“Shh!” she hissed. Her face held concentration, and not even a touch of the despair I was feeling. What was she up to?
I soon found out. Again she hoisted herself to a sitting position, on the edge of the sink itself this time. Instead of getting up on her knees, though, she extended her hands back toward the jagged spikes of glass in the broken window. Without hesitation—and without touching anything else—her fingers zeroed in on a particularly loose fragment. She tugged, breaking it free with only the slightest snap, and I finally realized what her plan had been. Hopping down with her prize, she started back toward me.
But we were still a long way from freedom. We now had something to cut the ropes with, but with my hands half-numbed from loss of circulation I knew I could never cut Heather’s bonds without severing a vein in the process. Her hands were probably in the same condition, and even with her enhanced sense of touch she wouldn’t do much better on my ropes. Still, it was our only hope.
Heather, however, seemed to have an entirely different idea. “Open your legs an inch,” she whispered as she reached me. I started to object, but she seemed to know what she was doing, so I shut up and did as I was told. Turning so that her back was to me, she stooped down and placed the piece of glass directly between my knees. “Close ’em,” she said.
“Wait a second, Heather, this is too dangerous,” I objected, suddenly realizing what she had in mind. “Why don’t you go around and cut my ropes instead?”
She ignored the suggestion. “Close your knees and hold it tight,” she hissed furiously.
I did so. I was terrified for her hands, and my stomach was knotted at the thought of what was probably going to happen, but we were running out of time. If we did nothing before Duke returned, we were dead. Heather crouched a bit more, placed one of her bonds gingerly against the glass, and began to rub.
After all my fears it was like watching a minor miracle happen. Quickly, accurately, and with no wasted motion, Heather attacked the ropes around her wrists. Even with her hands undoubtedly numb she always seemed to know exactly where the ropes and glass were relative to her skin, almost as if she had eyes in the back of her head. Only once did she so much as scratch herself, and that was due to a momentary loss of balance that made her sway a little.
Seconds later her hands were free. Sitting down on the floor, she took the glass from between my knees and set to work on her ankle ropes. They were off almost immediately. For another few seconds she remained where she was, grimacing as the blood flowed back into her hands and feet. Then she stood up and walked around behind me, and I felt her fingers tugging and probing at the ropes on my wrists. “Come on, hurry up,” I muttered impatiently.
“Just a minute,” she whispered back, her voice strangely tense. Her examination finally over, she began to cut my ropes, moving much more slowly than she had earlier. Despite her caution, though, she nicked me twice and once even managed to cut her own finger. However she had worked her earlier miracle, things unfortunately seemed to be back to normal now.
But finally I was free, and as I rubbed life back into my tingling hands Heather cut the ropes on my feet and those tying me to the chair. Standing up carefully, I tiptoed over to the cupboard and utensil drawers to arm myself. A large pan lid and carving fork went into my left hand, the fork extending a couple of inches past the lid’s rim; a one-piece wooden rolling pin, the housewife’s traditional weapon, went into my right. I handed Heather a small metal frying pan and positioned her by the swinging door. “I’ll announce myself before I come back in,” I told her. “If anyone else comes through, clobber him.”
“All right.” She paused. “They’re both still sitting on the couch playing cards. The bayonet is on the floor in front of Jackson.”
I nodded. I still didn’t understand Heather’s strangely capricious radar, but for the moment the how and why were irrelevant. She seemed to know how it worked and when it could be trusted, and that was what mattered right now. “Good. This should only take a minute.”
“Be careful, Neil,” she said, moving next to me for a quick hug.
I kissed her. “You bet, honey.” Facing the door, I settled my nerves for combat. I’d nearly blown it for us twice now. This time was going to be different.
And it was.
The rest of the incident, though not without some danger, was straightforward and almost not worth mentioning. Jackson and Colby, taken completely by surprise, were easy to overpower and tie up. By the time Duke and the others came trooping back, Heather and the two prisoners were safely locked in the cabin and I was outside with my bow and arrows and lots of cover. The boys put up some resistance, but they had no real chance, and after two of them collected arrows in the shoulder they finally gave up. I marched the whole group to Hemlock, confirming my story by taking the town leaders to the body in the woods. Frontier justice being what it is, the boys were found guilty of murder and hanged that evening.
The stars were shining through gaps in the cloud cover when I returned to the cabin. Heather had left a candle burning in the window and was waiting for me on the couch. “How did it go?” she asked quietly.
“They were convicted. I’m giving their bikes to the town; some of the men will come by tomorrow to pick them up.”
She nodded. “I’m almost sorry for them … but I don’t suppose we could have let them go.”
“No. If it bothers you too much, try thinking about their victim.” I sat down next to her. “Heather, we have to talk. I need to know how you were able to do the things you did today. I think you know what I mean.”
“Yes.” Her smile was bittersweet, with traces of fear and weariness, and I suddenly realized this wasn’t the first time she’d had this discussion. “You’re wondering if I’m really blind or somehow faking it.” She nodded heavily. “Yes, I am completely and totally blind. My eyes are useless. But the … disease, accident, whatever … that blinded me did something strange to my brain’s optic center. Somehow, I’m able to pick up the images that all nearby people are getting. In other words, I can see—sort of—but only through other people’s eyes.”
