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A Very Special Talent
It was late afternoon in a sun-baked Mexican village. The door to the tiny
clinic was jammed shut against blowing dust -- not even gritty breeze eased
the room’s stifling heat. The next woman to enter the examining room carried
on her hip a thin boy, eight years old. She sat him on the ancient leather-topped
table and stood in silence by his side, her fingers encircling a scrawny arm.
Disoriented by strange surroundings, the child struggled against her grip.
The district nurse felt forehead and throat, and asked, "What is his trouble?"
The peasant woman stared at the floor in embarrassment. "Ah, Señora!
My other children are no wonders. But at his age they were able to speak, to
use the privy. This one can do nothing. Nothing!"
The nurse noted blankness in the boy's gaze and brushed away beads of sweat
from her own forehead. "And what does the schoolmaster say?"
"How could I send him to the school? Look at him!"
He was rocking back and forth, uttering gibberish. This is a place of pain,
he sensed. A need for comfort and reassurance pulled him inward. He sifted the
tenuous emotional wisps of thousands who had been here before, of tens of thousands
who were to come later, from these he captured a pitiful few hints of joy and
relief, consumed them like rare and precious fruit.
The nurse placed her hand upon the boy's shoulder and looked into the mother's
eyes. "What is it you wish me to do, Señora? Have you spoken to the Padré?"
"The priest? He knows nothing of marriage and nothing of children. My husband
told me to come to you for help."
The triple sonic boom of Mexico City's hypershuttle rumbled through the little
village. The peasant mother crossed herself and shrugged.
Up there, searing fire, the boy knew. A flaming metal spider descending
on its invisible web. But high! Higher even than the crumbling
adobe bell tower on the town square.
The nurse began to pack her instrument bag. "I'm sorry. There is nothing I
can do. Has he no skill at all? Can he not help in the fields?"
"This one does nothing but eat. But he is mine and...and I thank you for your
time, Señora, I will waste no more of it." The woman lifted the child
and turned away.
The boy twisted free, struggled to the floor. He tasted forgotten treasure
sending out delicious ripples, drawing him closer. He ran to the low cabinet
that held the clinic's meager supplies, reached behind and pulled out a dusty
plastic car that some other child had lost or discarded.
The nurse was deep in thought as she watched the mother stoop to discipline
her son. "Wait!" she ordered. "Let him keep the toy. But I wonder, how did he
know it was there? Nothing can be seen behind that cabinet."
"Who knows, Senora? At home he often finds things that have gone missing. Coins,
matches. I have watched. He is not finding things which he has first stolen.
But he only does this when it suits him. He obeys no one's bidding."
Once, long ago, the nurse had seen a puzzling notice on the district hospital's
bulletin board. The memory prompted her to say: "I have heard that the government
in the City may be looking for such children. Come to me the next time I am
here, and bring your son. Then we will see."
The boy tasted kindness, caught a whiff of the future and was happy. Long journeys
excited him.
* * *
The candidate was under mild sedation, his skinny brown frame secured to a
paralysis-field chair. But he was conscious enough to relish the competing shades
of emotion that filled the lunar conference room. He followed the discussion,
not by words for he had no capacity for verbal communication, but by warm interleaving
radiances of fear and confidence. And there was a measure of fondness for him,
too. That he knew.
The elderly Superintendent glared across the table at his young psychotech.
"So, Paula, by all the standards we must use he seems to be remarkably well
qualified for the next level of assessment. Then why are you still uncomfortable
with this lad?"
"It's nothing that I can firmly identify, sir. He seems to have every desirable
characteristic. His reaction time is actually better than norm. But I still
don't like the way he performed on the last field test."
"But he was well within tolerances, in fact, he achieved the day's highest
score in accuracy. No other candidate came as close in placing the ship near
the transfer point."
The candidate tensed against the paralysis field. Cued by blurred symbols spinning
from the old one's mind, he returned in time to where precious sparks of life
glowed around him in utter emptiness. For an instant he was back in that other
place where the brightness of time called to him, back to where the deep well
shaft beckoned.
"Look, sir, it's not what he did, but how he did it that's bothering
me. Can we run the holo-record again, this time showing the entire cabin? Maybe
I can spot something if I could see more."
The Superintendent glanced at the clock and sighed. "Okay, young lady. One
more time. But then we'll have to vote."
The light-throwing pedestal brightened with a miniature Golev-Class transport's
command compartment. The cramped cabin was fitted with the usual modifications
for wormhole pilot training: extra couches jammed in the aisles, android Companions
braced alongside their charges' positions.
An infinite fountain of lightstuff, sensed the little man. Spewing
nozzles of light so close in concept to the solid blackness they all sought!
If they only knew! The humor of it struck hard. He began to cackle with
joy and twist against the paralysis field.
Within the tableau, to the candidate's right, crouched his Companion, identifiable
by leaden glints from its cranial shell. To his left could be seen the broad
shoulders and white hair of Starship Captain Schmidt. Farther back in the compartment,
away from the control panel, to the right and left of the holorecorder's line
of sight, sat other candidates with their nurse androids.
