Astounding Science Fiction, British Edition — page 12: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

10 ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION ““We’re supposed to be,’’ he amended. “So you want time and money to work on a chemical which will store impulses,”’ I said with what I thought was my usual brilliant incisiveness. I began to remember that Sara probably had little Jennie Malasek outside by now, and that was an- unfinished problem I had to handle tonight. “No, no,” he said impatiently and rocked me back into my chair, “I’ve already got that. I wouldn’t have come in here with nothing more than just an idea. I’ve been some years analyzing quantitatively and qualita- tively the various chemicals of brain cells. I’ve made some crude syntheses.” He placed the cylinder on the desk. I looked at the long dark object; I looked particularly at the oily shim- mering liquid inside the unbreakable plastic case. It caught the light from my window and seemed to look back at me. “I want,’ he continued, ‘‘to test this synthesis by hooking it up to a cybernetic machine, shooting con- trolled impulses through it, seeing what it will store on one impulse and give up on another. I simply want to test the results of my work.” “It will take a little doing,” I stuck my neck out and prepared to go to bat for him. ““The human mind is not as logical or as accurate as a machine. There are certain previous arrange- ments of impulses stored in certain brains which will cause the mouth to say ‘No!’ TIl have to do some re- arranging of such basic blocks first.” I was grinning broadly now, and he was grinning back at me. He got up out of his chair and walked toward my door. “T’ll leave the cylinder with you,” he said. “I read in a salesmanship course that a prospect will buy much easier if you place the article in his hands.” “What were you doing, studying salesmanship?” I asked, still grinning. “Apparently it was justified,” he " said cryptically, and walked out the door. Sara came to the door and looked in. ““You took long enough on that one,” she accused. “It takes a little longer,” I said with pedantic gravity, “to lead a scientist to the essential point. He’s a little more resourceful in figuring out hazards to keep himself from getting where he wants to go.” But I remembered Auerbach’s re- marks about salesmanship. “However, in this instance,” I mused honestly, “Tm not just sure as to who was leading whom.” “You wanted little Jennie Malasek,”’ Sara said. ““You may have her.” I wasn’t reassured by the phrasing, the emphasis, or the look on her face. The time I had lost on the last two interviews, I made up on this one. Children are realists and only poorly skilled in hypocrisy. They will go along with the gag if an adult insists on being whimsical, conciliatory or fantastic, but only because adults are that way and there’s nothing they can do about it. Sara brought Jennie in, gave me a cryptic look, and closed the door behind her as she left. Jennie stood at the door, a dark little thing, showing some evidence that the nursery teachers had made an attempt to clean her up before sending her over. They hadn’t quite succeeded. There was no chocolate around her pinched little mouth, so Sara hadn’t succeeded in capturing her either. I wondered why they hadn’t combed her black hair, and then realized Jennie might have pulled it down in front of her face for some- thing to hide behind. Her black eyes gleamed as she peered at me through the oily strands. Conmicloooks.c© im