Robinson, Spider - The Mind 1 - Mindkiller

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Robinson, Spider - [The Mind 1] - Mindkiller

[Version History]

MINDKILLER

by Spider Robinson

A NOVEL OF

THE NEAR FUTURE

ISBN 0-03-059018-3

This book is dedicated

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Robinson, Spider - [The Mind 1] - Mindkiller
to Psyche
and to Allison.
 
Table of Contents
Acknowledgments 2
 1. 4.................................................................. 1994. 4
 2. 26.................................................................. 1999. 26
 3. 48.................................................................. 1994. 48
 4. 69.................................................................. 1999. 69
 5. 103.................................................................. 1994. 103
 6. 129.................................................................. 1999. 129
 7. 160.................................................................. 1995. 160
 8. 180.................................................................. 1999. 180
 9. 196.................................................................. 1995. 196
10. 206................................................................. 1999. 206
11. 223................................................................. 1995. 223
12. 232................................................................. 1999. 232
13. 250................................................................. 1999. 250
 
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Acknowledgments

In writing this novel I have borrowed from the ideas, insights, and observations of many people. In no

particular order, they are:

Dr. Jim Lynch, my oldest friend, who first put me onto brain reward; Larry Niven, whose novella "Death

by Ecstasy" is probably the definitive story on the subject; Dr. Jerry Pournelle; Dr. Adam Reed of

Rockefeller University; Bob Shaw; Aryeh Routtenberg, whose article in the November 1978 Scientific

American was the final spark for the creation of this book; John D. MacDonald; Robert A. Heinlein; and

of course Olds and Milner, who started the whole thing by poking electrodes into rat brains at McGill

University in the 1950s. None of these gentlemen are to blame for what I have done with their ideas; as I

write, only two are even aware that I have borrowed from them.

Research assistance was given me by Bob Atkinson, Bill Jones, John Bell, George Allanson, and Andrew

Gilbert; Bob Atkinson typed more than half the manuscript while my arm was in a cast. Invaluable

suggestions were made by my editor, Donald Hutter of Holt, Rinehart and Winston, and by my agent,

Kirby McCauley. Jeanne, my other leg, read the whole thing in progress, called me back from the blind

alleys, and helped me patch the leaks. Heartfelt thanks to them all. Oh, and thanks to the Gunner in

Brattleboro for the Atcheson Assault Twelve and to the Sea Breeze Inn in St. Margaret's Bay for the

hospitality.

Any resemblance between characters in this book and real people, living or dead, is unintentional. A

character's opinions should never necessarily be taken to be those of the author, but I would like at this

time to specifically repudiate any derogatory opinions about the city of Halifax expressed by characters

hereinafter. It is the nicest city I have ever inhabited. But try persuading a New Yorker of that!

For those interested in influences, this book was written on a steady diet of Charlie Parker, Jon Hendricks,

Frank Zappa, John Lennon, Tom Waits, and the Dixie Dregs.

-Halifax, 1981

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1994

Halifax Harbor at night is a beautiful sight, and June usually finds the MacDonald Bridge lined with

lovers and other appreciators. But in Halifax even June can turn on one with icy claws.

A thermometer sheltered from the brisk wind would have shown a little below Centigrade zero. Norman

Kent had the magnificent scenery all to himself.

He was aware of the view; it was before his face, and his eyes were not closed. He was aware of the cold

too, because occasionally when he worked his face frozen tears would break and fall from his cheeks.

Neither meant anything to him. He was even vaguely aware of the sound of steady traffic behind him,

successive dopplers like the rhythmic moaning of some wounded giant. They meant nothing to him either.

On careful reflection Norman could think of nothing that did mean anything to him, and so he put one leg

over the outer rail.

A voice came out of the night. "Hey, Cap, don't!"

He froze for a long moment. Running footsteps approached from the Dartmouth end of the bridge.

Norman turned and saw the man coming up fast in the wash of passing headlights, and that decided him.

