Mind, Machines and Evolution

All in all, we've come quite a way from looking at a map of the world and wondering why a couple of coastlines should look vaguely similar, and in the process a fascinating story has unfolded. Who knows what other stories might emerge from the seemingly insignificant things that other scientific detectives are getting curious about today? . . .

Did you know that some points in the sky emit X-ray pulses that flash on and off thirty times a second? .

Afterword, 1996

Before the modern picture came together of slow, gradual geological change, the prevailing view was that changes took place in short spans of time, due to catastrophic upheavals that affect the Earth periodically. It could be that we were a bit over-hasty in our rush to do away with catastrophism completely, and that a full account of the conditions we find today requires an element of short-lived, violent cataclysms superposed upon the slowly unfolding record.

In the 1950s, Immanuel Velikovsky published several books claiming that major astronomical and geological changes have taken place within the timescale of recorded human history. His main conclusions, briefly, were that the planet Venus is a young body, not an old one, that originated as a huge comet ejected by Jupiter around 3,500 years ago, and came close to wiping Earth out in a near-collision.

In the process, Earth's axis was shifted and its rotation altered, its surface devastated, climates and seasons changed-all evidenced by revisions to calendars, timekeeping, and star charts introduced among human cultures worldwide, and by geological records.

The scientific community reacted with outrage and denunciation bordering on hysteria, particularly with regard to biblical quotations being cited as sources, which many saw as pseudoscience being used to prove religion (which wasn't true-Velikovsky used Scripture simply as a historical source, and then only parts that were substantiated by the records of other cultures). The furor continued for decades, and Velikovsky died with his work banished to the kook fringeworld of science, where in the minds of most it remains.

Yet today, it's eye-opening to go through the acc.u.mulating findings from s.p.a.ce missions and recent work in all kinds of areas of science, and see how much is consistent with Velikovsky's claims while flatly contradicting the a.s.sertions of the experts who maligned him.

Certain astronomers, for example, have concluded that none of the inner planets could have formed according to the traditional accretion or tidal models. A fluid-dynamic a.n.a.lysis of Jupiter's core suggests that it will go unstable periodically and eject excess ma.s.s. Electrodynamic interactions between close-pa.s.sing, planet-size bodies could induce precisely the slowing-down, followed by speeding-up-again of rotation that the experts dismissed as impossible (they took account of gravity only). Indeed, the effect has been observed and measured in minor form following large-scale solar storms. Venus is hot, its atmosphere and surface young. Comets can be rich in hydrocarbons, and their tails are highly energetic electrically. Earth records major geological and climatic upheavals in recent times. The moon shows evidence of recent surface melting and modification, seismic and volcanic activity, and a thermal gradient in the surface layers, none of which should be true for a body tectonically dead for 4.5 billion years. And so it goes.

I'd submit that Velikovsky's work was meticulous and sincere. Irrespective of whether the final verdict vindicates his theories or not, they deserved to be heard with more respect than they were given.

Orthodox science did not show itself in a becoming light on this occasion. And even if Velikovsky were, in the end, shown to have been mistaken, what an exciting and instructive introduction to science it would be for young people to have played a part in a.n.a.lyzing and critiquing such ideas. Science is the poorer for having excluded them.

GENERATION GAP.

"Could be them eyes, Or maybe that smile, But you've got the style That drives me just wild.

Yeaaaah! Owwww!

Ooh-wah, ooh-wah, ooh-wah, ooh-wah . . ."

Arnie Brewster hummed along with the week's number-one hit blaring from the car's hexaphonic speakers, and shouted the "Yeaaaah! Owwww!" out loud as he left the San Francis...o...b..y Bridge freeway at the Berkeley exit. The lines of the black, maroon-trim, General Motors Leopard were low, sleek, and curvy-contrived by its designers to convey subliminal suggestions of phallic imagery and s.e.xual potency. The dummy air-intakes and racing exhausts carried connotations of power and strength, laced with a hint of danger; the imitation wood-grain interior paneling, and leather-scented upholstery spoke of sophistication and taste; and the dash-mounted driving compa.s.s, padded steering wheel, and authentic-looking manual gearshift projected the qualities of competence, confidence, and rugged masculinity that the General Motors' marketing psychologists had identified in the self-images of 72.3 percent of the males, aged twenty-five to forty, in the educational, occupational, and income groups at which the Leopard had been targeted.

