Anderson, Poul - Brain Wave

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BRAIN WAVE - Poul Anderson
BRAIN WAVE
Poul Anderson
[14 mar 2003—scanned for #bookz]
[03 apr 2003—proofed for #bookz]
CHAPTER 1
The trap had closed at sundown. In the last red light, the rabbit had battered himself against its walls until
fear and numbness ached home and he crouched shaken by the flutterings of his own heart. Otherwise
there was no motion in him as night and the stars came. But when the moon rose, its light was caught
icily in his great eyes, and he looked through shadows to the forest.
His vision was not made to focus closely, but after a while it fell on the entrance to the trap. It had
snapped down on him when he entered, and then there had been only the flat bruising beat of himself
against the wood. Now slowly, straining through the white unreal haze of moonlight, he recalled a
memory of the gate falling, and he squeaked ever so faintly with terror. For the gate was there now, solid
and sullen against the breathing forest, and yet it had been up and had come thunking down, and this now-
then doubleness was something the rabbit had never known before.
The moon rose higher, swinging through a sky full of stars. An owl hooted, and the rabbit froze into
movelessness as its wings ghosted overhead. There was fear and bewilderment and a new kind of pain in
the owl's voice, too. Presently it was gone, and only the many little murmurs and smells of night were
around him. And he sat for a long tune looking at the gate and remembering how it had fallen.
The moon began to fall too, into a paling western heaven. Perhaps the rabbit wept a little, in his own way.
A dawn which was as yet only a mist in the dark limned the bars of the trap against gray trees. And there
was a crossbar low on the gate.
Slowly, very slowly, the rabbit niched across until he was at the entrance. He shrank from the thing which
had clamped him in. It smelled of man. Then he nosed it, feeling dew cold and wet on his muzzle. It did
not stir. But it had fallen down.
The rabbit crouched, bracing his shoulders against the crossbar. He strained then, heaving upward, and
the wood shivered. The rabbit's breath came fast and sharp, whistling between his teeth, and he tried
again. The gate moved upward in its grooves, and the rabbit bolted free.
For an instant he poised wildly. The sinking moon was a blind dazzle in his eyes. The gate smacked back
into place, and he turned and fled.
Archie Brock had been out late grubbing stumps in the north forty. Mr. Rossman wanted them all pulled
by Wednesday so he could get the plowing started in his new field, and promised Brock extra pay if he
would see to it. So Brock took some dinner out with him and worked till it got too dark to see. Then he
started walking the three miles home, because they didn't let him use the jeep or a truck.
He was tired without thinking of it, aching a little and wishing he had a nice tall beer. But mostly he didn't
think at all, just picked them up and laid them down, and the road slid away behind him. There were dark
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woods on either side, throwing long shadows across the moon-whitened dust, and he heard the noise of
crickets chirring and once there was an owl. Have to take a gun and get that owl before he swiped some
chickens. Mr. Rossman didn't mind if Brock hunted.
It was funny the way he kept thinking things tonight. Usually he just went along, especially when he was
as tired as now, but—maybe it was the moon—he kept remembering bits of things, and words sort of
formed themselves in his head like someone was talking. He thought about his bed and how nice it would
have been to drive home from work; only of course he got sort of mixed up when driving, and there'd
been a couple of smashups. Funny he should have done that, because all at once it didn't seem so hard:
just a few signals to learn, and you kept your eyes open, and that was all.
The sound of his feet was hollow on the road. He breathed deeply, drawing a cool night into his lungs,
and looked upward, away from the moon. The stars were sure big and bright tonight.
Another memory came back to him, somebody had said the stars were like the sun only further away. It
hadn't made much sense then. But maybe it was so, like a light was a small thing till you got up close and
then maybe it was very big. Only if the stars were as big as the sun, they'd have to be awful far away.
He stopped dead, feeling a sudden cold run through him. Jesus God! How far up the stars were!
The earth seemed to fall away underfoot, he was hanging on to a tiny rock that spun crazily through an
everlasting darkness, and the great stars burned and roared around him, so far up that he whimpered with
knowing it.
He began to run.
The boy rose early, even if it was summer and no school and breakfast wouldn't be for a while yet. The
street and the town outside his windows looked very clean and bright in the young sunshine. A single
truck clattered down the road and a man in blue denim walked toward the creamery carrying a lunch pail,
otherwise it was as if he had the whole world to himself. His father was already off to work, and Mom
liked to go back to bed for an hour after fixing his breakfast, and Sis was still asleep, so the boy was all
alone in the house.