He got the other leg over and stood teetering on the narrow ledge, the wind full in his face. His hat blew

off, and insanely he spun around after it and incredibly he caught it, and was caught himself at wrist and

forearm by two very strong hands. They dragged him bodily back over the rail again, nearly breaking his

arm, and deposited him hard on his back on the pedestrian walkway. His breath left him, and he lay there

blinking up at bridge structure and midnight sky for perhaps half a minute.

He became aware that his unwanted rescuer was sitting beside him, back against the rail and to the wind,

breathing heavily. Norman rolled his head, felt cold stone bite his cheek, saw a large man in a shabby

coat, silhouetted against a pool of light. From the frosted breath he knew that the large man was shaking

his head.

Norman lifted himself on his elbows and sat beside the other, lifting his collar against the cold. He

fumbled out a pack of Players Lights and lit one with a flameless lighter. He held it out to the man, who

accepted it silently, and lit another for himself.

"My wife left me," Norman said. "Six years this August, and she left me. Six years.' Said she married too

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soon, she had to 'find herself.' And the semester's almost over, I've bitched it all up, nothing at all lined up

for the summer, and there's a really good chance I won't be hired back in September. Old MacLeod with

his hoary hints about austerity and sacrifices and a department chairman's heavy responsibility, he

wouldn't even come right out and tell me! Find herself, for Christ's stinking sake! Got herself a nineteen-

year-old plumbing student, he's going to help her find herself." He broke off and smoked for a while.

When he could speak again he said, "Perhaps I could have handled either one, but the two together is . . .

it's only fair to tell you, I'm going to try again, and you can't stop me forever."

The other spoke for the first time. His voice was deep and gravelly and dispassionate. "Don't let me stop

you."

Norman turned to stare. "Then why—?" He stopped then, for the knife picked up the oncoming headlights

very well.

"I never meant to stop you, Cap," the large man said calmly. "Just, uh—heh, heh—hold you up a little."

He was not even troubling to keep the knife hidden from the traffic. Norman glanced briefly at the

oncoming cars; as in a slapstick movie sequence he saw four drivers, one after the other, do the identical

single-take and then return their eyes grimly to the road. He yanked his own eyes back to the knife. It was

quite large and looked sharp. The large man held it as though he knew how, and all at once it came to

Norman that he had cashed a check today, and had two hundred New dollars in twenties in his wallet.

He let go of his cigarette and the wind took it. He put his gloved left hand palm up on his lap. On it he

placed his wallet, his cigarettes, a half-empty pack of joints, and the small lighter. As he peeled the watch

from the inside of his wrist he noticed that both hands were shaking badly. Oh, yes, he told himself, that's

right, it is very cold. He added the watch to the pile, worked the right glove off against his hip, and took

his pocket change in that hand.

"On my lap, brother," the large man directed. "Then go. Back to town or over the side, it's all the same to

me."

Norman sighed deeply, and flung everything high and to his right. Nearly all of it went over the rail and

into the harbor; a few bills were blown into traffic and toward the other rail.

The large man sat motionless. His eyes did not follow the loot but remained fixed on Norman, who stared

back.

At last the large man got to his feet. "Cap," he said, shaking his head again, "you got a lot of hard bark on

you." The knife disappeared. "Sorry I bothered you." He turned and began walking back toward

Dartmouth, hunching against the wind, still smoking Norman's cigarette.

"You gutless bastard," Norman whispered, and wondered who he was talking to.

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Robinson,Spider-[TheMind1]-Mindkiller[VersionHistory]MINDKILLERbySpiderRobinsonANOVELOFTHENEARFUTURECopyright©1982bySpiderRobinsonISBN0-03-059018-3Thisbookisdedicatedfile:///G|/Program%20Files/eMule/Incoming/Spid...n%20-%20Deathkiller%2001%20-%20Mindkiller.html(1of199)[10/16/20043:30:51PM]Robinson,...

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