Actually, the engine concealed inside the sh.e.l.l was a low-cost, four-cylinder model imported from Taiwan, and the mounting frame a modified cha.s.sis originally developed for a brand of golf cart. But Arnie Brewster was oblivious to anything like that as he came out of the exit curve at thirty-five miles per hour to the accompaniment of synthesized wind-noise and the tire squeals injected into the sound system.

He pictured himself as Stephan Blane, the suave undercover CIA agent of the series Department Five, with a tense but trusting blonde flinching beside him as he raced to elude a hail of bullets from the blue Ford following behind.

In fact, Arnie thought that in looks and mannerisms he did resemble Stephen Blane. He wondered secretly if other people saw the similarities. To help them make the connection, he sometimes practiced nodding to himself in the slow, narrow-eyed way that Blane did when pondering a problem, or raising his chin defiantly with one eyebrow lifted, which always struck him as roguish and cavalier.

As the car's computer quietly overrode the gas pedal to keep him safely back from the truck in front, he wondered if Mr. Myelow's secretary, Patty, was listening to the same channel on her way home, and if she was, whether the tune was conjuring up a Blane-image of him in her mind also. He had no doubt she was one of the young swingers that the doc.u.mentaries talked about, and he was sure, too, that she found him interesting-the way she pretended to ignore him was a sure giveaway. Perhaps she harbored a secret fascination for mature, self-a.s.sured men. The thought was tempting. . . . But as Dr. Korban, the senior psychiatrist in The Mind Menders had said in the episode about the ex-paratrooper who went berserk with a flamethrower and cremated everybody in the office because of their att.i.tudes toward his affair with the computer operator, mature, serious-minded men keep their business and their private lives separate. Oh, the sacrifices that the wise and n.o.ble chose so selflessly to bear!

He arrived home in Berkeley and parked in the driveway, looking up automatically as he climbed out to see if there were any UFOs hovering overhead. There weren't. So, slinging his two-hundred-dollar ski jacket-an essential part of the rugged and carefree, open-air man's wardrobe-over his shoulder and hooking a thumb casually in his belt, he sauntered up to the door, at the same time stealing a nonchalant glance across the street to see if Laura Thompson was watching through her drapes-cars were frequently parked outside the Thompsons' until the early hours, and there had been a program not long ago about spouse-swapping in suburbia. She wasn't.

The sound of the TV greeted him when he entered the house. Light was showing from the living room.

As he hung his jacket in the hallway, he noticed in the mirror that he had missed shaving that morning.

With his partly unb.u.t.toned shirt and fleece-lined leather vest, the shadowy chin and cheeks gave him a lean, work-hardened look that enhanced his features, he thought. It reminded him of the part that Vincent Calom had played in the movie Big Man's Country-the scene where he returned home to his firelit cabin after a day of timber felling to find his devoted wife ladling stew from an iron pot, while their son hung his rifle over the fireplace after keeping watch over the homestead for the day. Arnie leaned closer to the mirror and narrowed his eyes to make them look hard and steely. Then, drawing himself up tall and savoring the feeling of hard-won pride that came with being Man, the Provider, the Protector, he turned and strode into the living room.

Beth was sprawled in the recliner before the six-foot wallscreen, dressed in red-white candy-stripe glitter pants and a yellow, cutaway tunic top as worn by female engineering officers in Galactic Command. She had made her hair orange with green stripes, put on dark purple lipstick and eyeshadow, and was eating onion dip and crackers. Arnie waited expectantly. Beth took no notice. After a few seconds he said, "Hey, it's me, like, I'm home, you know . . ."

"Shhh! Joseph Donnelly has found out about Sylvia and Hank. He's gone out and bought a gun. I gotta see what happens." Beth scooped up some more dip and glanced at him. "Why don't you go get a shave? Stan and Ella are coming over, remember? You look like an ad for a hangover cure or something."

Arnie snorted and walked out again. There was no other sign of life. No doubt Kenny was shut up in his room, wasting his time as always with the garbage that kids filled their heads with these days. Mumbling irritably to himself, he stomped away to the kitchen to light a joint and pour himself a beer.

In the commercial showing on the screen an hour later, the couple who had arrived for dinner were average, healthily image-conscious people, he in a satin-edged coat, and wearing an iridescent wig of optical fibers, she in a Psi-Lady meditation suit, with a combination purse and video-game cartridge carrier. Ella and Stan were watching from the couch. "Wasn't she in some kind of murder movie or something . . . after she got divorced from Tony Sentini?" Ella murmured, munching absently and keeping her eyes on the screen.

