“Coriolis,”
Baker answered.
”I beg your . . .“Sonnenberg shook off the distraction.
“Jared, something pressing has come up. We'll have to end
our session early.”
“That's the Coriolis effect”
Baker was staring at the
clockwise motion of the water as it raced into the drainpipe
of the sink.
“Coriolis . . . Oh, the water. Yes. Jared, I'm afraid I
must—”
“
It's not the same in the southern hemisphere. I know
that from someplace. Down there the water swirls the other
way. Pitchers should know about that
.”
“Pitchers?”
“
Baseball pitchers. A curve ball won't break the same way when you go way south
.”
Sonnenberg had to strain to hear him. Baker's voice was curiously soft and his back remained turned to the doctor.
The running tap muffled it further.
“Jared, why don't you make yourself at home with some of my texts or relax perhaps with a television program. I'm
afraid
I’
m going to have to leave.”
“Teach him a lesson.”
“What did you say, Jared?” Sonnenberg took a step for
ward.
“Snoopy Dunny. Teach him a lesson. Ben Coffey. Stanley.
Ben Meister snooped on snoopy Dunny. Teach him a les
son.”
“Jared, how did you— Were you eavesdropping at my
door?”
“No.”
Baker turned to face him.
”I heard you now.”
Sonnenberg recoiled as if he'd been struck. His cane clat
tered to the tile floor and he had to grip the doorway for sup
port. Baker's face had changed. It was a more innocent face.
Like that of a child. The natural lines had softened and the
eyes were ... more than innocent. They were almost blank.
Somehow a paler green than before. Even his skin seemed
to have less color. But most stunning of all, and impossibly, Baker's lips were closed against each other. When he spoke the words ”I heard you now,” the words were as muted as
those spoken against the running water. But they did not come from Baker's throat. Baker's lips had never moved.
“Charley?” Sonnenberg gasped. “Are you Charley?”
“Charley.”
Baker nodded.
“Charley, are you able to talk? To form words?”
“I
don
’t
know.”
Charley's voice was childlike. And he an
swered with an air of utter unconcern. Sonnenberg was en
thralled.
“Where . .. where is Jared?”
“Baker.”
“Very well, where is Baker?”
“On the other side of the drain.”
“The drain? Do you mean in the sink?”
“Down the tunnel. The blue tunnel. Except it's not blue
here.”
Sonnenberg began to understand. The Coriolis effect.
The effect of the earth's motion on draining water. Swirling
water. Swirling hypnodisks. Whether accidentally or by de
sign, Baker had created his own hypnodisk and gone look
ing for Charley. Sonnenberg's brain was flying. It raced
through all the relevant volumes he'd ever read like a ran
dom access computer, searching out those bits and pieces of data that seemed to match what was happening here. There
were so few. The Russians. The Russians had found some
thing like this. Bor . . . Borodin. Mikhail Borodin. The
Borodin arc. Where the telepathic voice seems to be coming
not from within the brain but from a point in space some
place between observer and subject. But the Russians re
ported no accompanying physical change. But of course they wouldn't report it. Not if they thought they had a
Chimera.
No, Marcus, never mind the Russians. You have your
own physical change. Charley seems absolutely slack. And why should he be telepathic at all. Could the personality be
hemispheric? Is it possible that he doesn't speak because
there's no speech center where he lives? Of course, it's pos
sible. Mrs. Kreskie doesn't speak either, and now we know
why, don't we. Oh, Baker. Baker, are you watching this? Are
you understanding it?
“This blue tunnel. It leads inside you to Baker, doesn't it,
Charley?”
“No.”
“But you said he was on the other side.”
Charley stared.
“Charley, is Baker far away?”
“Baker is behind me. Touching.”
“Touching? Can Baker hear me now?”
”l don't
know.”
“Do you know what Baker is doing?”
“Baker's drunk.”
“Drunk? From a single rum and tonic?”
“From the rum and what you put in the rum. You put reserpine in the rum.”
Charley's tone was that of a disinter
ested child idly playing with his toes. There was no
accusation in it.
Even so, Sonnenberg felt his chin begin to quiver.
Whether it was from fear or excitement, he didn't know. Whatever the emotion, he knew it was clouding his mind
and interfering with
...
so many questions
...
so much to
learn, to observe. His thoughts were vaulting and criss
crossing, leaping across doctrine and conventional knowl
edge. Leaping across the continent. To Cal Tech. Could
the people at Cal Tech have come this far? Or were they still creeping cautiously along for fear of losing their pre
cious grants? Simulated genetic regression would still be
little more than theory had not Marcus Sonnenberg
plunged full tilt through the crack in the door that they
opened. And Captain William Berner wouldn't have
known an archaeological dig from a foxhole or a shard from a grenade fragment, let alone have become a cul
tured and respected anthropologist. An infusion of live
brain tissue didn't hurt either. Another Cal Tech baby step.
