Dean Koontz - Night Chills

They stared at each other, unable to think of any more small talk.

“Sit down,” Dawson said. He went behind the desk while Salsbury settled in front of it. The four feet of polished oak between them further established Dawson’s dominance.

Sitting stiffly, briefcase on his knees, Salsbury looked like the corporate equivalent of a lap dog. He knew he should relax, that it was dangerous to let Dawson see how easily he could be intimidated. Nevertheless, knowing this, he could only pretend relaxation by folding his hands atop his briefcase.

“This letter. -.“ Dawson looked at the paper on his blotter.

Salsbury had written the letter, and he knew it by heart.

Dear Leonard:

Since we left Harvard, you’ve made more money than I have. However, I haven’t wasted my life. After decades of study and experimentation, I have nearly perfected a process that is priceless. The proceeds in a single year could exceed your accumulated wealth. I am entirely serious.

Could I have an appointment at your convenience? You won’t regret having given it to me.

Make the appointment for “Robert Stanley,” a subterfuge to keep my name out of your date book. As you can see from the letterhead on this stationery, I direct operations at the main biochem research laboratory for Creative Development Associates, a subsidiary of Futurex International. If you know the nature of CDA’s business, you will understand the need for circumspection.

As ever, Ogden Salsbury

He had expected to get a quick response with that letter, and his expectations had been met. At Harvard, Leonard had been guided by two shining principles: money and God. Salsbury had supposed, and rightly, that Dawson hadn’t changed. The letter was mailed on Tuesday. Late Wednesday Dawson’s secretary called to make the appointment.

“I don’t ordinarily sign for registered letters,” Dawson said sternly. “I accepted it only because your name was on it. After I read it I very nearly threw it in the trash.”

Salsbury winced.

“Had it been from anyone else, I would have thrown it away. But at Harvard you were no braggart. Have you overstated your case?”

“You’ve discovered something you think is worth millions?”

“Yes. And more.” His mouth was dry.

Dawson took a manila folder from the center desk drawer. “Creative Development Associates. We bought that company seven years ago. You were with it when we made the acquisition.”

“Yes, sir. Leonard.”

As if he had not noticed Salsbury’s slip of the tongue, Dawson said, “CDA produces computer programs for universities and government bureaus involved in sociological and psychological studies.” He didn’t bother to page through the report. He seemed to have memorized it. “CDA also does research for government and industry. It operates seven laboratories that are examining the biological, chemical, and biochemical causes of certain sociological and psychological phenomena. You’re in charge of the Brockert Institute in Connecticut.” He frowned. “The entire Connecticut facility is devoted to top secret work for the Defense Department.” His black eyes were exception-

ally sharp and clear. “So secret, in fact, that even I couldn’t find out what you’re doing up there. Just that it’s in the general field of behavior modification.”

Clearing his throat nervously, Salsbury wondered if Dawson was broadminded enough to grasp the value of what he was about to be told. “Are you familiar with the term ‘subliminal perception’?”

“It has to do with the subconscious mind.”

“That’s right — as far as it goes. I’m afraid I’m going to sound rather pedantic, but a lecture is in order.”

Dawson leaned back as Salsbury leaned forward. “By all means.”

Extracting two eight-by-ten photographs from the briefcase, Salsbury said, “Do you see any difference between photo A and photo B?”

Dawson examined them closely. They were black and white studies of Salsbury’s face. “They’re identical.”

“On the surface, yes. They’re prints of the same photograph.”

“What’s the point?”

“I’ll explain later. Hold on to them for now.”

Dawson stared suspiciously at the pictures. Was this some sort of game? He didn’t like games. They were a waste of time. While you were playing a game, you could just as easily be earning money.

“The human mind,” Salsbury said, “has two primary monitors for data input: the conscious and the subconscious.”

“My church recognizes the subconscious,” Dawson said affably. “Not all churches will admit it exists.”

Unable to see the point of that, Salsbury ignored it. “These monitors observe and store two different sets of data. In a manner of speaking, the conscious mind is aware only of what happens in its direct line of sight, while the subconscious has peripheral vision. These two halves of the mind operate independently of each other, and often in opposition to each other-”

“Only in the abnormal mind,” Dawson said.

“No, no. In everyone’s mind. Yours and mine included.”

Disturbed that anyone should think his mind performed in any state other than perfect harmony with itself, Dawson started to speak.

“For example,” Salsbury said quickly, “a man is sitting at a bar. A beautiful woman takes the stool next to his. With conscious intent he tries to seduce her. At the same time, however, without being consciously aware of it, he may be terrified of sexual involvement. He may be afraid of rejection, failure, or impotency. With his conscious mind he performs as society expects him to perform in the company of a sexy woman. But his subconscious works effectively against his conscious. Therefore, he alienates the woman. He talks too loudly and brashly. Although he’s ordinarily an interesting fellow, he bores her with stock market reports. He spills his drink on her. That behavior is the product of his subconscious fear. His outer mind says ‘Go’ even as his inner mind shouts ‘Stop.’”

Dawson’s expression was sour. He didn’t appreciate the nature of the example. Nevertheless, he said, “Go on.”

“The subconscious is the dominant mind. The conscious sleeps, but the subconscious never does. The conscious has no access to the data in the subconscious, but the subconscious knows everything that transpires in the conscious mind. The conscious is essentially nothing more than a computer, while the subconscious is the computer programmer.

“The data stored in the different halves of the mind are collected in the same way: through the five known senses. But the subconscious sees, hears, smells, tastes, and feels far more than does the outer mind. It apprehends everything that passes too quickly or too subtly to impress the conscious mind. For our purposes, in fact, that is the definition of ‘subliminal’: anything that happens too quickly or too subtly to make an impression on the conscious mind. More than ninety percent of the stimuli that we observe through our five senses is subliminal input.”

“Ninety percent?” Dawson said. “You mean I see, feel, smell, taste, and hear ten times more than I think I do? An example?”

Salsbury had one ready. “The human eye fixates on objects

at least one hundred thousand times a day. A fixation lasts from a fraction of a second to a third of a minute. However, if you tried to list the hundred thousand things you had looked at today, you wouldn’t be able to recall more than a few hundred of them. The rest of those stimuli were observed by and stored in the subconscious — as were the additional two million stimuli reported to the brain by the other four senses.”

Closing his eyes as if to block out all of those sights he wasn’t aware of seeing, Dawson said, “You’ve made three points.” He ticked them off on his manicured fingers. “One, the subconscious is the dominant half of the mind. Two, we don’t know what our subconscious minds have observed and remembered. We can’t recall that data at will. Three, subliminal perception is nothing strange or occult; it is an integral part of our lives.”