His friend was coming over and they'd go fishing, but first he wanted to get some more done on his model
plane. He washed as thoroughly as you could ask a ten-year-old to, snatched a roll from the pantry, and
went back to his room and the littered table there. The plane was going to be a real beauty, a Shooting
Star with a CO2 cartridge to make a jet. Only somehow, this morning it didn't look as good as it had last
night. He wished he could make a real jet motor for it.
He sighed, pushing the work away, and took a sheet of paper. He'd always liked to doodle around with
numbers, and one of the teachers had taught him a little about algebra. Some of the fellows had called
him teacher's pet for that, till he licked them, but it was real interesting, not just like learning
multiplication tables. Here you made the numbers and letters do something. The teacher said that if he
really wanted to build spaceships when he grew up, he'd have to learn lots of math.
He started drawing some graphs. The different kinds of equations made different pictures. It was fun to
see how x = ky + c made a straight line while x2 + y2 = c was always a circle. Only how if you changed
one of the x's, made it equal 3 instead of 2? What would happen to the y in the meantime? He'd never
thought of that before!
He grasped the pencil tightly, his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth. You had to kind of sneak
up on the x and the y, change one of them just a weeny little bit, and then—
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He was well on the way to inventing differential calculus when his mother called him down to breakfast.
CHAPTER 2
Peter Corinth came out of the shower, still singing vigorously, to find Sheila busy frying bacon and eggs.
He ruffled her soft brown hair up, kissing her on the neck, and she turned to smile at him.
"She looks like an angel and cooks like an angel," he said.
"Why, Pete," she answered, "you never—"
"Never could find words," he agreed. "But it's gospel truth, me love." He bent over the pan, inhaling the
crisp odor with a contented sigh. "I have a hunch this is one of those days when everything will go right,"
he said. "A bit of Hubris for which the gods will doubtless visit a Nemesis on me. Ate: Gertie, the slut,
will burn out a tube. But you'll amend it all."
"Hubris, Nemesis, Ate." A tiny frown creased her broad clear forehead. "You've used those words before,
Pete. What do they mean?"
He blinked at her. Two years after marriage, he was still far gone in love with his wife, and as she stood
there his heart turned over within him. She was kind and merry and beautiful and she could cook—but
she was nothing of an intellectual, and when his friends came over she sat quietly back, taking no part in
the conversation. "What do you care?" he asked.
"I was just wondering," she said.
He went into the bedroom and began dressing, leaving the door open so he could explain the basis of
Greek tragedy. It was much too bright a morning to dwell on so somber a theme, but she listened closely,
with an occasional question. When he came out, she smiled and went over to him.
"You dear clumsy physicist," she said. "You're the only man I ever knew who could put on a suit straight
from the cleaners and make it look like you'd been fixing a car in it." She adjusted his tie and pulled down
the rumpled coat. He ran a hand through his black hair, immediately reducing it to unkemptness, and
followed her to the kitchenette table. A whiff of steam from the coffeepot fogged his horn-rimmed
glasses, and he took them off and polished them on his necktie. His lean, broken-nosed face looked
different without them—younger, perhaps only the thirty-three years which was his actual age.
"It came to me just when I woke up," he said as he buttered his toast. "I must have a well-trained
subconscious after all."
"You mean the solution to your problem?" asked Sheila.
He nodded, too absorbed to consider what her query meant. She usually just let him run on, saying "yes"
and "no" in the right places but not really listening. To her, his work was altogether mysterious. He had
sometimes thought she lived in a child's world, with nothing very well known but all of it bright and
strange.
"I've been trying to build a phase analyzer for inter-molecular resonance bonds in crystal structure," he
said. "Well, no matter. The thing is, I've been plugging along for the past few weeks, trying to design a
circuit which would do what I wanted, and was baffled. Then I woke up just this morning with an idea
that might work. Let's see—" His eyes looked beyond her and he ate without tasting. Sheila laughed, very
softly.
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"I may be late tonight," he said at the door. "If this new idea of mine pans out, I may not want to break off
work till—Lord knows when. I'll call you."
"Okay, honey. Good hunting."
