Diagnosis 1

Diagnosis 1

Diagnosis

 

Author: R. A. Palmer

 

 

Take two men and one girl--the eternal triangle--and mix well with

an oscilloscope gone haywire. What comes out? With ingredients

like these, the result is adventure, terror and, of course,

romance.

 

 

"What time did you get to bed last night?"

 

"Oh, about ... well, fairly early."

 

"Who were you out with?"

 

"Brannan."

 

"Then you didn't get to bed early! If you got in by three, it would be

early, if I know Brannan."

 

"I got in _much_ before three!"

 

"How much?"

 

"Oh ... enough. You'd be surprised...."

 

"I'm sure I would! Mary, how do you expect us to get anywhere with this

experiment if you come in dog-tired?"

 

"Donald Jensen, I'm not dog-tired. It's _you_ who's got me in bed in

the wee hours, not me! I came in early."

 

"Then why won't you state the exact time?" he was exasperated.

 

She smiled at him archly. "I don't remember, exactly."

 

"You don't seem to have much of a memory for anything when it comes to

Brannan. What you see in a guy like that, I don't know."

 

"What's wrong with him?"

 

"Not a thing. He's a nice guy. Quiet, respectable, deep--and only one

thing on his mind."

 

"What?"

 

He glared at her. "You're a smart girl," he said. "You work with me in

this laboratory eight hours a day. You are engaged in a very complex

experiment with the human brain, registering its waves and emanations

in relation to thought, emotions and purely psychological relations.

You've got a degree in psychology, another in psychiatry, a third in

biology. You have written several advanced papers on the functions of

the subconscious mind and its effect on the conscious mind. You have

kept this job for three years, exacting as it is. You're a _brilliant_

girl. And yet you can ask a stupid question like that!"

 

She smiled at him even more brightly. "What's stupid about it?"

 

He stared at her, then suddenly grinned back. "Okay, you're ribbing me.

But dammit, you let a guy like Brannan soft-soap you and squire you

all around the town, and eat it up, and when I pay you a legitimate

compliment, you act like ... like a _woman_!"

 

"I'm sorry, Mr. Jensen, sir," she said. "I didn't mean to forget we are

working in a scientific laboratory and that you are my boss. We are

both men, working on a man's job--"

 

He groaned. "Okay, you win. But will you quit rubbing in that silly

statement I made when I hired you? Sure, I said it was a man's job,

and I wanted it handled like a man. But you needn't grow a beard over

it!"

 

"Might be a good idea. Then when you fire me for being dog-tired, I

could get a job in a circus."

 

"Yes, and if you bungle this morning's experiment, _I_ may be able to

get a job in a nuthouse!"

 

She was instantly contrite. "Oh Don, I won't! But why don't you do the

hard work, and let me be the subject? Then if anything goes wrong, all

your work won't be lost...."

 

"Nuts. You know as much about it as I do. And besides, what if I

accidentally picked up your emotional seat and found out what time

Brannan _really_ brought you in last night?"

 

"Maybe you'd be surprised."

 

"I'd like to have Brannan under the machine," he said. "Maybe _you'd_

be surprised."

 

"Mary Mason can take care of herself," she said.

 

He looked at her. "Yeah, I guess you _can_. So, how about dinner

tonight?"

 

"Psychology class tonight."

 

"Tomorrow night."

 

"Choir practice."

 

"Thursday."

 

"Brannan."

 

"Friday."

 

"Washing and ironing."

 

"Saturday and Sunday."

 

"My days off."

 

"Then do you mind if we get to work?"

 

"That's what you hired me for."

 

He bent over his machine and uttered something in a muffled voice.

 

"What did you say?" she asked innocently.

 

"I wouldn't repeat it for a lady's ears," he snapped.

 

* * * * *

 

"The pineal gland--the mystery gland of the human brain. Mystics call

it the 'third eye.' Some say it is an atrophied eye, in the center of

the forehead, others say it is a new sense man is developing, for use

in the future."

 

"Shut up and let me put this electrode in place," said Mary. She

swabbed at his forehead with a piece of cotton dipped in alcohol. Then

she placed a small pad of felt dipped in water over the spot, and

placed the silver electrode over it, clamped it in place on his head.

 

He grinned up at her. "Maybe when you turn on the power, and amplify

the waves, I'll be able to read your mind."

 

"You'd better not. Unless you want me to quit and go home to San

Francisco."

 

"What's the matter? Afraid to let anyone know what you're thinking?"

 

"No," she said firmly. "I just think my thoughts are private, that's

all."

 

"Then what are you working on this thing with me for?"

 

"We're measuring brain waves, charting patterns, recording reactions.

All this stuff about mind-reading is purely imagination. If that's what

you're working toward, I'm afraid you're going to be disappointed."

 

He shrugged. "Got the oscilloscope hooked up?"

 

"Yes. And also the television screen and the camera. It'll amplify

the wave patterns and project them ... and in your case I'm convinced

they'll all be...."

 

"Don't say it," he said hastily. "I don't need to read your brain waves

to know what you're thinking."

 

"Nor do I need this machine to know what you are usually thinking of,"

she finished. "Now lie down and relax. I'm going to give you the lowest

voltage first. I still don't think you are right in saying there's no

real danger."

 

He lay back and closed his eyes.

 

Swiftly she went about, making adjustments, turning rheostats, watching

indications on meters with narrowed eyes. Then, with a final check over

the entire apparatus, she switched on the machine to lowest voltage.

 

Slowly the tubes warmed up, then there came a slight crackling from

the loudspeaker, developing swiftly into a hum that rose and fell

in a musical pattern. The green bands on the oscilloscope danced in

time to the hum from the loudspeaker, and on the television screen

an image began to form. By stages it grew, at first seeming to be a

wavering white pillar, then a ghostly form, like a sheeted figure in a

graveyard, then suddenly it began to clarify. A face emerged into view,

and Mary almost gasped as she recognized it as her own. But the rest of

the picture remained shadowy and indistinct.

 

"More power," murmured Mary. She turned the rheostat up a trifle

further, and the hum from the loudspeaker became even louder, more

vibrant. On the screen the rest of the dancing figure coalesced and

suddenly Mary jumped back from the screen. She turned toward Jensen

where he lay, relaxing with a slight smile on his face, and uttered an

exclamation.

 

"Don, you stop that!" She reached for the electrode to snatch it

indignantly from his head. As she did so her fingers touched the

metal. A bright flash came from the silver disk, raced up her arm, and

her muscles tightened in shock. Her voice rose suddenly in a scream,

and then, as Jensen jerked violently under her hands, everything

went black. She slumped beside him, unconscious, and the hum from

the loudspeaker took on a higher, treble note that filled the whole laboratory with its vibrant pulsations.