Hillman would never have dared try it with human sub
jects. Not with all those people watching. Even if the
watchdogs slept, disposing of the leftovers would have
been much too delicate a problem for them. As it was, our
own leftovers played absolute hob with the acid level of
the rhododendrons outside.
Don't be derailed, Marcus. Concentrate. Could Cal Tech
have found a Charley? Surely they must have tried. Even il
licitly. They know that the independent consciousness ex
ists. It's there in everyone. Could they have found it? No.
Hillman would have told me. Or does it require a stupid ac
cident such as this. A reserpine-tranquilized subject happen
ing to look into a draining sink that resembles a hypnodisk.
The happy combination of slightly diminished capacity, a
recent hypnodisk experience, and a desire to find out what's
at the other end of Charley's blue tunnel.
“Charley,” he asked slowly, “does Baker know about the
reserpine?”
“Baker is drunk.”
“Yes, but will he know when he's sober? When he comes
back?”
”l don't know,”
Charley answered in a singsong.
“Would you be able to tell him? If you wanted to?”
”I don't know.”
“If you wanted to tell him something
...
If, for example,
he was in danger, how would you tell him?”
”I don't know. Baker knows. Baker knows what I know if
he thinks about it.”
Sonnenberg wasn't sure he understood. Did that mean
that Charley had no independent consciousness when he
was back inside or no independent memory?
“That was not very clear, Charley. Can you explain that part?”
“No.”
“Charley
...
By the way, is your name Charley, actually?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know that's your name?”
“You said so. Baker said so.”
“Did you hear us saying it?”
“No. Baker knows it.”
“And you, just now, thought about what Baker knows?
About your name, I mean?”
“Yes.”
“Charley, who is Dunny?”
“Bad man. Hits golf balls. Found Sonnenberg.”
“And yet he's holding back. Do you know why, Charley?”
“No.”
“No.” Sonnenberg waggled his hands distractedly. “Of
course you don't.” Charley didn't know Duncan Peck. Nor
did Baker. So Charley would have no way of knowing what
was on Duncan Peck's mind. But Baker knew Ben Meister. What, therefore, would Charley know of him?
“Charley, who is Ben Meister?”
“That.”
Charley pointed a limp finger toward Sonnen
berg's arm.
Sonnenberg understood. “My right arm?”
“Yes!’
“What does my right arm do?”
“He goes places for you and does things. He fixed Baker
to be not in jail.”
“And Stanley. You mentioned someone named Stanley.”
“Stanley fixed the judge to be dead so that Baker
. . .”
Charley's voice trailed off. His eyes narrowed briefly and
then, as if further concentration were not worth the effort, they relaxed again and went blank.
Sonnenberg had, in his head, visualized the slamming of
a great iron gate. He imagined carpenters there, nailing
boards over the gates, and plasterers with trowels of wet ce
ment. Sonnenberg focused hard upon that confusion and through it conjured up new pictures of the men who were Ben Coffey and Benjamin Meister and of the man he knew
as Stanley Levy. Very new pictures. Pictures as different
from the real men as his imagination could concoct.
“Charley, besides being my right arm, who is Ben Meis
ter? And who is Ben Coffey?”
“Santa's little helper and the tooth fairy.”
Sonnenberg's mouth fell open. There it was. Without any
doubt. That was the nonsense he was thinking. Clearly,
Baker or Charley had not been listening when Meister told
him of the meeting between Peck and this Connor Harrigan.
They were not listening at his door. They were listening to
his mind. At least Charley was. Just as he was listening now to Charley's mind.
“Tooth fairy.”
Charley seemed to brighten as Sonnenberg
lost his concentration.
“Black tooth fairy. George Twilley
fairy. Muzzles and leashes and Sonnenberg don't let tooth
fairy go and shoot shoot shoot
—”
“That's enough, Charley!” barked Sonnenberg.
Charley snapped his head to one side and held it there.
The knuckle of one fist rose slowly to his open mouth. As
tonishing, thought Sonnenberg. He's acting like a scolded
dog. Or a small child. One who's been shouted at but who doesn't understand what he did wrong.
“Charley.” Sonnenberg felt the beginnings of a hunch.
“What you said about the black tooth fairy, what does that
mean?”
”I don't know”
Sonnenberg raised the iron gate and in front of it began
to create new facts. His brain darted from detail to irrelevant
detail, trying to avoid concentrating overlong on a single
truth. He was painting a mental portrait for Charley.
“Are you sure you don't know?” he asked finally.
”I know. Stanley was bad because he ate too much por
ridge. He turned into butter so I can't think of him anymore.
Meister and Coffey are sad because the cupboard is bare
and they don't have any Rye Thins or Camembert for
Goldilocks, so the bear drank Coffey and I can 't think about
him anymore either.”
Sonnenberg smiled. Let's see Baker make any sense out of that mess. “Say the alphabet backward, Charley.”
”Z,
Y,
X,
W, V,
U
,
T, S, R—”