Brainfire by Campbell Armstrong Page B

evolutionary throwback, some kind of energy that presently we have no means of measuring and therefore no way of comprehending … there have been any number of theories. You can pick and choose among them as you like. The fact remains that Mrs. Blum has the ability to interfere with the operations of other minds.”
    Koprow suddenly closed his folder and laid his hands flat on top of it; his skull gleamed beneath the overhead lights. Impatiently he said, “With respect, Professor Andreyev, we in this room are not exactly enthralled by theories. We are practical men.…” He looked at his various colleagues conspiratorially, searching for and finding a measure of assent. Practical men, Andreyev thought. They are all practical men. The euphemism was appalling. Koprow was smiling, as if he were attuned to Andreyev’s discomfort. “As practical men, we are somewhat more interested in functions than in hypotheses. And what we have to ask ourselves is rather simple. What good is this woman to us?”
    Andreyev turned his hands over, stared at the damp palms, at how sweat glistened in the lines; the collective tensions in the room unnerved him. He felt unsteady on his feet, weak, something vital draining out of him. He thought: A freak show, a sideshow, trickery. Why in the name of God couldn’t it be as simple as that? Why couldn’t it be mumbo-jumbo? The whole psychic bag of tricks? Palmistry, messages from the ether, the divine revelations of fake practitioners of trances, phony voices, bells ringing in pitch-black rooms, ectoplasmic materializations—why couldn’t it be the simple lunacy of indulging in a conversation with a tomato plant? Why did it have to be real ?
    What good is this woman to us ?
    Koprow was still talking and Andreyev realized he hadn’t been listening. “… There’s the further matter of our control over this woman. Are we doing enough to ensure control? What guarantees do we have?”
    Control, Andreyev thought. What control? She could turn on you and blow your mind into oblivion, into death.
    Koprow said, “I understand that morphine has been administered to the point of dependency. And that she expects an exit visa for Israel in return for her cooperation. Is that correct?”
    Andreyev nodded his head, feeling a tightness in the neck muscles, a dull pain beneath the scalp. Morphine, the perpetual daze of the dream, the languid glide into torpor, a freedom from pain—the promise of a way out, as if such a promise would ever be kept. He watched Koprow, seeing iron determination there, in the way the man held his head, clenched his hands, the firm set of the mouth.
    â€œAnd all this is enough?” he asked.
    Andreyev shrugged.
    â€œIs it enough?” Koprow raised his voice and there was a faint echo in the room.
    â€œI can’t honestly answer that.”
    Koprow looked at his colleagues with mock exasperation. “Then what would you suggest, Professor?”
    Andreyev stared at Koprow. “She’s only interested in leaving the Soviet Union, Comrade Koprow. That’s the only thing she lives for.”
    â€œThen why doesn’t she simply spirit herself away?”
    There was subdued laughter around the room, the tuning-up of instruments with Koprow as conductor. Andreyev understood: he was being challenged to say that the woman was under total control, that domination was complete.
    Koprow was shaking his head. “The importance of control,” he said. “I don’t think we should leave any of that to mere chance, do you?”
    Andreyev was suddenly meek, seeing himself small and redundant in the room, a nothing whose services might easily be dispensed with; initials on a piece of paper, the passing down of a judgment—how easy it would be for them to remove him. He wanted to say that she was very old, that her heart was tired and strained, that no more control was needed—but he fell into