When he was gone, Sheila stood for a moment smiling after him. Pete was a—well, she was just lucky,
that was all. She'd never really appreciated how lucky, but this morning seemed different, somehow.
Everything stood out sharp and clear, as if she were up in the Western mountains her husband loved so
well.
She hummed to herself as she washed the dishes and straightened up the apartment. Memory slid through
her, the small-town Pennsylvania girlhood, the business college, her coming to New York four years ago
to take a clerical job at the office of a family acquaintance. Dear God, but she had been unsuited for that
kind of life! One party and boy friend after another, everybody fast-talking, jerky-moving, carefully hard-
boiled and knowing, the expensive and market-wise crowd where she always had to be on her guard—All
right, she'd married Pete on the rebound, after Bill walked out calling her a stupid—never mind.
But she'd always liked the shy, quiet man, and she had been on the rebound from a whole concept of
living.
So I'm stodgy now, she told herself, and glad of it, too. An ordinary housewifely existence, nothing more
spectacular than a few friends in for beer and talk, going to church now and then while Pete, the agnostic,
slept late; vacation trips in New England or the Rocky Mountains; plans of having a kid soon—who
wanted more? Her friends before had always been ready for a good laugh at the shibboleth-ridden
boredom which was bourgeois existence; but when you got right down to it, they had only traded one
routine and one set of catchwords for another, and seemed to have lost something of reality into the
bargain.
Sheila shook her head, puzzled. It wasn't like her to go daydreaming this way. Her thoughts even sounded
different, somehow.
She finished the housework and looked about her. Normally she relaxed for a while before lunch with one
of the pocket mysteries which were her prime vice; afterward there was some shopping to do, maybe a
stroll in the park, maybe a visit to or from some woman friend, and then supper to fix and Pete to expect.
But today—
She picked up the detective story she had planned to read. For a moment the bright cover rested between
uncertain fingers, and she almost sat down with it. Then, shaking her head, she laid it back and went over
to the crowded bookshelf, took out Pete's worn copy of Lord Jim, and returned to the armchair.
Midafternoon came before she realized that she had forgotten all about lunch.
Corinth met Felix Mandelbaum in the elevator going down. They were that rare combination, neighbors
in a New York apartment building who had become close friends. Sheila, with her small-town
background, had insisted on getting to know everyone on their own floor at least, and Corinth had been
glad of it in the case of the Mandelbaums. Sarah was a plump, quiet, retiring Hausfrau sort, pleasant but
not colorful; her husband was a horse of quite another shade.
Felix Mandelbaum had been born fifty years ago in the noise and dirt and sweatshops of the lower East
Side, and life had been kicking him around ever since; but he kicked back, with a huge enjoyment. He'd
been everything from itinerant fruit picker to skilled machinist and O.S.S. operative overseas during the
war—where his talent for languages and people must have come in handy. His career as a labor organizer
ran parallel, from the old Wobblies to the comparative respectability of his present job: officially
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executive secretary of a local union, actually a roving trouble shooter with considerable voice in national
councils. Not that he had been a radical since his twenties; he said he'd seen radicalism from the inside,
and that was enough for any sane man. Indeed, he claimed to be one of the last true conservatives—only,
to conserve, you had to prune and graft and adjust. He was self-educated, but widely read, with more
capacity for life than anyone else of Corinth's circle except possibly Nat Lewis. Fun to know.
"Hello," said the physicist. "You're late today."
"Not exactly." Mandelbaum's voice was a harsh New York tone, fast and clipped. He was a small, wiry,
gray-haired man, with a gnarled beaky face and intense dark eyes. "I woke up with an idea. A
reorganization plan. Amazing nobody's thought of it yet. It'd halve the paper work. So I've been outlining
a chart."
Corinth shook his head dolefully. "By now, Felix, you should know that Americans are too fond of paper
work to give up one sheet," he said.
"You haven't seen Europeans," grunted Mandelbaum.
"You know," said Corinth, "it's funny you should've had your idea just today. (Remind me to get the
details from you later, it sounds interesting.) I woke up with the solution to a problem that's been
bedeviling me for the past month."
"Hm?" Mandelbaum pounced on the fact, you could almost see him turning it over in his hands, sniffing
it, and laying it aside. "Odd." It was a dismissal.
