanbeing could have given him any competition.
_Pok! Pok! Ping!_
_Pok! Pok! Ping!_
_Pok! Pok!_ PLUNK.
"One miss," Stanton said to himself. But he fielded the next one nicelyand slammed it home.
_Pok! Pok! Ping!_
The physical therapist who was standing to one side, well out of the wayof those hard-slammed, fast-moving drives, glanced at his watch. It wasalmost time.
_Pok! Pok! Ping!_
The machine, having delivered its last ball, shut itself off with a smugclick. Stanton turned away from the handball court and walked toward thephysical therapist, who was holding out a robe for him.
"That was good, Bart," he said. "Real good."
"One miss," Stanton said as he shrugged into the robe.
"Yeah. Your timing was off a shade there, I guess. It's hard for me totell till I look at the slow-motion photographs. Your arms and hands arejust blurs to me when they're moving that fast. But you managed to chopanother ten seconds off your previous record, anyway."
Stanton looked at him. "You reset the timer again," he said accusingly.But there was a grin on his face.
The P.T. man grinned back. "Yup. Come on, step into the mummy case." Hewaved toward the narrow niche in the wall of the court, a niche just bigenough to hold a standing man. Stanton stepped in, and variousinstrument pickups came out of the walls and touched him at variouspoints on his body. Hidden machines recorded his heartbeat, his bloodpressure, his brain activity, his muscular tension, his breathing, andseveral other factors.
After a minute the P.T. man said, "Okay, Bart, that's it. Let's hit thesteam box."
Stanton stepped out of the niche and accompanied the therapist toanother room, where he took off the robe again and sat down on the smallstool inside an ordinary steam box. The box closed, leaving his headfree, and the box began to fill with steam.
"Did I ever tell you just what it is that I don't like about thatmachine?" Stanton asked as the therapist draped a heavy towel around hishead.
"Nope. Didn't know you had any gripe. What is it?"
"You can't gloat after you beat it. You can't walk over and pat it onthe shoulder and say, 'Well, better luck next time, old man.' It isn't agood loser, and it isn't a bad loser. The damned thing doesn't even knowit lost, and even if it did, it wouldn't care."
"Yeah, I see what you mean," said the P.T. man, chuckling. "You beat thepants off it and what d'you get? Nothing. Not even a case of the sulksout of it."
"Exactly. And what's worse, I know perfectly good and well that it'sonly half trying. The stupid gadget could beat me easily if you justturned that knob over a little more."
"Yeah, sure. But you're not competing against the machine, anyway," thetherapist said. "What you're doing, you're competing against yourself,trying to beat your own record."
"I know. And what happens when I can't do _that_ any more, either?"Stanton asked. "I can't just go on getting better and better forever.I've got limits, you know."
"Sure," said the therapist easily. "So does anybody. So does a golfplayer, for instance. You take a golf player, he goes out and practicesby himself to try to beat his own record."
"Bunk! Hogwash! The real fun in _any_ game is beating someone else! Thebig kick in golf is winning over the other guy in a twosome."
"How about crossword puzzles or solitaire?"
"When you solve a crossword puzzle, you've beaten the guy who made upthe puzzle. When you play solitaire, you're playing against the laws ofchance, and that can become pretty boring unless there's money on it.And, in that case, you're actually trying to beat the guy who's bettingagainst you. What I'd like to do is get out on the golf course withsomeone else and do my best and then lose. Honestly."
"With a handicap ..." the therapist began. Then he grinned weakly andstopped. On the golf course, Stanton was impossibly good. It had takenhim a little while to get the knack of it, but as soon as he got controlof his club and knew the reactions of the ball, his score startedplummeting. Now it was so low as to be almost ridiculous. One long driveto the green and one putt to the cup. An easy thirty-six strokes foreighteen holes! An occasional hole-in-one sometimes brought his scoredown below that; an occasional wormcast or stray wind sometimes broughtit up.
"Sure," said Stanton. "A handicap. What kind of a handicap do you wantme to give you to induce you to make a fifty-dollar bet on a handballgame with me?"
The physical therapist could imagine himself trying to get under one ofStanton's lightning-like returns. The thought of what would happen tohis hand if he were accidentally to catch one made him wince.
"We wouldn't even be playing the same game," said Stanton.
The therapist stepped back and looked at Stanton. "You know," he saidpuzzledly, "you sound bitter."