His Companion whisper-sang a calming lullaby in sexless monotone.
The tiny figures were almost perfect, the best that holotechnology could achieve.
But to the little man the images were cartoonish -- devoid of life-essence.
He tuned his consciousness outward, feeling himself becoming the center of attention
of everyone in the conference room. The feeling was good.
A tiny Captain Schmidt recited pretest technical data: "Test run three. Subject
programmed by standard hypnotechnique to maneuver for Sabos System transfer
point. Manual override disabled. Backup piloting program is on standby. Switching
to archival monitoring."
A translucent gravfield distortion screen hovered above the tableau.
The Companion android altered the words of its lullaby. 'Sabos' could be heard
within the murmur of the rhyme. The twitching man at the controls began to swing
the levers to and fro. The other candidates squirmed in their couches as their
own Companions crooned to keep them subdued.
From his corner of the conference room, the candidate felt for the presence
of the Sabos well shaft. But the two-sided darkness was not to be found,
he realized, so close to the combined masses of the earth and the rocky sphere
to which they clung. Disappointed, he could feel the thoughts of the others
slipping away.
The distortion screen's contour lines shifted and writhed. Suddenly a distinctive
concentric pattern appeared at far right and began to track toward the center.
Schmidt droned on: "Distance to primary anomaly, one thousand kilometers. Radiation
parameters confirm as Sabos transfer point."
Suddenly the tiny tableau froze. The young psychotech pointed.
"There...Did you see it? I knew something wasn't right! Wait, I'll reverse
the sequence." The hologram blurred, replayed. "Watch carefully! Watch where
he looks! Quarter-speed now."
In slow motion, the little man's head pivoted left until he was glancing over
his shoulder, directly at one of the other pilot candidates.
He again basked in the warm wind of minds. He felt curiosity, and not a little
fear. But he sought in vain for some whiff of approval.
"Now watch carefully! See? He's being fed cues from that other candidate! When
the other one twists right, he slews the ship right!"
The Superintendent studied the display. "Damn! You may have something there.
But it could be a coincidence. Okay, I want him held at his present level of
assessment until we can retest. Paula, I want you to modify the testing process
so it's impossible for him to receive cues from any human in the cabin." He
glanced again at the clock on the bulkhead. "It's late. Break for supper, meet
back here at eight. Have his Companion take him away." He pushed back his chair
and began to rise.
"Just a moment, sir!" blurted the psychotech, "You're missing the point. He
cheated! Cheating is not an idiot savant's behavior pattern. He
may have been misclassified. I'd like permission to work with him. Perhaps he
can be given a chance for a normal life."
The little man felt a brief, tantalizing mind-chorus of desire: nourishment,
companionship. But that was all swept away by a more powerful sentiment. The
candidate sensed that a new conflict in the room had focused and he was squarely
at its point. He struggled against dull mental agony. But there was goodness
to come with time, he knew; so he remained within the confines of his body
and permitted tepid waves of emotion to wash over him.
The Superintendent glared tight-lipped, then growled, "Paula, we're not here
to provide rehabilitation services. If he was misclassified, he'll be returned
to Earth and institutionalized. Is that clear?"
"But, sir…"
"Listen to me, young lady. His chances for normal life are not our concern.
It may sound callous, but we are here solely to exploit his potential as a wormhole
pilot. If he has the raw ability, we'll make him one. Otherwise, someone else
will care for him. We'll retest him and make our decision later. Is that clear?"
The others stared at the table in embarrassment.
The candidate escaped emotional pain by throwing the bulk of his mind beyond
the dome's shielded hull. In a favorite deep-shaded lunar crevice he toyed with
atomic arrangements of a tiny crystal. It was cold out there under the unblinking
stars.
"Yes, sir. Please excuse me." She rose weeping from the table and groped her
way toward the door. The others followed. No one disturbed the candidate's apparent
deep sleep.
An hour later they were again seated around the table.
There was warmth near his body again, the little man realized; he summoned
himself back from his wanderings beneath the stars.
The psychotech spoke first. "I apologize. My actions were immature and unacceptable."
"Now, Paula, we all understand how you feel. Let's just consider the matter
forgotten." The Superintendent shuffled through a pile of reports.
The young woman swallowed, then pressed ahead. "I may have been hasty when
I said he cheated. While you were at supper, I ran a quick brainwave recording
analysis. As far as I can tell he successfully completed the seeker maneuver
without cheating. Most importantly, there was no brainwave response to the androchant!"
The senior psychiatrist sighed and shook her head. The others at the table
looked uncomfortable. The subject felt the throbbing coldness of rejection.
Undaunted, the psychotech continued, "Look, I know what the textbook
says about these people -- that they're so far removed from reality they can
only respond to deep hypnotic suggestion. But what if the books are wrong?
What if some of them can function without an androchant?"
The Superintendent looked doubtful. "Are you saying that he successfully controlled
the ship in response to some other stimulus in the cabin, not to the android's
coaching?