The elevator stopped and they parted company. Corinth took the subway as usual. He was currently
between cars; in this town, it just didn't pay to own one. He noticed vaguely that the tram was quieter than
ordinarily. People were less hurried and unmannerly, they seemed thoughtful. He glanced at the
newspapers, wondering with a gulp if it had started, but there was nothing really sensational—except
maybe for that local bit about a dog, kept overnight in a basement, which had somehow opened the deep
freeze, dragged out the meat to thaw, and been found happily gorged. Otherwise: fighting here and there
throughout the world, a strike, a Communist demonstration in Rome, four killed in an auto crash—words,
as if rotary presses squeezed the blood from everything that went through them.
Emerging in lower Manhattan, he walked three blocks to the Rossman Institute, limping a trifle. The
same accident which had broken his nose years ago had injured his right knee and kept him out of
military service; though being yanked directly from his youthful college graduation into the Manhattan
Project might have had something to do with that.
He winced at the trailing memory. Hiroshima and Nagasaki still lay heavily on his conscience. He had
quit immediately after the war, and it was not only to resume his studies or to escape the red tape and
probing and petty intrigue of government research for the underpaid sanity of academic life; it had been a
flight from guilt. So had his later activities, he supposed—the Atomic Scientists, the United World
Federalists, the Progressive Party. When he thought how those had withered away or been betrayed, and
recalled the brave cliches which had stood like a shield between him and the Soviet snarl—there for any
to see who had eyes—he wondered how sane the professors were after all.
Only, was his present retreat into pure research and political passivity—voting a discouraged Democratic
ticket and doing nothing else—any more balanced? Nathan Lewis, frankly labeling himself a reactionary,
was a local Republican committeeman, an utter and cheerful pessimist who still tried to salvage
something; and Felix Mandelbaum, no less realistic than his chess and bull-session opponent Lewis, had
more hope and energy, even looked forward to the ultimate creation of a genuine American Labor Party.
Between them, Corinth felt rather pallid.
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And I'm younger than either one!
He sighed. What was the matter with him? Thoughts kept boiling up out of nowhere, forgotten things,
Linking themselves into new chains that rattled in his skull. And just when he had the answer to his
problem, too.
That reflection drove all others out. Again, it was unusual: ordinarily he was slow to change any train of
thought. He stepped forward with a renewed briskness.
The Rossman Institute was a bulk of stone and glass, filling half a block and looking almost shiny among
its older neighbors. It was known as a scientist's heaven. Able men from all places and all disciplines
were drawn there, less by the good pay than by the chance to do unhampered research of their own
choosing, with first-rate equipment and none of the projectitis which was strangling pure science in
government, in industry, and in too many universities. It had the inevitable politicking and backbiting, but
in lesser degree than the average college; it was the Institute for Advanced Study—less abstruse and more
energetic, perhaps, and certainly with much more room. Lewis had once cited it to Mandelbaum as proof
of the cultural necessity for a privileged class. "D'you think any government would ever endow such a
thing and then, what's more, have the sense to leave it to itself?"
"Brookhaven does all right," Mandelbaum had said, but for him it was a feeble answer.
Corinth nodded to the girl at the newsstand in the lobby, hailed a couple of acquaintances, and fumed at
the slowness of the elevator. "Seventh," he said automatically when it arrived.
"I should know that, Dr. Corinth," grinned the operator. "You've been here—let's see—almost six years
now, isn't it?"
The physicist blinked. The attendant had always been part of the machinery to him; they had exchanged
the usual pleasantries, but it hadn't meant a thing. Suddenly Corinth saw him as a human being, a living
and unique organism, part of an enormous impersonal web which ultimately became the entire universe,
and yet bearing his own heart within him. Now why, he asked himself amazedly, should I think that?
"You know, six," said the attendant, "I been wondering. I woke up this morning and wondered what I was
doing this for and if I really wanted more out of it than just my job and my pension and—" He paused
awkwardly as they stopped to let off a third-floor passenger. "I envy you. You're going somewhere."
The elevator reached the seventh floor. "You could—well, you could take a night course if you wanted,"
said Corinth.
"I think maybe I will, sir. If you'd be so kind as to recommend—Well, later. I got to go now." The doors
slid smoothly across the cage, and Corinth went down hard marble ways to his laboratory.
He had a permanent staff of two, Johansson and Grunewald, intense young men who probably dreamed
of having labs of their own someday. They were already there when he entered and took off his coat.
