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It can be annoying to be constantly shadowed; to have nasty gossip aboutyou spreading through the places where you work and live; to find yourtires slashed; to be accosted by truculent drunks when you stop in for aquick one; to have loud horns blow under your window every night. And itdoesn't do much good to call the police; your petty tormentors alwaysfade out of sight.
Fraser was sitting in his room some two weeks later, tryingunsuccessfully to concentrate on matrix algebra, when the phone rang. Henever picked it up without a fluttering small hope that it might beJudy, and it never was. This time it was a man's voice: "Mr. Fraser?"
"Yeah," he grunted. "Wha'dya want?"
"This is Robert Kennedy. I'd like to talk to you."
Fraser's heart sprang in his ribs, but he held his voice stiff. "Go on,then. Talk."
"I want you to come up to my place. We may be having a longconversation."
"Mmmm--well--" It was more than he had allowed himself to hope for, buthe remained curt: "Okay. But a full report of this business, and what Ithink you're doing, is in the hands of several people. If anythingshould happen to me--"
"You've been reading too many hard-boileds," said Kennedy. "Nothing willhappen. Anyway, I have a pretty good idea who those people are; I canhire detectives of my own, you know."
"I'll come over, then." Fraser hung up and realized, suddenly, that hewas sweating.
The night air was cool as he walked down the street. He paused for amoment, feeling the city like a huge impersonal machine around him,grinding and grinding. Human civilization had grown too big, he thought.It was beyond anyone's control; it had taken on a will of its own andwas carrying a race which could no longer guide it. Sometimes--readingthe papers, or listening to the radio, or just watching the traffic goby like a river of steel--a man could feel horribly helpless.
He took the subway to Kennedy's address, a swank apartment in the lowerFifties. He was admitted by the psychiatrist in person; no one else wasaround.
"I assume," said Kennedy, "that you don't have some wild idea of pullinga gun on me. That would accomplish nothing except to get you introuble."
"No," said Fraser, "I'll be good." His eyes wandered about the livingroom. One wall was covered with books which looked used; there were somequality reproductions, a Capehart, and fine, massive furniture. It was atasteful layout. He looked a little more closely at three pictures onthe mantel: a middle-aged woman and two young men in uniform.
"My wife," said Kennedy, "and my boys. They're all dead. Would you likea drink?"
"No. I came to talk."
"I'm not Satan, you know," said Kennedy. "I like books and music, goodwine, good conversation. I'm as human as you are, only I have apurpose."
Fraser sat down and began charging his pipe. "Go ahead," he said. "I'mlistening."
Kennedy pulled a chair over to face him. The big smooth countenancebehind the rimless glasses held little expression. "Why have you beenannoying me?" he asked.
"I?" Fraser lifted his brows.
Kennedy made an impatient gesture. "Let's not chop words. There are nowitnesses tonight. I intend to talk freely, and want you to do the same.I know that you've got Martinez sufficiently convinced to help you withthis very childish persecution-campaign. What do you hope to get out ofit?"
"I want my girl back," said Fraser tonelessly. "I was hoping mynuisance-value--"
* * * * *
Kennedy winced a bit. "You know, I'm damned sorry about that. It's theone aspect of my work which I hate. I'd like you to believe that I'm notjust a scientific procurer. Actually, I have to satisfy the minordesires of my clients, so they'll stay happy and agree to my majorwishes. It's the plain truth that those women have been only theminutest fraction of my job."
"Nevertheless, you're a free-wheeling son, doing something like that--"
"Really, now, what's so horrible about it? Those girls are in love--thenormal, genuine article. It's not any kind of zombie state, or whateveryour overheated imagination has thought up. They're entirely sane,unharmed, and happy. In fact, happiness of that kind is so rare in thisworld that if I wanted to, I could pose as their benefactor."
"You've got a machine," said Fraser; "it changes the mind. As far as I'mconcerned, that's as gross a violation of liberty as throwing somebodyinto a concentration camp."
"How free do you think anyone is? You're born with a fixed heredity.Environment molds you like clay. Your society teaches you what and howto think. A million tiny factors, all depending on blind, uncontrollablechance, determine the course of your life--including your love-life....Well, we needn't waste any time on philosophy. Go on, ask somequestions. I admit I've hurt you--unwittingly, to be sure--but I do wantto make amends."
"Your machine, then," said Fraser. "How did you get it? How does itwork."
"I was practicing in Chicago," said Kennedy, "and collaborating on theside with Gavotti. How much do you know of cybernetics? I don't meancomputers and automata, which are only one aspect of the field; I meancontrol and communication, in the animal as well as in the machine."
"Well, I've read Wiener's books, and studied Shannon's work, too."Despite himself, Fraser was thawing, just a trifle. "It's excitingstuff. Communications-theory seems to be basic, in biology andpsychology as well as in electronics."
