Brainfire by Campbell Armstrong Page A

infantryman was dead on arrival. I refer, of course, to brain death. I also understand that certain tests were made and that these showed a total absence of reflex, coordination, an absence of any of the normal responses one associates with life.”
    Andreyev caught Koprow’s eyes, then looked away, coughed, studied his papers.
    â€œThe question in my mind,” Koprow said, smiling again, a leprous expression, “is simple. If the woman has such a destructive capacity, if her ability is such that she can, quite literally, destroy a mind, how are we to make use of this particular talent?”
    Andreyev said nothing. He glanced at Sememko; the square fat hand was working the strands of the reddish moustache. Andreyev longed all at once to be out of this room: the trapped heat was suffocating him.
    â€œPerhaps Professor Andreyev …” Koprow inclined his head toward Andreyev, then sat down.
    There was a silence in the room; the awful silence of a clock suddenly stopped. Andreyev realized that he should stand, deliver his prepared speech, his explanation, but he felt oddly numb. I am paralyzed, he thought. Why had Domareski disappeared? Fool, he thought. You don’t need the gift of clairvoyance for that one. He remembered Katya standing in her compartment, her reflection in the window; in his imagination he saw a coiled snake and heard the vicious rattle in the tail of the creature. Slowly, fumbling his papers, he stood up. The faces concentrated on him.
    His own voice was flat, dry, his mouth opening and closing slowly. Someone was riffling papers. A fan blew warm air. Sleet rattled the window suddenly.
    â€œI might begin with some background,” he said. Why did his own voice fade in and out like the signal on a faulty piece of radio equipment? “Mrs. Blum was brought to my attention by a researcher in the town of Sokol, which happens to be her home. The researcher—all this, of course, is contained in my files—was pursuing the kind of work being done by Professor Sergeyev at the Uktomskii Physiological Laboratory in Leningrad … again, I refer you to my files.”
    He paused. The room was still, perfect as a photograph, nothing stirring: even the hot-air fan had thermostatically switched itself off. He hated it: the center of attention, everyone looking at him, everyone waiting. He hated this messianic sensation. He wanted to say: I have answers to nothing, nothing .
    â€œThe specific field I refer to is psychokinesis, or PK, which as you know”—he stared around at their faces: how blank they were, how insipid all at once, awaiting his definitions, his explanations—“is the ability to move objects by mental means. There has been considerable research done in this area. You are doubtless already familiar with Wolf Messing and with …” He dried up; his memory blanked, the roof of his mouth had become dry. “… Nelya Mikhailova. And you are no doubt acquainted with the research that has been done in that direction.”
    Andreyev took a sip of water. “You will see from the documents that have been prepared that what we have in Mrs. Blum far exceeds the capabilities of any of the subjects we have previously tested under laboratory conditions.”
    Koprow had begun to tap a finger impatiently upon the surface of the table. It was a hooklike finger, curled over, skinny. Andreyev was mesmerized by its movements: he had to wrench his eyes away and look back down at his papers.
    â€œI am not going to say that we understand to any degree the nature of this woman’s abilities. We’ve postulated, for the sake, frankly, of convenience, the existence of an x —call it what you like—an x that represents psi-force. I’m not going to claim that this label is truly helpful, because it isn’t. We don’t know why she can do what she does, we don’t know how she can do it.… Some form of mental wave, some kind of