"Good morning … 'Morning … 'Morning."
"I've been thinking, Pete," said Grunewald suddenly, as the chief went over to his desk. "I've got an idea
for a circuit that may work—"
"Et tu, Brute," murmured Corinth. He sat down on a stool, doubling his long legs under him. "Let's have
it."
Grunewald's gimmick seemed remarkably parallel to his own. Johansson, usually silent and competent
and no more, chimed in eagerly as thoughts occurred to him. Corinth took over leadership in the
discussion, and within half an hour they were covering paper with the esoteric symbols of electronics.
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Rossman might not have been entirely disinterested in establishing the Institute, though a man with his
bank account could afford altruism. Pure research helped industry. He had made his fortune in light
metals, all the way from raw ores to finished products, with cross-connections to a dozen other
businesses; officially semi-retired, he kept his fine thin hands on the strings. Even bacteriology could turn
out to be useful—not very long ago, work had been done on bacterial extraction of oil from shales—and
Corinth's study of crystal bonds could mean a good deal to metallurgy. Grunewald fairly gloated over the
prospect of what success would do to their professional reputations. Before noon, they had set up a series
of partial differential equations which would go to the computer at their regular scheduled time to use it,
and were drawing up elements of the circuit they wanted.
The phone rang. It was Lewis, suggesting lunch together. "I'm on a hot trail today," said Corinth. "I
thought maybe I'd just have some sandwiches sent up."
"Well, either I am too, or else I'm up you know what creek with no paddle," said Lewis. "I'm not sure
which, and it might help me straighten out my ideas if I could bounce them off you."
"Oh, all right. Commissary do?"
"If you merely want to fill your belly, I suppose so." Lewis went in for three-hour lunches complete with
wine and violins, a habit he had picked up during his years in pre-Anschluss Vienna. "One o'clock suit
you? The peasantry will have gorged by then."
"Okay." Corinth hung up and lost himself again in the cool ecstasy of his work. It was one-thirty before
he noticed the time, and he hurried off swearing.
Lewis was just seating himself at a table when Corinth brought his tray over. "I figured from your way of
talk you'd be late," he said. "What'd you get? The usual cafeteria menu, I suppose: mice drowned in skim
milk, fillet of sea urchin, baked chefs special, baked chef—well, no matter." He sipped his coffee and
winced.
He didn't look delicate: a short square man of forty-eight, getting a little plump and bald, sharp eyes
behind thick, rimless glasses. He was, indeed, a hearty soul at table or saloon. But eight years in Europe
did change tastes, and he insisted that his postwar visits had been purely gastronomical.
"What you need," said Corinth with the smugness of a convert, "is to get married."
"I used to think so, when I began leaving my libertine days behind. But, well, never mind. Too late now."
Lewis attacked a minute steak, which he always pronounced as if the adjective were synonymous with
"tiny," and scowled through a mouthful. "I'm more interested in the histological aspect of biology just
now."
"You said you were having trouble—"
"That's mostly with my assistants. Everybody seems jumpy today, and young Roberts is coming up with
even wilder ideas than usual. But it's my work. I've told you, haven't I? I'm studying nerve
cells—neurones. Trying to keep them alive in different artificial media, and seeing how their electrical
properties vary with conditions. I have them in excised sections of tissue—Lindbergh-Carrel technique,
with modifications. It was coming along pretty good—and then today, when we ran a routine check, the
results came out different. So I tested them all—Every one is changed!"
"Hm?" Corinth raised his eyebrows and chewed quietly for a minute. "Something wrong with your
apparatus?"
"Not that I can find. Nothing different—except the cells themselves. A small but significant shift." Lewis'
tones came faster, with a hint of rising excitement. "You know how a neurone works? Like a digital
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computer. It's stimulated by a—a stimulus, fires a signal, and is thereafter inactive for a short time. The
next neurone in the nerve gets the signal, fires, and is also briefly inactivated. Well, it turns out that
everything is screwy today. The inactivation time is a good many microseconds less, the—well, let's just
say the whole system reacts significantly faster than normally. And the signals are also more intense."
Corinth digested the information briefly, then, slowly: "Looks like you may have stumbled onto
something big."
"Well, where's the cause? The medium, the apparatus, it's all the same as yesterday, I tell you. I'm going
nuts trying to find out if I've got a potential Nobel Prize or just sloppy technique!"