I nodded slowly as all sorts of pieces finally fell into place. “That was one possibility that never occurred to me,” I said. “A lot of things make sense now, though. What sort of range do you have?”
“Oh, thirty or forty feet.” She sounded vaguely surprised. I wondered why, and then realized that the usual reaction was probably one of shock or revulsion. I wasn’t following the pattern.
“It must have been rough for you,” I said gently, taking her hand in mine.
She shrugged, too casually. “A little. I haven’t told very many people. They usually … aren’t sympathetic.”
“I can imagine. I’m glad you told me, though.”
“I couldn’t hardly keep it a secret after all that stuff with the ropes,” she smiled faintly. Then she turned serious again, and when she spoke her voice was low and just a little apprehensive. “Do you want me to leave?”
“Don’t be silly. My gosh, Heather, is that why you held out on me this long? You thought I would toss you out?”
“Well …” She squeezed my hand. “No, not really; not after the first two months. By then I knew you cared for me and wouldn’t treat me like a freak or something worse. But …” Her voice trailed off.
But she couldn’t override her own defenses, I decided. Not really surprising—a good set of defenses would be vital to protect her from both external and internal assaults. I thought of what it must have been like, waking up that first time to see your body from someone else’s point of view. No wonder she’d almost gone insane.
And a horrible thought hit me like a sledgehammer.
Heather must have sensed my tension, for she gripped my hand tightly. “Neil! What is it?”
It took me two tries to get the words out through my suddenly dry mouth. “Those hoodlums. If you cou
ld see through them … you saw my face.”
She sighed. “Neil, I’ve known what you look like since the first night you brought me here. I saw your reflection in the kitchen window while you were washing the dinner dishes.”
I stared at her, my head spinning. No wonder she’d cried herself to sleep that night! “But if you knew—?”
“Then why did I stay? I explained that to you months ago. Because you’re a warm, generous man and I like being with you.”
“But my face—”
“Damn your face!” she flared. “That thing has become an obsession with you!” She closed her eyes, and after a moment the anger drained from her expression, leaving weariness in its place. “Neil,” she said, her quiet voice brimming with emotion, “I’ve wanted to tell you about my … ability … for a long, long time. But I couldn’t, because I was afraid that you’d never believe I could care for you if I knew what you looked like. I was afraid you’d make me leave you.”
Letting go of Heather’s hand, I put my arm around her and held her close. All around me, I could feel reality going tilt. “I get the distinct feeling I’ve been acting like a jerk,” I told her humbly. “I’m a little old to start changing all of my preconceived ideas around, though. I’ll probably need a lot of help. You’ll stick around and give me a hand, won’t you?”
She took my free hand in both of hers and rested her head on my shoulder. “I’ll stay as long as you want me here.”
“I’m glad.” I paused. “Heather, I think I love you.”
Eyes glistening with tears, she treated me to the happiest smile I’d ever seen. Then she chuckled. “You mean you’re just finding that out? My darling Neil, sometimes I think you’re blinder than I am.”
I denied that, of course. But now, after fifteen years with her, I sometimes wonder if she was right.
The Final Report on the Lifeline Experiment
It has been less than a month now since the sealed personal files of the late Daniel Staley have been opened, but already the rumors are beginning to be heard: rumors that explosive new information concerning the Lifeline Experiment has been uncovered. Though these rumors contain a grain of truth, they are for the most part the products of prejudice and hysteria, and it is in an effort to separate the truth from the lies that I have consented to write this report. Since, too, I find that even after twenty years a great number of popular misconceptions still surround the experiment itself, I feel it is necessary for me to begin with a full recounting of those controversial events of 1994.
I suppose I should first say a word about my credentials. I became Dr. Staley’s private secretary in 1989 and continued in this role full-time until his tragic death. My usefulness to him stemmed from my eidetic memory which, especially when coupled with his telepathic abilities, made me a sort of walking information retrieval system for him. It is also the reason I can claim perfect accuracy for my memories of the events and conversations I am about to describe.
The popular press usually credits Dr. Staley with coming up with the Lifeline Experiment idea on his own, but the original suggestion actually came from the Reverend Ron Brady in mid-January of 1994. Brady, a good friend of Dan’s, was driving us back to San Francisco from a seminar on bioethics at USC and the conversation, almost inevitably, turned to the subject of abortion.
“You realize last week’s decision makes the third time the Supreme Court’s reversed itself in the last twenty years,” Brady commented. “I think that must be some kind of record.”
“I wasn’t keeping score, myself,” Dan replied, stretching his legs as far as the seat permitted. It had been a hard weekend for him, I knew; though it had been over two years at that point since the National Academy of Sciences had officially certified his telepathic ability, there were still a few die-hard skeptics around determined to prove he was a fraud. From the number of handshakes I’d seen him wince over I gathered most of the doubters must have converged on USC for the weekend, and he was only now beginning to relax.
