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He didn't get mad. "We know," he said simply. "There is" – he shrugged – "not memory; you can't call it that; can't call it anything you could even recognize. But there is knowledge in this life form, of course, and – it stays. I am still what I was, in every respect, right down to a scar on my foot I got as a child; I am still Bernard Budlong. But the other knowledge is there, too, now. It stays, and I know. We all do."
For a moment he sat staring at nothing, then he looked up at us again. "As to how does it happen, how do they do what they do?" He gri
He sighed, and said, "And there is a great deal more we don't know or even begin to suspect. Not only your brain, but your entire body, every cell of it emanates waves as individual as fingerprints. Do you believe that, Doctor?" He smiled. "Well, do you believe that utterly invisible, undetectable waves can emanate from a room, move silently through space, be picked up, and then reproduce precisely every word, sound, and tone to be heard in that original room? The sound of a whispered voice, the note of a piano, the plucked string of a guitar? Your grandfather would never have believed such an impossibility, but you do – you believe in radio. You even believe in television."
He nodded. "Yes, Doctor Be
Again he nodded. "So it can happen, Doctor Be
For a time, then, the room was silent, the four figures in my waiting-room quietly watching Becky and me. He was right; I believed him. I knew it was true, possible or impossible, and the helplessness and frustration were rising up in me. I could feel it in my finger tips, an actual physical sensation, a compelling urgency to do something, and I sat there, my fists clenching and unclenching. Suddenly, impulsively, for no other reason than to move, to act, to do something, I reached behind me, grabbed the cord of the Venetian blind, and yanked. The blinds shot up, the slats rattling like machine-gun fire, daylight slanting into the room, and I turned to look down at the wandering shoppers, the stores, the cars, the parking meters, the so ordinary scene below.
The four figures in my office didn't move, just sat watching me; and now my eyes were darting around the room, frantically searching for something I could do.
Ma
Becky's head swung toward me, and she buried her face on my chest, her hands clutching my lapels; and, my arms around her, I felt her shoulders heave in a dry and soundless sobbing.
"Then what are you waiting for!" There was an actual red mist swarming before my eyes. "What are you doing, torturing us?"
Ma
Ma
The little man near the door – I'd forgotten he existed – sighed, and said, "Lock them in a cell at the jail; they'll sleep eventually. Why all the argument?"
Ma
The little man just sighed – no one ever got mad, I noticed – and continued to sit where he was.
Ma