SR: Some people might say that’s not the same thing.
PG: How do they know? If the thing’s not measurable, if it’s as subjective as love or loyalty, how can anyone say what it is or isn’t if they haven’t experienced it? I’ve experienced it and I don’t know what it is. I only know it is. I can’t convince the scientific community it is, because they can’t measure it. They can’t convince me it isn’t, because I’ve experienced it.
SR: What about evidence, though? Mozart provided evidence of his talent. He composed symphonies that orchestras worldwide are still playing. What evidence can you adduce that you really have had these experiences?
PG: Good question. I’m conducting an ongoing project wherein subjects, such as myself, record their precognitive impressions. Altogether, I’ve gathered a study sample of fifteen other people who share this, um, little affliction. We have a co-monitoring system in place. When someone in the program has an episode, they call their assigned monitor and describe it. The description is recorded and logged and we wait and see what happens. If the event occurs, the monitor signs an affidavit and we attach any corroborating evidence to the file. It’s the best we can do for now.
SR: Measuring the Mozart factor.
PG: Measuring the Mozart factor. I like that. Can I use it?
Ken flicked the notebook from play mode to record and added some voice notes, watching the words march across the flat display. “Be it noted that I did look over Dr. Genoa’s documentation and interviewed two project monitors. Neither of them had ever experienced any of the phenomena under study. In fact, they viewed themselves as being originally skeptical or, at best, neutral to the subject of ESP. One of the “sensitives” had an 82 percent accuracy rate over thirty-two recorded events; however, I must note that some of the predictions are vague enough as to be unfalsifiable. And, of course, this still amounts to hearsay evidence and necessitates trust in the perceptions and scruples of the group monitors.”
Ken pondered that. Is that what it would always come down to—having to trust the word of a go-between? And, reluctant to do that, would he only trust what he, himself, perceived or observed?
He had keyed the phone program before he thought about what he was going to say and gave the computer Dr. Genoa’s number. To his surprise, she answered her own phone, her dark face appearing immediately on his display.
“Doctor! I’m surprised to catch you in your office.”
She smiled—a flash of brilliantly white teeth. “I suppose I should say I had a feeling you’d call.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
He returned the smile. “I have an offer for you. I’d like to serve as a monitor for your project.”
“Really. Are you from Missouri, by any chance?”
“Close—Alaska. And yes, I do want to be shown. I’d like to take on a couple of your most accurate people. Victor Chin, I think, and you, if you’d be willing.”
She nodded. “Alright. You’ve got yourself a deal.”
“Great. Now, I noticed that your episodes tend to be cyclic—”
She laughed, dreadlock bells jingling against her earrings. “Cyclic psychics, huh? I sure hope the media doesn’t get hold of that.”
“I am the media, remember?”
“No. You are a respectable scientific journal. The Tattler is media.”
“Thanks.” He appreciated her making the distinction. “Now, as I was saying, I was wondering if you’d thought of setting up some sort of brain activity scan during your most susceptible periods.”
She seemed immediately open to the idea. “Brain Pattern Monitoring? I’d thought of that, actually. UC Davis has a new remote BPM that can be worn away from the hospital while it relays brain activity back to the facility. They’ve been using it to monitor seizure-prone patients, looking for an early-warning signal. Unfortunately, they’re reluctant to let it out of the house. Especially for—oh, shall we say—frivolous projects.”
“But, you’d be willing to wear a scanner?”
“You bet.”
“Fine. I’ll see if I can call in some favors.”
The expression on her face changed. “Ken, are you ready to start your job as monitor?”
“Sure… I guess. Why?”
“Your wife is going to experience some sort of trauma.”
“What?” The tone of quiet certainty at once chilled him and raised his suspicions. “Emotional or physical?”
“Emotional… art gallery. I had a sudden impression of an art gallery or museum or exhibition maybe.”
“When?”
She shook her head with a sibilant clash of bells and earrings. “I don’t know. I rarely know, exactly. Usually my range tops out at about three months. Can you save this conversation to a file?”
Ken nodded, righting himself emotionally. “Can you be any more specific about the nature of the trauma?”
“Fear. I know she’ll be frightened. I don’t know why.”
Later, when he viewed the conversation log file, Ken couldn’t help but wonder if Petra Genoa’s prediction was entirely coincidental. Could she be playing on his emotions? He went back to the case histories he’d gotten from her, in search of some sort of proximity effect. He found it; the precognitive episodes for the three subjects he studied related preponderantly to people they were in close contact with either physically or emotionally.
He had to smile at himself. His skeptic’s sensibilities told him he should welcome evidence that he was being manipulated, but he knew such evidence would only disappoint. In some peculiar way he preferred being disturbed by Dr. Genoa’s prediction to being disappointed by her duplicity.
“What did you say?”
Ken peered up at Lissa. She was gazing at him distractedly across the width of the coffee table, the display of her own notebook casting odd light-shadows across her face.
“I didn’t say anything… I don’t think. I thought I just cleared my throat.”
“You muttered something about predictions. What are you working on?”
“Oh, I interviewed Professor Genoa Tuesday.”
“Petra Genoa, the psychic psychologist? They should revoke that woman’s Ph.D.”
“She graduated at the top of her class.”
“What good is that when she ends up retiring her brain to New Age mumbo-jumbo?”
“How do you know that’s what she’s done? Have you talked to her?”
“I read an article on her in one of those true believer magazines.”
Ken failed to muzzle his laughter. “And you trusted their journalism? C’mon, Liss. Normally, you wouldn’t believe a word they printed. Why don’t you read my interview?”
“Maybe I will.” She eyed him suspiciously. “You don’t think she’s legit?”
“I’m reserving judgment until I’ve finished my own study. I’m monitoring the project she’s conducting in precognitive episodes.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Not at all. Who better to monitor alleged psychic activity than a skeptic?”
She smiled. “Right, as always. You were right about my article, too.”
He raised startled brows at that most un-Lissa-like admission. “I was?”
The smile broadened to a cat-eat-cream grin. “I did sell it somewhere else. Elaine Dehaut bought it for Aware.” She bent back to her work.
He didn’t remind her that Aware had a reputation as a forum for a fanatical extreme. Ken hated to admit the existence of that element within the skeptical community, but they were there—those who had ceased pursuing the truth in favor of pursuing agreement with their own personal world view. Of course, everyone did that to one degree or another. Everyone made assumptions, betrayed bias, and struggled with prejudice.