Lost Legacy By Robert A. Heinlein
Lost Legacy By Robert A. Heinlein
Chapter One “Ye Have Eyes to See With!”
“Hi-yah, Butcher!” Doctor Philip Huxley put down the dice cup he had been fiddling with as he spoke, and shoved out a chair with his foot. “Sit down.”
The man addressed ostentatiously ignored the salutation while handing a yellow slicker and soggy felt hat to the Faculty Clubroom attendant, but accepted the chair. His first words were to the negro attendant.
“Did you hear that, Pete? A witch doctor, passing himself off as a psychologist, has the effrontery to refer to me—to me, a licensed physician and surgeon, as a butcher.” His voice was filled with gentle reproach.
“Don’t let him kid you, Pete. If Doctor Coburn ever got you into an operating theatre, he’d open up your head just to see what makes you tick. He’d use your skull to make an ashtray.”
The man grinned as he wiped the table, but said nothing.
Coburn clucked and shook his head. “That from a witch doctor. Still looking for the Little Man Who Wasn’t There, Phil?”
“If you mean parapsychology, yes.”
“How’s the racket coming?”
“Pretty good. I’ve got one less lecture this semester, which is just as well—I get awfully tired of explaining to the wide-eyed innocents how little we really know about what goes on inside their think-tanks. I’d rather do research.”
“Who wouldn’t? Struck any pay dirt lately?”
“Some. I’m having a lot of fun with a law student just now, chap named Valdez.”
Coburn lifted his brows. “So? E.S.P.?”
“Kinda. He’s sort of a clairvoyant; if he can see one side of an object, he can see the other side, too.”
“Nuts!”
” ‘If you’re so smart, why ain’t you rich?’ I’ve tried him out under carefully controlled conditions, and he can do it—see around comers.”
“Hmmmm—well, as my Grandfather Stonebender used to say, ‘God has more aces up his sleeve than were ever dealt in the game.’ He would be a menace at stud poker.”
“Matter of fact, he made his stake for law school as a professional gambler.”
“Found out how he does it?”
“No, damn it.” Huxley drummed on the table top, a worried look on his face. “If I just had a little money for research I might get enough data to make this sort of thing significant. Look at what Rhine accomplished at Duke.”
“Well, why don’t you holler? Go before the Board and bite ’em in the ear for it. Tell ’em how you’re going to make Western University famous.”
Huxley looked still more morose. “Fat chance. I talked with my dean and he wouldn’t even let me take it up with the President. Scared that the old fathead will clamp down on the.department even more than he has. You see, officially, we are supposed to be behaviorists. Any suggestion that there might be something to consciousness that can’t be explained in terms of physiology and mechanics is about as welcome as a Saint Bernard in a telephone booth.”
The telephone signal glowed red back of the attendant’s counter. He switched off the newscast and answered the call. “Hello . . . Yes, ma’am, he is. I’ll call him. Telephone for you, Doctuh Coburn.”
“Switch it over here.” Coburn turned the telephone panel at the table around so that it faced him; as he did so it lighted up with the face of a young woman. He picked up the handset.
“What is it? . . . What’s that? How long ago did it happen? . . . Who made the diagnosis? . . .
Read that over again . . . Let me see the chart.” He inspected its image reflected in the panel, then added, “Very well. I’ll be right over. Prepare the patient for operating.” He switched off the instrument and turned to Huxley. “Got to go, Phil—emergency.”
“What sort?”
“It’ll interest you. Trephining. Maybe some cerebral excision. Car accident. Come along and watch it, if you have time.” He was putting on his slicker as he spoke. He turned and swung out the west door with a long, loose-limbed stride. Huxley grabbed his own raincoat and hurried to catch up with him.