"Sure I'm bitter," Stanton said. "All I ever get is just exercise. Allthe fun has gone out of it." He sighed and grinned. There was no pointin upsetting the P.T. man. "I guess I'll just have to stick to cards andchess if I want competition. Speed and strength don't help anything ifI'm holding two pair against three of a kind."
Before the therapist could say anything, the door opened and a tall,lean man stepped into the foggy air of the room. "You are broiling alobster?" he asked the P.T. man blandly.
"Steaming a clam," the therapist corrected. "When he's done, I'll poundhim to chowder."
"Excellent. I came for a clambake."
"You're early, then, George," Stanton said. He didn't feel much in themood for lightness, and the appearance of Dr. Yoritomo did nothing toimprove his humor.
George Yoritomo beamed broadly, crinkling up his narrow, heavy-liddedeyes. "Ah! A talking clam! Excellent! How much longer does this finespecimen of clamhood have to cook?" he asked the P.T. man.
"About twenty-three more minutes."
"Excellent!" said Dr. Yoritomo. "Would you be so good as to return atthe end of that time?"
The therapist opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again, andsaid: "Sure, Doc. I can get some other stuff done. I'll see you intwenty-three minutes. But don't let him out of there till I get back."He went out through the far door.
After the door closed, Dr. Yoritomo pulled up a chair and sat down."There have been new developments," he said, "as you may have surmised."
The physical therapist, like many other of the personnel around theInstitute, knew of Stanton's abilities, but he didn't know the purposeof the long series of operations that had made him what he was. Suchpersons knew about Stanton himself, but they knew nothing of anyconnection with the Nipe, although they might suspect. And all of themkept their knowledge and their suspicions to themselves.
"I guessed," Stanton said. "What is it, George?" He flexed his musclesunder the caress of the hot, moist currents in the box.
He wondered why it was so important that the psychologist interrupt himwhile he was relaxing after strenuous exercise. Yoritomo looked excitedin spite of his attempt to be calm. And yet Stanton knew that, whateverit was, it wasn't anything tremendously urgent or Dr. Yoritomo would beacting a great deal differently.
Yoritomo leaned forward in his chair, his thin lips in an excited smile,his black-irised eyes sparkling. "I had to come tell you. The sheer,utter beauty of it is too much to contain. Three times in a row wasalmost absolute, Bart. The probability that our hypotheses were correctwas computed as straight nines to seven decimals. But now! The fourthtime! Straight nines to _twelve_ decimals!"
Stanton lift
ed an eyebrow. "Your Oriental calm is deserting you, George.I'm not reading you."
Yoritomo's smile became broader. "Ah! Sorry. I refer to the theory wehave been discussing. About the peculiar mentality of our friend, theNipe. You remember?"
Stanton remembered. After six years of watching the recorded actions ofthe Nipe, Dr. Yoritomo had evolved a theory about the kind of mentalitythat lay behind the four baleful violet eyes in that snouted alien head.In order that his theory be validated, it was necessary that the theorybe able to predict, in broad terms, the future actions of the Nipe.Evidently that proof had now come. The psychologist was smiling andrubbing his long, bony hands together. For Dr. George Yoritomo, that wasalmost the equivalent of hysterical excitement.
"We have been able to predict the behavior of the Nipe!" he said. "Forthe fourth time in succession!"
"Great," Stanton said. "Congratulations, George. But how does that fitin with the rule you once told me about? You know, the one aboutexperimental animals."
"Ah, yes," Yoritomo said, nodding his head agreeably. "The Harvard Lawof Animal Behavior. 'A genetically standardized strain, under preciselycontrolled laboratory conditions, when subjected to carefully calibratedstimuli, will behave as it damned well pleases.' Yes. Very true."
He held up a cautionary finger. "But an animal could not do otherwise,could it? Only as it pleases. Could it do anything else? It could notplease to behave as something it is not, could it?"
"Draw me a picture," Stanton said.
"What I mean," Yoritomo said, "is that any organism is limited in itschoice of behavior. A hamster, for example, cannot choose to behave inthe manner of a rhesus monkey. A dog cannot choose to react as a mousewould react. If I prick a white mouse with a needle, it may squeal orbite or jump--but it will not bark. Never. Nor will it, under anycircumstances, leap to a trapeze, hang by its tail, and chatter cursesat me. Never."