“It’s crazy.” Brady shook his head. “The legality of something like that shouldn’t change every time a new administration sets up shop in Washington. It makes for emotional and legal chaos all around and gives the impression that there are no absolute standards of morality at all.”
Dan shrugged. “You know me, Ron. I believe in letting people do what they like in this life, on the theory that whatever they do wrong will catch up with them in the next.”
Brady smiled lopsidedly. “The laissez-faire moralist. But don’t we have an obligation to help our fellow men minimize the problems they’ll have in the next life? That seems to me a perfectly good rationale for the inclusion of morality in law.”
Dan reached a hand back over the seat toward me. “Iris: a devastating quotation to put this fellow in his place, if you please.”
I made no move to take his hand. “I’m sorry, Dr. Staley,” I said primly, “but it would be unethical for me to help you in your arguments. Especially against a man of the cloth.”
He chuckled, threw me a wink, and withdrew his hand. “Seriously, though, I don’t see how you can expect anything but political flip-flopping when you have an issue that’s so long on emotion and so short on real scientific fact. A human fetus is alive, certainly; but so are mosquitoes and inflamed tonsils. When a fetus becomes a human being and entitled to society’s protection is something we may never know.”
“True.” Brady glanced at Dan. “Maybe you ought to try contacting a fetus telepathically someday; see if you can figure it out.”
“Sure,” Dan deadpanned. “I could go in claiming to be womb service or something.”
Brady came back with a pun of his own, and the conversation shifted to the topic of microcurrent therapy for certain brain disorders, where it remained for the rest of the drive. But even though Dan didn’t say anything about it for four months, it is clear in retrospect that Brady’s not-quite-serious comment had taken root in his imagination. Even for somebody as phlegmatic as Dan, the possibility that he could take a swing at such a persistent controversy must have been an intriguing idea, especially after the weekend he’d just gone through. Unfortunately, it also is abundantly clear that he started things in motion without any real understanding of what he was getting himself into.
It was just before five o’clock on May 23, and I was preparing to go home when Dan called me into his office. “Iris, didn’t I meet a couple of professors in the Child Development Department of Cal State Hayward down at USC last January? What were their names?”
“Dr. Eliot Jordan and Dr. Pamela Halladay,” I supplied promptly. “Do you want the conversation, too?”
He pursed his lips, then nodded. “I’d better. I’m pretty foggy on what they were like.”
I sat down next to him and took his hand in mine. Even now there are many people who don’t realize that Dan’s telepathy required some form of physical contact with his subject. They envision him tapping into the secrets of government or industry from his San Mateo home. In reality a moderately thick shirt would block his reception completely.
The conversation hadn’t been very long to begin with, and playing it back took only a few seconds. When I’d finished, Dan let go and frowned off into space for a moment, while I played the conversation back again for myself, wondering what he was looking for. “They both seemed pretty reasonable people to you, didn’t they?” he asked, breaking into my thoughts. “Competent scientists, honest, no particular axes at the grindstone?”
“I suppose so.” I shrugged. “It might help if you told me what you had in mind.”
He grinned. “I’ll show you. What’s the phone number over there?”
I gave him the college’s number, and within a few minutes he’d been routed to the proper department. “Of course I remember you, Dr. Staley,” Dr. Jordan said after Dan had identified himself and mentioned their brief USC meeting. Even coming out of
a tiny phone speaker grille, his voice sounded as full and hearty as it had in person. “It would be very hard to forget meeting such a distinguished person as yourself. What can I do for you?”
“How would you like to help me with an experiment that might possibly put the lid on the abortion debate once and for all?”
There was a long moment of silence. “That sounds very interesting,” Jordan said, somewhat cautiously. “Would you care to explain?”
Dan leaned his chair back a notch and began to stroke his cheek idly with the end of his pencil. “It seems to me, Doctor, that the issue boils down to the question of when, exactly, the fetus becomes a human being. I believe that, with a little bit of practice, I might be able to telepathically follow a fetus through its entire development. With luck, I may be able to pin down that magic moment. At worst, I may be able to show that a fetus isn’t human during the entire first month or trimester or whatever. Either way, an experiment like that should inject some new scientific facts into the issue.”
“Yes,” Jordan said slowly, “depending on whether your findings would be considered ‘scientific’ by any given group, of course.” He paused. “I agree that its at least worth some discussion. Can you come to Hayward any time this week to talk about it?”
“How about tomorrow afternoon?”
“Tomorrow’s Tuesday … yes, my last class is over at two.”
“Good. I’ll see you about two, then. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye.”
Dan hung up the phone and looked at me. “Does that answer your question?”
It took me a moment to find my voice. “Dan, you’re crazy. How exactly do you propose to read a fetus’s mind without climbing into the embryonic sac with it?”
“Via the mother’s nervous system, of course. There must be neural pathways through the placenta and umbilical cord I can use to reach the fetus’s brain.”
“With the mother blasting away and drowning out whatever the fetus may be putting out?”