they analyzed the tapes later, punching the data cards with greatest care, filing them through the machines for the basic processing and classification that all their data underwent. it was late that night when they had the report back in their hands.
dorffman stared at it angrily. "it's obviously wrong," he grated. "it doesn't fit. dave, it doesn't agree with anything we've observed before. there must be an error."
"of course," said lessing. "according to the theory. the theory says that adult psi-contact is deadly to the growing child. it smothers their potential through repeated contact until it dries up completely. we've proved that, haven't we? time after time. everything goes according to the theory—except tommy. but tommy's psi-potential was drying up there on the farm, until the distortion was threatening the balance of his mind. then he made an adult contact, and we saw how he bloomed." lessing sank down to his desk wearily. "what are we going to do, jack? formulate a separate theory for tommy?"
"of course not," said dorffman. "the instruments were wrong. somehow we misread the data—"
"didn't you see his face?" lessing burst out. "didn't you see how he acted? what do you want with an instrument reading?" he shook his head. "it's no good, jack. something different happened here, something we'd never counted on. it's something the theory just doesn't allow for."
they sat silently for a while. then dorffman said: "what are you going to do?"
"i don't know," said lessing. "maybe when we fell into this bramble bush we blinded ourselves with the urge to classify—to line everything up in neat rows like pins in a paper. maybe we were so blind we missed the path altogether."
"but the book is due! the conference speech—"
"i think we'll make some changes in the book," lessing said slowly. "it'll be costly—but it might even be fun. it's a pretty dry, logical presentation of ideas, as it stands. very austere and authoritarian. but a few revisions could change all that—" he rubbed his hands together thoughtfully. "how about it, jack? do we have nerve enough to be laughed at? do you think we could stand a little discredit, making silly asses of ourselves? because when i finish this book, we'll be laughed out of existence. there won't be any authority in psionics for a while—and maybe that way one of the lads who's really sniffing out the trail will get somebody to listen to him!
"get a pad, get a pencil! we've got work to do. and when we finish, i think we'll send a carbon copy out chicago way. might even persuade that puppy out there to come here and work for me—"
the end