Very slowly, as if his mind were shying away from a dimly seen realization, Corinth said: "It's odd this
should have happened today."
"Hm?" Lewis glanced sharply up, and Corinth related his own encounters.
"Very odd," agreed the biologist. "And no big thunderstorms lately—ozone stimulates the mind—but my
cultures are sealed in glass anyway—" Something flashed in his eyes.
Corinth looked around. "Hullo, there's Helga. Wonder what made her so late? Hi, there!" He stood up,
waving across the room, and Helga Arnulfsen bore her tray over to their table and sat down.
She was a tall, rangy, handsome woman, her long blonde hair drawn tightly around the poised head, but
something in her manner—an impersonal energy, an aloofness, perhaps only the unfeminine crispness of
speech and dress—made her less attractive than she could have been. She'd changed since the old days,
right after the war, thought Corinth. He'd been taking his doctorate at Minnesota, where she was studying
journalism, and they'd had fun together; though he'd been too much and too hopelessly in love with his
work and another girl to think seriously about her. Afterward they had corresponded, and he had gotten
her a secretarial post at the Institute, two years before. She was chief administrative assistant now, and
did a good job of it.
"Whew! What a day!" She ran a strong slim hand across her hair, sleeking it down, and smiled wearily at
them. "Everybody and his Uncle Oscar is having trouble, and all of them are wishing it on me. Gertie
threw a tantrum—"
"Huh?" Corinth regarded her in some dismay. He'd been counting on the big computer to solve his
equations that day. "What's wrong?"
"Only God and Gertie know, and neither one is telling. Allanbee ran a routine test this morning, and it
came out wrong. Not much, but enough to throw off anybody that needed precise answers. He's been
digging into her ever since, trying to find the trouble, so far without luck. And I have to reschedule
everybody!"
"Very strange," murmured Lewis.
"Then different instruments, especially in the physics and chemistry sections, are a little crazy.
Murchison's polarimeter has an error of—oh, something horrible like one tenth of one per cent, I don't
know."
"Izzat so?" Lewis leaned forward, thrusting his jaw out above the dishes. "Maybe it's not my neurones but
my instruments that're off whack—No, can't be. Not that much. It must be something in the cells
themselves—but how can I measure that if the gadgets are all awry?" He broke into vigorous German
profanity, though his eyes remained alight.
"Lots of the boys have come up with brave new projects all at once, too," went on Helga. "They want
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immediate use of things like the big centrifuge, and blow their tops when I tell them to wait their turn."
"All today, eh?" Corinth pushed his dessert aside and took out a cigarette. " 'Curiouser and curiouser,' said
Alice." His eyes widened, and the hand that struck a match shook ever so faintly. "Nat, I wonder—"
"A general phenomenon?" Lewis nodded, holding excitement in check with an effort. "Could be, could
be. We'd certainly better find out."
"What're you talking about?" asked Helga.
"Things." Corinth explained while she finished eating.
Lewis sat quietly back, blowing cigar fumes and withdrawn into himself.
"Hm." Helga tapped the table with a long, unpainted fingernail. "Sounds—interesting. Are all nerve cells,
including those in our own brains, suddenly being speeded up?"
It's more basic than that," said Corinth. "Something may have happened to—what? Electrochemical
phenomena? How should I know? Let's not go off the deep end till we've investigated this."
"Yeah. I'll leave it to you." Helga took out a cigarette for herself and inhaled deeply. "I can think of a few
obvious things to check up on—but it's your child." She turned again to smile at Corinth, the gentle smile
she saved for a very few. "Apropos, how's Sheila?"
"Oh, fine, fine. How's yourself?"
"I'm okay." There was a listlessness in her answer.
"You must come over to our place sometime for dinner." It was a small strain to carry on polite
conversation, when his mind was yelling to be at this new problem. "We haven't seen you in quite a
while. Bring the new boy friend if you want, whoever he is."
"Jim? Oh, him. I gave him the sack last week. But I'll come over, sure." She got up. "Back to the oars,
mates. See you."
Corinth regarded her as she strode toward the cashier's desk. Almost in spite of himself—his thoughts
were shooting off in all directions today—he murmured: "I wonder why she can't keep a man. She's good-
looking and intelligent enough."