Stanton chuckled, but he didn't comment.
"By observing an organism's reactions," the psychologist continued, "onecan begin to see a pattern. After long enough observation, the patternalmost approaches certainty. If, for instance, I tell you that I put anarmful of hay into a certain animal's enclosure, and that the animaltrotted over, ate the hay, and brayed, then you will be able to tell mewith reasonable certainty whether or not the animal had long ears. Doyou see?"
"Sure. But you haven't been able to pinpoint the Nipe's activities thateasily yet, have you?" Stanton asked.
"Ah, no," said Yoritomo. "Not at all. That was merely an analogy, and wemust not make the mistake of carrying an analogy too far. The moreintelligent a creature is, the greater, in general, is its scope ofaction. The Nipe is far from being so simple as a monkey or a hamster.On the other hand--" He smiled widely, showing bright, white teeth."--he is not so bright as a human being."
"_What?_" Stanton looked at him skeptically. "I wouldn't say he wasexactly stupid, George. What about all those prize gadgets of his?" Heblinked. "Wipe the sweat off my forehead, will you? It's running into myeyes."
Dr. Yoritomo wiped with the towel as he continued. "Ah, yes. He is quitecapable in that respect, my friend. Quite capable. That is because ofhis great memory--at once his finest asset and his greatest curse."
He draped the towel around Stanton's head again and stepped back, hisface unsmiling. "Imagine having a near-perfect memory, Bart."
Stanton's jaw muscles tightened a little before he spoke. "I think I'dlike it," he said.
Yoritomo shrugged slightly. "Perhaps you would. But it would mostcertainly not be the asset you think. Look at it very soberly, myfriend.
"The most difficult teaching job in the world is the attempt to teach anorganism something that that organism already knows. True? Yes. If a manalready knows the shape of the Earth, it will do you no good to teachhim. If he _knows_, for example, that the Earth is flat, but round likea pancake, your contention that it is round like a ball will make noimpression upon his mind whatever. He _knows_, you see. He _knows_.
"Now. Imagine a race with a perfect memory--a memory that never fades. Amemory in which each bit of data is as bright and as fresh as the momentit was imprinted, and as readily available as the data stored in arobot's mind. It is, in effect, a robotic memory.
"If you put false data into the memory banks of a mathematicalcomputer--such as telling it that the square of two is five--you cannotcorrect that error simply by telling it the true fact that the square oftwo is four. No. First you must remove the erroneous data. Not so?"
"Agreed," Stanton said.
"Very good. Then let us look at the Nipe race, wherever it was spawnedin this universe. Let us look at the race a long time back--way backwhen they first became _Nipe sapiens_. Back when they first developed atrue language. Each little Nipe child, as it is born or hatched orbudded--whatever it is they do--is taught as rapidly as possible allthe things it must know in order to survive. And once a little Nipeletis taught a thing, it _knows_. That knowledge is there, and it ispermanent, and it can be brought instantly to the fore. And if it istaught a falsehood, then it cannot be taught the truth. You see?"
Stanton thought about it. "Well, yes. But eventually there are going tobe cases where reality doesn't jibe with what he's been taught, aren'tthere? And wouldn't cold reality force a change?"
"Ah. In some cases, yes. In most, no," said Yoritomo. "Look: Suppose oneof these primordial Nipes runs across a tiger--or whatever largecarnivore passes for a tiger on their home planet. This Nipe, let ussay, has never seen a tiger before, so he does not observe that thisparticular tiger is old, ill, and weak. It is, as a matter of fact, onits last legs. Our primordial Nipe hits it on the head, and it dropsdead. He drags the body home for the family to feed upon.
"'How did you kill it, Papa?'
"'Why, it was the simplest thing in the world, my child. I walked up toit, bashed it firmly on the noggin, and it died. That is the way to killtigers.'"
Yoritomo smiled. "It is also a good way to kill Nipes. Eh?" He took thetowel and wiped Stanton's brow again.
"The error," he continued, "was made when Papa Nipe made thegeneralization from _one_ tiger to _all_ tigers. If tigers were rare,this erroneous bit of lore might be passed on for many generationsunchecked and spread through the Nipe community as time passed. Thosewho did learn that most tigers are _not_ conquered by walking up to themand hitting them on the noggin undoubtedly died before they could passthis new bit of information on. Then, perhaps, one day a Nipe survivedthe ordeal. His mind now contained conflicting information which must beresolved. He _knows_ that tigers are killed in this way. He also_knows_ that this one was not so obliging as to die. What is wrong? Ha!He has the solution! Plainly, _this_ particular beast _was not atiger_!"