"Quite. The future may remember Wiener as the Galileo of neurology. IfGavotti's work ever gets published, he'll be considered the Newton. Sofar, frankly, I've suppressed it. He died suddenly, just when hismachine was completed and he was getting ready to publish his results.Nobody but I knew anything more than rumors; he was inclined to besecretive till he had a _fait accompli_ on hand. I realized what anopportunity had been given me, and took it; I brought the machine herewithout saying much to anyone."
Kennedy leaned back in his chair. "I imagine it was mostly luck whichtook Gavotti and me so far," he went on. "We made a long series ofimprobably good guesses, and thus telescoped a century of work into adecade. If I were religious, I'd be down on my knees, thanking the Lordfor putting this thing of the future into my hands."
"Or the devil," said Fraser.
Briefly, anger flitted across Kennedy's face. "I grant you, the machineis a terrible power, but it's harmless to a man if it's usedproperly--as I have used it. I'm not going to tell you just how itworks; to be perfectly honest, I only understand a fraction of itstheory and its circuits myself. But look, you know something ofencephalography. The various basic rhythms of the brain have beenmeasured. The standard method is already so sensitive that it can detectabnormalities like a developing tumor or a strong emotional disturbance,that will give trouble unless corrected. Half of Gavotti's machine is astill more delicate encephalograph. It can measure and analyze theminute variations in electrical pulses corresponding to the basicemotional states. It won't read thoughts, no; but once calibrated for agiven individual, it will tell you if he's happy, sorrowful, angry,disgusted, afraid--any fundamental neuro-glandular condition, or anycombination of them."
He paused. "All right," said Fraser. "What else does it do?"
"It does _not_ make monsters," said Kennedy. "Look, the specificemotional reaction to a given stimulus is, in the normal individual,largely a matter of conditioned reflex, instilled by social environmentor the accidental associations of his life.
"Anyone in decent health will experience fear in the presence ofdanger; desire in the presence of a sexual object, and so on. That'sbasic biology, and the machine can't change that. But most of ourevaluations are learned. For instance, to an American the word 'mother'has powerful emotional connotations, while to a Samoan it means nothingvery exciting. You had to develop a taste for liquor, tobacco,coffee--in fact most of what you consume. If you're in love with aparticular woman, it's a focusing of the general sexual libido on her,brought about by the symbolizing part of your mind: she _means_something to you. There are cultures without romantic love, you know.And so on. All these specific, conditioned reactions can be changed."
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"How?"
* * * * *
Kennedy thought for a moment "The encephalographic part of the machinemeasures the exact pulsations in the individual corresponding to thevarious emotional reactions. It takes me about four hours to determinethose with the necessary precision; then I have to make statisticalanalyses of the data, to winnow out random variations. Thereafter I putthe subject in a state of light hypnosis--that's only to increasesuggestibility, and make the process faster. As I pronounce the wordsand names I'm interested in, the machine feeds back the impulsescorresponding to the emotions I want: a sharply-focused beam on thebrain center concerned.
"For instance, suppose you were an alcoholic and I wanted to cure you.I'd put you in hypnosis and stand there whispering 'wine, whisky, beer,gin,' and so on; meanwhile, the machine would be feeding the impulsescorresponding to your reactions of hate, fear, and disgust into yourbrain. You'd come out unchanged, except that your appetite for alcoholwould be gone; you could, in fact, come out hating the stuff so muchthat you'd join the Prohibition Party--though, in actual practice, itwould probably be enough just to give you a mild aversion."
"Mmmm--I see. Maybe." Fraser scowled. "And the--subject--doesn'tremember what you've done?"
"Oh, no. It all takes place on the lower subconscious levels. A new setof conditioned neural pathways is opened, you see, and old ones areclosed off. The brain does that by itself, through its normalsymbolizing mechanism. All that happens is that the given symbol--suchas liquor--becomes reflectively associated with the given emotionalstate, such as dislike."
Kennedy leaned forward with an air of urgency. "The end result is in noway different from ordinary means of persuasion. Propaganda does thesame thing by sheer repetition. If you're courting a girl, you try toidentify yourself in her mind with the things she desires, byappropriate behavior.... I'm sorry; I shouldn't have used thatexample.... The machine is only a direct, fast way of doing this,producing a more stable result."
"It's still--tampering," said Fraser. "How do you know you're notcreating side-effects, doing irreparable long-range damage?"
"Oh, for Lord's sake!" exploded Kennedy. "Take your mind off that shelf,will you? I've told you how delicate the whole thing is. A fewmicrowatts of power more or less, a frequency-shift of less than onepercent, and it doesn't work at all. There's no effect whatsoever." Hecooled off fast, adding reflectively: "On the given subject, that is. Itmight work on someone else. These pulsations are a highly individualmatter; I have to calibrate every case separately."
There was a long period of silence. Then Fraser strained forward andsaid in an ugly voice:
"All right You've told me how you do it. Now tell me _why_. Whatpossible reason or excuse, other than your own desire to play God? Thisthing could be the greatest psychiatric tool in history, and you'reusing it to--pimp!"