"She doesn't want to," said Lewis shortly.
"No, I suppose not. She's turned cold since I knew her in Minneapolis, Why?"
Lewis shrugged.
"I think you know," said Corinth. "You've always understood women better than you had any right to.
And she likes you better than anyone else around here, I think."
"We both go for music," said Lewis. It was his opinion that none had been written since 1900. "And we
both know how to keep our mouths shut."
"Okay, okay," laughed Corinth. He got up. "I'm for the lab again. Hate to scrap the phase analyzer, but
this new business—" Pausing: "Look, let's get hold of the others and divide up the labor, huh? Everybody
check something. It won't take long then." Lewis nodded curtly and followed him out.
By evening the results were in. As Corinth looked at the figures, his interest lost way to a coldness rising
within him. He felt suddenly how small and helpless a thing he was.
Electromagnetic phenomena were changed. It wasn't much, but the very fact that the supposedly eternal
constants of nature had shifted was enough to crash a hundred philosophies into dust. The subtlety of the
file:///G|/rah/Poul%20Anderson%20-%20Brain%20Wave.htm (9 of 97) [2/14/2004 12:40:22 AM]
BRAIN WAVE - Poul Anderson
problem held something elemental. How do you remeasure the basic factors when your measuring
devices have themselves changed?
Well, there were ways. There are no absolutes in this universe, everything exists in relation to everything
else, and it was the fact that certain data had altered relatively to others which was significant.
Corinth had been working on the determination of electrical constants. For the metals they were the same,
or nearly the same, as before, but the resistivity and permittivity of insulators had changed
measurably—they had become slightly better conductors.
Except, in the precision apparatus, such as Gertie the computer, the change in electromagnetic
characteristics was not enough to make any noticeable difference. But the most complex and delicately
balanced mechanism known to man is the living cell; and the neurone is the most highly evolved and
specialized of all cells—particularly that variety of neurones found in the human cerebral cortex. And
here the change was felt. The minute electrical impulses which represented neural functioning—sense
awareness, motor reaction, thought itself—were flowing more rapidly, more intensely.
And the change might just have begun.
Helga shivered. "I need a drink," she said. "Bad."
"I know a bar," said Lewis. "I'll join you in one before coming back to work some more. How about you,
Pete?"
"I'm going home," said the physicist. "Have fun." His words were flat.
He walked out, hardly aware of the darkened lobby and the late hour. To the others, this was still
something bright and new and wonderful; but he couldn't keep from thinking that perhaps, in one huge
careless swipe, the universe was about to snuff out all the race of man. What would the effect be on a
living body—?
Well, they'd done about all they could for now. They'd checked as much as possible. Helga had gotten in
touch with the Bureau of Standards in Washington and notified them. She gathered, from what the man
there said, that a few other laboratories, spotted throughout the country, had also reported anomalies.
Tomorrow, thought Corinth, they'll really start hearing about it.
Outside—the scene was still New York at evening—hardly changed, perhaps just a little quieter than it
should be. He bought a newspaper at the corner and glanced at it as he stood there. Was he wrong, or had
a subtle difference crept in, a more literate phrasing, something individual that broke through the
copyreader's barriers because the copyreader himself had changed without knowing it? But there was no
mention of the great cause, that was too big and too new yet, nor had the old story altered—war, unrest,
suspicion, fear and bate and greed, a sick world crumbling.
He was suddenly aware that he had read through the Times' crowded front page in about ten minutes. He
shoved the newspaper into a pocket and hastened toward the subway.
CHAPTER 3
There was trouble everywhere. An indignant yell in the morning brought Archie Brock running to the
chicken house, where Stan Wilmer had set down a bucket of feed to shake his fist at the world.
"Look a' that!" he cried. "Just look!"
file:///G|/rah/Poul%20Anderson%20-%20Brain%20Wave.htm (10 of 97) [2/14/2004 12:40:22 AM]
摘要：

BRAINWAVE-PoulAndersonBRAINWAVEPoulAnderson[14mar2003—scannedfor#bookz][03apr2003—proofedfor#bookz]CHAPTER1Thetraphadclosedatsundown.Inthelastredlight,therabbithadba teredhimselfagainstitswallsuntilfearandnumbnessachedhomeandhecrouchedshakenbytheflutteringsofhisownheart.Otherwisetherewasnomotionin...

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