"How does he explain that to the others?" Stanton asked.
"What does he tell his children?" Yoritomo asked rhetorically. "Why,first he tells them how tigers are killed. You walk up to one and bashit on the head. But then he warns his little Nipelets that there is ananimal around that looks _just like_ a tiger, but it is _not_ a tiger.One should not make the mistake of thinking it _is_ a tiger or one willget oneself badly hurt. Now, since the only way to tell the true tigerfrom the false is to give it a hit on the head, and since that test mayprove rather injurious, if not absolutely fatal, to the Nipe who triesit, it follows that one is better off if one scrupulously avoids allanimals that look like tigers. You see?"
"Yeah," said Stanton. "Some snarks are boojums."
"Exactly! Thank you for that allusion," Yoritomo said with a smile. "Imust remember to use it in my report."
"It seems to me to follow," Stanton said musingly, "that there wouldinevitably be some things that they'd never learn the truth about, oncethey had gotten the wrong idea into their heads."
"Ah! Indeed. Absolutely true. It is precisely that which led me toformulate my theory in the first place. How else are we to explain thatthe Nipe, for all his tremendous technical knowledge, is nonetheless amember of a society that is still in the ancient ritual-ta
boo stage ofdevelopment?"
"A savage?"
Yoritomo laughed softly. "As to his savagery, I think no one on Earthwould disagree. But they are not the same thing. What I do mean is thatthe Nipe is undoubtedly the most superstitious and bigoted being on theface of this planet."
There was a knock on the door of the steam room.
"Yes?" said Dr. Yoritomo.
The physical therapist stuck his head in. "Sorry to interrupt, but theclam is done. I'll have to give him a rubdown, Doc."
"Perfectly all right," Yoritomo said. "We had almost finished. Thinkover what I have said, eh, Bart?"
"Yeah, sure, George," Stanton said abstractedly. Yoritomo left, andStanton got up on the rubdown table and lay prone. The therapist, seeingthat his patient was in no mood for conversation, proceeded with themassage in silence.
Stanton lay on the table, his head pillowed in his arms, while thetherapist rubbed and kneaded his muscles. The pleasant sensation formeda background for his thoughts. For the first time, Stanton was seeingthe Nipe as an individual--as a person--as a thinking, feeling being.
_We have a great deal in common, you and I_, he thought. _Except thatyou're a lot worse off than I am._
* * * * *
_I'm actually feeling sorry for the poor guy_, Stanton thought. _Which,I suppose, is a hell of a lot better than feeling sorry for myself. Theonly real, basic difference between us freaks is that you're more of afreak than I am. "Molly O'Grady and the Colonel's lady are sisters underthe skin."_
_Where'd that come from? Something I learned in school, no doubt--likethe snarks and the boojums._
_He would answer to_ Hi! _or to any loud cry, Such as_ Fry me! _or_ Fritter my wig!
_Who was that? The snark? No. The snark had a flavor like that ofwill-o'-the-wisp. And I must remember to distinguish those that havefeathers, and bite, from those that have whiskers, and scratch._
Damn _this memory of mine!_
_Or can I even call it mine when I can't even use it?_
_"For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now Iknow in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known."_
_Another jack-in-the-box thought popping up from nowhere._
_The only way I'll ever get all of this stuff straightened out in mymind is to get more information. And it doesn't look as though anyone isgoing to give it to me on a platter, either. The Institute men seem tobe awfully chary about giving information away, even to me. George evenhad to chase away old rub-and-pound (That feels good!) before he wouldtalk about the Nipe. Can't blame 'em for that, of course. There'd behell to pay for everyone around if the general public ever found outthat the Nipe has been kept as a pet for six years._
_How many people has he killed in that time? Twenty? Thirty? How muchblood does Colonel Mannheim have on his hands?_
_Though they know not why, Or for what they give, Still, the few must die, That the many may live._
_I wonder whether I read all that stuff complete or just browsed througha copy of Bartlett's_ Quotations.
_Fragments._
_We've got to get organized around here, brother. Colonel Mannheim'spuppet is going to have to cut his strings and do a Pinocchio._