"It’s very possible, sir. We may have witnessed a novel wormhole seeking technique
-- one in which human interaction is the key. Androchant exposure numbs a pilot's
capabilities. If we can avoid using androids, we might be able to extend useful
lives of our wormhole pilots far beyond two years. Think of the implications!"
The senior psychiatrist grimaced in annoyance. "Paula, there's not a shread
of evidence that pilots can function without androids. It would be dangerous
to modify proven methods because of a phenomenon that you thought you
saw. The risk is too great!"
"But that's my point exactly! We need more evidence! I propose an experiment
to try and duplicate what happened out there."
The small man returned to the lunar surface, to his toys and amusements: he
had glimpsed the nature of the outcome and it was good. But part of his mind
stayed with the group -- a slender thread of security feeding him warmth.
The Superintendent thought for a moment, then looked around the table and asked,
"How do the rest of you feel about this?"
The opinions were evenly divided. In support of the senior psychiatrist's position,
the logistics officer objected to an unscheduled use of the ship -- training
schedules might be thrown off. But others were in favor.
The Superintendent cleared his throat. "All right. I'm paid to make decisions.
Paula, set up a series of tests that will require no more than four days' shiptime.
In the event of failure, the decision was mine and I'll take full blame." He
smiled at his young psychotech and softly said, "Is it all right with you if
we move along to the next candidate?"
A sudden jolt of affection spun the candidate back into the room. He wriggled
with contentment in anticipation of journeys to come.
* * *
The interstellar transport deccelerated, pirouetting about its minor axis.
The main ion propulsion units rumbled and strained to keep up with the complex
maneuver demands. Within the bioshielded passenger compartment, gravity compensation
fields cycled on and off in an imperfect attempt to generate a steady one-g
pull toward deck. Those among the three hundred colonists who, from reasons
of physical intolerance or religious principle, had chosen not to take Gravidin
were wretchedly sick. They lay strapped in their bunks, listening to the ship's
structure creak in protest.
The crew, requiring full alertness, had been unable to take spacesickness drugs;
their command compartment was shielded by special, more powerful fields. Nevertheless,
five of the six suffered varying degrees of queasiness. Their discomfort was
not eased by proximity to the Pilot who giggled and slobbered as he heaved on
control actuators and bullied the ship within a thousand cubic kilometers of
empty space.
Suddenly the Pilot twisted violently and leered wild-eyed around the cabin.
A particularly fascinating arrangement of hydrogen atom cloudlets had caught
his fancy. He was on the edge of departing the ship for a closer look.
The Captain stared at the gravitational field distortion screen. "Damn, he's
losing it! Distance to primary anomaly, six hundred kilometers, increasing.
Quickly now, encouragement program Alpha!"
There were scattered groans as crewmembers waited for a cue. Finally the life
support tech sang her first pure notes. The others joined in until all five
were singing in rough harmony.
"Happy Birthday to you; Happy Birthday to you; Happy Birthday, dear José;
Happy Birthday to you!"
The little man pulled himself back into his body, savored the shallow warmth
of acclamation. But the cloudlets still glowed and beckoned.
"Again! Sing it again! This time put some enthusiasm in it, for God's
sake!" shouted the Captain. He was sweating now. There was a very real danger
of missing the transfer point rendezvous.
The song resumed, then concluded with the usual ragged finale. The Pilot, responding
to the serenade, chuckled and rolled his eyes -- then returned his attention
to the controls. But the ship was still being piloted too sluggishly.
The Captain yelled, "He's almost got it! Let's go! Encouragement program Bravo!
And do it right or we'll be out here for another damned week!"
First came sighs of resignation, then the crewmembers began to respond to the
order. The auxiliary systems officer crowed like a rooster, softly at first,
but with increasing volume as the others added their own animal sounds to the
growing cacophony.
The starship Pilot, laughing uproariously now at the barnyard noises, swung
the controls. How wonderful! How joyful! He was the object of
their full attention. And there was a journey ahead. The ship lurched and rolled
in response.
"Primary anomaly, two hundred klicks and closing. Arm stabilization charge!"
The Captain barked out the order to the propulsion system officer as both men
tensed their bodies against the sway of the ship. "Fifty klicks. Go to automatic
jettison progam. Thirty, Ten! Standby…Standby. Now!"
The Captain's distortion screen flared, became a pinprick of light. Almost
simultaneously a thermonuclear stabilization charge was ejected from the hull.
Its fusion trigger ruptured two fist-sized magnetic bottles.
The energy release of the matter-antimatter reaction was enough to vaporize
everything within several hundred kilometers. But the ship was safe, deep within
a nondimension. The terrible explosion held open the entry point just long enough
to prevent collapse. In less than a millisecond the ship slipped through the
wormhole and into the deep space calmness of New Indonesia system.
Five crewmembers breathed a collective sigh of relief; but the sixth whined
in mewing complaint and lolled fitfully against the couch restraints.
The journey was over, he knew. And the next would be a long time
in coming.
Jon C. Picciuolo
Email: Jon C. Picciuolo
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