Charles Sheffield - The Mind Pool

It was very tempting — put it off for another day or two, and hope somehow that it would never have to be done. But Mondrian would ask, the next time he called. “There is one more thing, Princess. About the Tolkov Stimulator. I told Leah Rainbow that the treatment gets very intense, for the person giving it as well as the one receiving it.” Flammarion fixed his eyes on the table in front of him. It was the old story; Esro Mondrian taking an action, and leaving Kubo Flammarion to clean up the mess. “I have to tell you just how intense it might get for you.”

“Tomorrow, Captain…”

“No, Princess Tatiana. Today. I’m sorry, but we have to do it before that shot of Paradox wears off.”

Esro Mondrian had puzzled over the directions before he tried to follow them. They were far from the usual Fropper territory. He had been sent meandering through an endless series of descent shafts, to the deepest basement levels of the Gallimaufries. So far down in the Earth’s crust, continuous cooling was needed to make the levels even marginally habitable, and only the power maintenance crews visited on a regular basis. It seemed inconceivable that any successful Fropper would have an office down in these smoking warrens. But the directions had been detailed and specific.

The final hundred meters of his journey were in near-total darkness, stepping carefully along a steadily descending shallow ramp. At the foot, the gloom closed in to become absolute. Mondrian paused to unsnap a miniature flashlight from his belt.

“No lights, please,” said a soft voice from a few yards in front of him. “Take hold, Commander Mondrian, and follow me.”

“You are Skrynol?”

“I am.” A warm, fleshy flipper gripped Mondrian’s fingers. He walked, step by slow step, led by the Fropper in front of him. Finally he was guided to a seat covered by warm, velvety material.

“Sit there, Commander. And relax.”

“You have to be joking. Could you relax, in my situation? I’ve been to a lot of Froppers before, but I’ve never had to put up with anything like this. Why the darkness? I’d like at least a little light.”

“That desire is understandable. But it is not a good idea. I work far more effectively in total darkness. And with light, you might feel far less relaxed.”

“I don’t care what you look like. I don’t expect a Fropper to win beauty contests.”

“How true. But there are limits. Not every product of a Needler lab is a work of art in aesthetic terms.”

Mondrian peered into the darkness. “Are you telling me you’re an Artefact?”

“I do seem to be saying that, don’t I?” There was a trill of laughter from somewhere above and in front of Mondrian. “Does that give you a problem?”

“I didn’t know Artefacts could be Froppers.”

“If you doubt my capabilities, I can refer you to others who will provide excellent testimonials. And from my initial assessment of your mental condition, the Froppers you have visited in the past have done little for you. Could an Artefact do worse?”

Mondrian leaned back again in his seat. “I can’t argue with that. The others I’ve seen have done nothing for me. How can you say you’ve assessed my mental condition when I’ve only been here for two minutes?”

“You are asking me to reveal the secrets of my profession. I will not do so. But if you require proof that I can do what I say, you shall have an example. Sit quietly, relax as much as possible, and let your thoughts wander where they wish. I am going to attach a few electrodes.” Cold touches came on Mondrian’s forehead, hands, and neck. “And now, a few moments of silence.”

The temperature in the room was far too hot for comfort. Mondrian sat, sweating heavily, and tried to follow the Fropper’s order to relax. What form could possibly be so horrible that the sight of it was worse than this oppressive and stifling darkness? His eyes should be totally adjusted by now, but he could see nothing. Was he wasting his time, on yet another unproductive visit to a Fropper? There had to be a reason why Froppers were banned, everywhere except on Earth.

“I have enough.” Skrynol’s voice came suddenly out of the darkness. “Remember, I cannot read your thoughts, and I will never claim to do so. But I can read your body, and they tell me more about what you are thinking than you may be prepared to believe. For example, let me read back to you a few of the more obvious and familiar indicators. Your pupils are somewhat dilated — yes, part of that is certainly due to the dark; but not all of it. And yes, I can see you very well, even though you cannot see me. You have a slightly accelerated eye blink. Your body temperature is elevated half a degree above what I judge to be its normal value. Your muscles are tense, but in tight control, although you are now making a conscious effort to relax your back and shoulders. Your pulse is elevated, ten counts or so above normal. Palms wet, perspiration high in acids and low in potassium ions. Mouth tight, lips a little dry. Nasal mucous membranes dry also, and a fraction of a degree cooler than expected. Frequent swallowing, and tight sphincters. In summary, you are hugely excited, and tremendously controlled.

“Now, you will say that those are mere physical variables. A med machine could tell as much about you. But what I can do, and no med machine could ever do, is to integrate all those factors, and place them in context. So I can guess — nothing more than a guess, although a highly educated one — at the mental state that accompanies the physical one.

“I conclude this about your thoughts, Commander Mondrian. At the conscious level, you are pondering me and my probable appearance. That is perfectly natural. But below that, in the center of your real attention, are two other worries. First, you have lost something, and it is enormously important for you to find it. And second, a concern which takes us deeper yet, and points to the reasons that you came here in the first place: the thing that was lost is important to you, only because it protects you from something else, the thing that you fear most. The hidden thing.”

Mondrian realized that he had been thinking about the Morgan Construct, and where it might be. But until the Fropper mentioned the “lost something” the thought had been no more than a nagging background worry.

“The hidden thing. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You certainly do. But not at any conscious level. That is why it is hidden.”

“Could it be the source of my nightmares — the reason why I wake up terrified every night?”

“Of course it is.” Skrynol’s voice held no uncertainty. “You did not need me to answer that question, did you? You could answer it very easily for yourself. So now we are agreed, we must begin the search for the hidden thing. Because we must certainly find it, before we can hope to get rid of it. I say again, relax.”

“I am in your hands.” And Mondrian was relaxing, more than he would have thought possible. Only his fingers were restless, turning and twisting the fire-opal at his collar. He thought he noticed a faint smell in the air, a trace of an odor like over-ripe peaches. “What do you want me to do?”

“Remain completely still. I am about to attach a few more electrodes.” Again came the cold touches, this time on Mondrian’s chest and abdomen. “Very good. Now, let me tell you exactly how we will proceed. We need to explore below the conscious levels, but it is not easy to reach them. Today, we will try for just the first stratum. I will speak certain key words — of people, animals, times, and places — and you may answer however you choose. Do not worry if we seem to be going nowhere, or round in circles.”