"Yeah-Terror in the City," Beth said, still in the recliner. "She plays a clairvoyant who can replay murders in her head. She puts the detective straight after he's run out of clues."

"Johnathan Field," Arnie added.

"Huh?" Stan said.

"Johnathan Field. He's the detective on the case. That's how she proves she can do it. Everyone thinks she's a fake, see."

"Oh."

On the screen, the two guests were sipping before-dinner c.o.c.ktails. Suddenly the woman nudged her husband and pointed to a faint finger-smudge on her gla.s.s. "Body-grease!" she whispered behind her hand. The husband put down his own gla.s.s hurriedly, glancing from side to side and looking apprehensively at the cutlery. Moments later the scene ended with a shot of the couple departing early on a pretext, and then the embarra.s.sed host consoling his distraught wife.

"Donna Janson is psychic," Beth commented.

"Huh?" Stan said.

"Donna Janson-she's psychic . . . in real life. She can really do it."

"Oh."

"She was in that movie a couple of weeks back," Ella said. "The one where the brain surgeon was supposed to put a computer chip in the general's head, but the nurse switched the gurneys on the way to the operating theater, so they did it to the Russian spymaster instead."

On the screen, the hostess's wise and knowing mother was educating her daughter in the use of "Bodyguard." After spraying fingertips and palms, they embarked on a tour of the house together, rapturously drenching drawer handles, doork.n.o.bs, lightswitches, toilet seats, phone b.u.t.tons, and anything else carrying the risk of indirect contact with another human being. The ad ended with the husband and wife again, this time waving good-bye to their guests after a brilliantly successful dinner party, and then flinging their arms ecstatically round each other-presumably after taking suitable precautions by copious application of Bodyguard.

"She predicted that earthquake last year," Beth said. "Where was it, India? Indianesia? Indi-something, anyhow. Her manager said so, too, so it's true."

"Donna Janson wasn't in that movie," Stan told Ella. "She was in the one where the doctor put his wife's lover's brain inside the gorilla after they had the car smash. That's what you're thinking of."

"Was it? . . . Maybe it was." Ella shrugged. "So what's the difference? They were both brain surgeons, weren't they?"

"I'm just tellin' ya, that's all."

"Yeah, well, I didn't ask, did I? Why are you always picking on me?"

"I'm not picking. I just-"

"Did I ever tell you I was psychic?" Beth said. "That time after the dog got hit by the truck, I knew it was gonna happen. I always said it was gonna happen one day. And when the phone rang yesterday, didn't I say, I bet that's my sister, Arnie? And wasn't it my sister?"

"h.e.l.l, you knew she was going to call because of the tickets," Arnie said.

"YOU ARE!" Ella shouted suddenly as Wally Klein began introducing the news. She shook her head, flinging her hair from side to side, and gnawed at her knuckle. "You're always picking on me, Stan. Why do you do this to me? You try to humiliate me and I don't know why. What did I ever do to get treated this way? I don't deserve it. You think you can do better for yourself? Okay, then go do it, but don't come crawling back to me when she's spent all your money. I've had it, see!"

Stan's mouth was frozen half open in the act of biting at a pickle. He stared at Ella in astonishment. "s.h.i.t, all I said was-"

"Don't you lay a finger on her in this house," Beth warned him sharply. She sat up and put an arm around Ella's shoulder. "There, Ella, it's okay."

"JESUS CHRIST!" Stan roared, leaping to his feet. He rushed across the room, banged his forehead against the side of the lounge doorway, and stood there, pounding a fist against the paneling. "You know you mustn't do that, Ella," he muttered. "I have this anger, see . . . and you gotta help me keep control of it. It's from when I was in the Army . . . combat sickness-know what I'm trying to say?"

"You never went outside New Jersey and Arkansas the whole time you were in the Army," Ella told him.

"G.o.dDAMIT, WHY DO YOU HAVE TO CONTRADICT EVERYTHING I SAY?" Stan shouted, spinning round. "That's what you think, huh? Well maybe there were a lotta things I did in the Army that I never told you about, okay?"

Arnie gave a slow, narrow-eyed nod. "Look, why don't we all calm down and discuss this like sane, civilized people?" he suggested, rising to his feet.

"I AM BEING SANE AND CIVILIZED!" Stan bawled. "It's her. She's got paranoid delusions or whatever you call them things. It's those pills. Ella, didn't I tell you not to mix 'em with the yellow ones?"

