with it,” I said guardedly. “After all, Lynch kept suggesting Fuller’s death wasn’t accidental.”
“Lynch? Lynch?”
I pushed ahead boldly but ambiguously. “Morton Lynch. The man who did a fade-out at your party.”
“Lynch? Fade-out? What are you talking about, son?”
His reaction was sincere. And it suggested that Siskin, like everybody else except me, had lost all memory of the man who had vanished from his roof garden. Or he was a damned good actor.
“Lynch,” I lied expediently, “was some character who kept kidding me about knocking off Fuller to get his job.”
When I finally found time for the spot simulator check Whitney had suggested, I was surprised to find myself approaching the experience with more than casual anticipation.
Chuck accompanied me into the “peephole” room and led me to the nearest reclining couch.
“What kind of look-see will you have?” he asked, grinning. “Surveillance circuit?”
“No. Just a plain empathic coupling.”
“Any particular ID unit?”
“You pick him.”
Obviously he already had. “How about ‘D. Thompson’—IDU-7412?”
“Suits me. What’s his line?”
“Van pilot. We’ll pick him up on a delivery job. Okay?”
“Shoot.”
He lowered the transfer helmet on my head, then joked, “Give me any trouble and I’ll arrange a shot of surge voltage.”
I didn’t laugh. Fuller had theorized that runaway gain in the modulator could kick back with a reciprocal transfer. Just as the observer’s ego was temporarily planted within the ID’s storage unit, so might the latter’s sweep up and impress itself upon the brain of the observer in a violent, instant exchange.
It wasn’t that the reciprocal transfer couldn’t be reversed later. But if something should happen to the image of the ID unit meanwhile, it would theoretically be curtains for the trapped observer.
Relaxing against the leather padding, I watched Chuck cross over to the transfer panel, make a few final adjustments, then reach for the activator switch.
There was a brief, sharp twisting of all my senses—a kaleidoscopic flare of light, a screeching blast of sound, a sudden assault of impossible tastes and smells and tactile sensations.
Then I was through, on the other side. And there was that fleeting moment of fear and confusion as my conceptual processes readjusted to the perceptual faculties of D. Thompson—IDU-7412.
I sat at the controls of an air van leisurely watching the analog city slip by below. I was sensitive even to the steady rise and fall of my (Thompson’s) chest and the warmth of the sun that blazed through the plexidome.
But it was a passive association. I could only look, listen, feel. I had no motor authority. Nor was there any way the subjective unit could be aware of the empathic coupling.
I slipped down to the lower, subvocal level and encountered his flow of conscious thought:
I was annoyed that I had fallen behind schedule. But, what the hell, I (IDU-7412) didn’t give a damn. Why, I could draw down twice as much with any other vanning firm.
Satisfied with the completeness of the coupling, I (Doug Hall) pulled back from total to perceptive empathy and saw through Thompson’s eyes as he glanced at the man in the other seat.
And I wondered whether his helper was a valid ID unit, or merely one of the “props.” Of the latter we had supplied hundreds of thousands in order to pad out the simulated environment.
Impatiently, I waited for Chuck to feed in the test stimulus. I was looking forward to getting away early that afternoon, since I had a date with Jinx at her home for dinner and a glance at Dr. Fuller’s notes.
The stimulus finally came. Thompson had been staring at it for fully ten seconds before I recognized it for what it was.
On the roof of one of the tall buildings below, a horizontal billboard’s high-intensity xenon vapor lights were repeatedly blinking:
SOROPMAN’S SCOTCH-MELLOW, SMOOTH
CAN YOU THINK OF A BETTER
“Lynch? Lynch?”
I pushed ahead boldly but ambiguously. “Morton Lynch. The man who did a fade-out at your party.”
“Lynch? Fade-out? What are you talking about, son?”
His reaction was sincere. And it suggested that Siskin, like everybody else except me, had lost all memory of the man who had vanished from his roof garden. Or he was a damned good actor.
“Lynch,” I lied expediently, “was some character who kept kidding me about knocking off Fuller to get his job.”
When I finally found time for the spot simulator check Whitney had suggested, I was surprised to find myself approaching the experience with more than casual anticipation.
Chuck accompanied me into the “peephole” room and led me to the nearest reclining couch.
“What kind of look-see will you have?” he asked, grinning. “Surveillance circuit?”
“No. Just a plain empathic coupling.”
“Any particular ID unit?”
“You pick him.”
Obviously he already had. “How about ‘D. Thompson’—IDU-7412?”
“Suits me. What’s his line?”
“Van pilot. We’ll pick him up on a delivery job. Okay?”
“Shoot.”
He lowered the transfer helmet on my head, then joked, “Give me any trouble and I’ll arrange a shot of surge voltage.”
I didn’t laugh. Fuller had theorized that runaway gain in the modulator could kick back with a reciprocal transfer. Just as the observer’s ego was temporarily planted within the ID’s storage unit, so might the latter’s sweep up and impress itself upon the brain of the observer in a violent, instant exchange.
It wasn’t that the reciprocal transfer couldn’t be reversed later. But if something should happen to the image of the ID unit meanwhile, it would theoretically be curtains for the trapped observer.
Relaxing against the leather padding, I watched Chuck cross over to the transfer panel, make a few final adjustments, then reach for the activator switch.
There was a brief, sharp twisting of all my senses—a kaleidoscopic flare of light, a screeching blast of sound, a sudden assault of impossible tastes and smells and tactile sensations.
Then I was through, on the other side. And there was that fleeting moment of fear and confusion as my conceptual processes readjusted to the perceptual faculties of D. Thompson—IDU-7412.
I sat at the controls of an air van leisurely watching the analog city slip by below. I was sensitive even to the steady rise and fall of my (Thompson’s) chest and the warmth of the sun that blazed through the plexidome.
But it was a passive association. I could only look, listen, feel. I had no motor authority. Nor was there any way the subjective unit could be aware of the empathic coupling.
I slipped down to the lower, subvocal level and encountered his flow of conscious thought:
I was annoyed that I had fallen behind schedule. But, what the hell, I (IDU-7412) didn’t give a damn. Why, I could draw down twice as much with any other vanning firm.
Satisfied with the completeness of the coupling, I (Doug Hall) pulled back from total to perceptive empathy and saw through Thompson’s eyes as he glanced at the man in the other seat.
And I wondered whether his helper was a valid ID unit, or merely one of the “props.” Of the latter we had supplied hundreds of thousands in order to pad out the simulated environment.
Impatiently, I waited for Chuck to feed in the test stimulus. I was looking forward to getting away early that afternoon, since I had a date with Jinx at her home for dinner and a glance at Dr. Fuller’s notes.
The stimulus finally came. Thompson had been staring at it for fully ten seconds before I recognized it for what it was.
On the roof of one of the tall buildings below, a horizontal billboard’s high-intensity xenon vapor lights were repeatedly blinking:
SOROPMAN’S SCOTCH-MELLOW, SMOOTH
CAN YOU THINK OF A BETTER
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