"I told you that was unimportant," said Kennedy quietly. "I'm doing muchmore. I set up in practice here in New York a couple of years ago. OnceI had a few chance people under control--no, I tell you again, I didn'tmake robots of them. I merely associated myself, in their own minds,with the father-image. That's something I do to everyone who comes underthe machine, just as a precaution if nothing else, Kennedy is all-wise,all-powerful; Kennedy can do no wrong. It isn't a conscious realization;to the waking mind, I am only a shrewd adviser and a damn swell fellow.But the subconscious mind knows otherwise. It wouldn't _let_ my subjectsact against me; it wouldn't even let them want to.
"Well, you see how it goes. I got those first few people to recommend meto certain selected friends, and these in turn recommended me to others.Not necessarily as a psychiatrist; I have variously been a doctor, acounsellor, or merely a research-man looking for data. But I'm buildingup a group of the people I want. People who'll back me up, who'll followmy advice--not with any knowledge of being dominated, but because theworkings of their own subconscious minds will lead them inevitably tothink that my advice is the only sound policy to follow and my requestsare things any decent man must grant."
"Yeah," said Fraser. "I get it. Big businessmen. Labor-leaders.Politicians. Military men. And Soviet spies!"
* * * * *
Kennedy nodded. "I have connections with the Soviets; their agents thinkI'm on their side. But it isn't treason, though I may help them out fromtime to time.
"That's why I have to do these services for my important clients, suchas getting them the women they want--or, what I actually do more often,influencing their competitors and associates. You see, the subconsciousmind knows I am all-powerful, but the conscious mind doesn't. It has tobe satisfied by occasional proofs that I _am_ invaluable; otherwiseconflicts would set in, my men would become unstable and eventuallypsychotic, and be of no further use to me.
"Of course," he added, almost pedantically, "my men don't know how Ipersuade these other people--they only know that I do, somehow, andtheir regard for their own egos, as well as for me, sets up a bloc whichprevents them from reasoning out the fact that they themselves aredominated. They're quite content to accept the results of my help,without inquiring further into the means than the easy rationalizationthat I have a 'persuasive personality.'
"I don't like what I'm doing, Fraser. But it's got to be done."
"You still haven't said _what's_ got to be done," answered the engineercoldly.
"I've been given something unbelievable," said Kennedy. His voice wasvery soft now. "If I'd made it public, can you imagine what would havehappened? Psychiatrists would use it, yes; but so would criminals,dictators, power-hungry men of all kinds. Even in this country, I don'tthink libertarian principles could long survive. It would be toosimple--
"And yet it would have been cowardly to break the machine and burnGavotti's notes. Chance has given me the power to be more than a chip inthe river--a river that's rapidly approaching a waterfall, war,destruction, tyranny, no matter who the Pyrrhic victor may be. I'm in aposition to do something for the causes in which I believe."
"And what are they?" asked Fraser.
Kennedy gestured at the pictures on the mantel. "Both my sons werekilled in the last war. My wife died of cancer--a disease which would belicked now if a fraction of the money spent on armaments had beendiverted to research. That brought it home to me; but there are hundredsof millions of people in worse cases. And war isn't the onlyevil--there is poverty, oppression, inequality, want and suffering. Itcould be changed.
"I'm building up my own lobby, you might say. In a few more years, Ihope to be the indispensable adviser of all the men who, between them,really run this country. And yes, I have been in touch with Sovietagents--have even acted as a transmitter of stolen information. Thebasic problem of spying, you know, is not to get the information in thefirst place as much as to get it to the homeland. Treason? No. I thinknot. I'm getting my toehold in world communism. I already have some ofits agents; sooner or later, I'll get to the men who really matter. Thencommunism will no longer be a menace."
He sighed. "It's a hard row to hoe. It'll take my lifetime, at least;but what else have I got to give my life to?"
Fraser sat quiet. His pipe was cold, he knocked it out and began fillingit afresh. The scratching of his match seemed unnaturally loud. "It'stoo much," he said. "It's too big a job for one man to tackle. The worldwill stumble along somehow, but you'll just get things into a worsemess."
"I've got to try," said Kennedy.
"And I still want my girl back."
"I can't do that; I need Snyder too much. But I'll make it up to yousomehow." Kennedy sighed. "Lord, if you knew how much I've wanted totell all this!"
With sudden wariness: "Not that it's to be repeated. In fact, you're tolay off me; call off your dogs. Don't try to tell anyone else what I'vetold you. You'd never be believed and I already have enough power tosuppress the story, if you should get it out somehow. And if you give meany more trouble at all, I'll see to it that you--stop."
"Murder?"
"Or com
mitment to an asylum. I can arrange that too."
Fraser sighed. He felt oddly unexcited, empty, as if the interview haddrained him of his last will to resist. He held the pipe loosely in hisfingers, letting it go out.
"Ask me a favor," urged Kennedy. "I'll do it, if it won't harm my ownprogram. I tell you, I want to square things."
"Well--"
"Think about it. Let me know."
"All right." Fraser got up. "I may do that." He went out the doorwithout saying goodnight.