"SHUDDUP, a.s.sHOLE! WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT ANYTHING?" Ella screamed.

"CUT IT OUT!" Beth shouted above both of them. Silence descended abruptly.

"Ahem," a new voice said. All faces turned toward the hall doorway. Arnie groaned beneath his breath and covered his eyes with a hand.

It was Kenny, and as usual he was looking outrageous. It was embarra.s.sing. He was wearing one of the tweedy jackets, with b.u.t.tons and lapels, that were part of the latest teenage cult craze. He had pants with ridiculous creases that made them stick out from his legs, a pointed strip of colored material tied around his neck, and his head was shorn almost bald, with the little hair he had left brushed flat and parted; his face was like a ghost's, without a trace of cosmetic, and his shoes were rubbed shiny like a pair of bathroom faucets.

"I didn't mean to interrupt, but I'm just on my way out," Kenny said. "I didn't realize we had company.

Mr. and Mrs. Williams, h.e.l.lo."

"I ain't having you coming in here and talking to our friends like that," Arnie growled. "You know what I mean-with all that talk you pick up outside. They're Stan and Ella, see. They got names."

Kenny grinned good-naturedly. "Oh sure, I forgot. Sorry, Dad."

"How many times do I have to tell ya?" Arnie demanded. "I'm Arnie, see. And that's Beth. Get that?

We got names, too. Anyone'd think we're things or something. It's some kinda psychological problem with you. A deliberate, symbolic rejection. I know about things like that, see."

"I'm sorry. I'll try and remember how you feel," Kenny promised.

"And don't keep apologizing all the time," Arnie told him. "You're telling me it doesn't matter, right?

What's wrong with you kids? It's insulting to talk to people like that, without no feelings-like they don't matter. People who are worth something are worth expressing feelings at, ain't they? Well, what's the matter with us? Aren't we worth the effort of yelling and screaming at?"

"Sure you are . . . er, Arnie. But it's just that-"

"THEN START YELLING AND SCREAMING AT ME FOR CHRISSAKES!" Arnie exploded.

Kenny started to say something, then stopped, hesitated, and finally shook his head. Arnie flopped down into an armchair.

Ella stared silently at the floor. Then Beth said to Kenny, "It just ain't right, the way you kids behave-turning your backs on the world and trying to run away from it. I mean, where's it supposed to get you in the end? Okay, so you're only fifteen, but you have to grow up some time. What about all the time you'll have wasted, huh?"

Stan unglued his forehead from the side of the lounge doorway and turned. "Your ma's right, kid," he said. "I don't know where you kids think you're heading either, but let me give you some advice, and I've been around: Get wised up. You've gotta get in touch with the real world and start acting like real people."

Kenny stared for a second, then shook his head incredulously and gestured at the wallscreen. "That has got something to do with the real world? You can't be serious! When did you last look out of a window?"

"What do you know about anything?" Beth challenged, turning in the recliner. "You're always shut up back there with your nose inside a book."

"Books?" Stan looked nonplussed. "He reads books?"

"Hundred of 'em," Arnie said. He tossed out a hand wearily. "They're all round his room, stacked on the shelves . . . everywhere."

"We read a book just a couple of months ago, Stan, don't you remember?" Ella murmured distantly.

"Sure, why not?" Kenny said. "All the kids collect books. You can find them in yard sales and flea markets. And a couple of stores that specialize in them have opened up in the city. They're not that expensive, either."

"Why would anyone bother?" Beth asked. "They can get all they want on TV."

"The pictures are better," Kenny said. Beth stared at him uncomprehendingly. "You go at your own speed, pause whenever you want to think about something, and you can go back over it if you need to."

"But you have to spell out all them words," Beth objected.

"Well, yes, there is that," Kenny agreed. "But it gets easier after a while, with practice."

"It was about astrology and birth signs," Ella said, looking at Stan. "How tuning in to stars and planets and stuff can keep you healthy and make lots of money. You went out and bought that set of charts, and the personalized horoscope computer that cost eighty-five dollars."

"Yeah, Kenny's got lots of books like that, too," Beth said.

"That's astronomy," Kenny told her. "It's not the same thing."

"Does it keep you healthy and make you rich, too?" Arnie asked.

"Not directly, unless you happen to be a professional astronomer or science writer," Kenny replied.

"But then I doubt if superst.i.tions based on simplistic notions of cause-and-effect are likely to do much for you, either-except make you eighty-five dollars poorer, maybe."