“De-educating —?”
“Yes. Meaning to remove the homeostatic controls imposed by your education — to whatever degree you wish them removed — and from whatever source your education was derived.”
“Even if I were to accept the possibility of this, it sounds more than a little dangerous — to both the individual and his society.”
Nagle’s eyes grew more sober. “I wouldn’t have you acquire any illusions on that point. It is capable of very great danger — to both parties!”
III.
As if the interview had already gone somewhat farther than he desired, Dr. Nagle arose from behind the desk. “I’m sure you would be more interested in seeing some of our actual procedures. Suppose we look in on some of the people.”
They left the office and went out along the loggia that led past a number of rooms. Montgomery’s heartbeat increased at Nagle’s apparent implication that there was no question of his acceptance by the Institute. If he did a good job of his assignment here and provided a thorough exposé of the crackpot theories upon which the Institute was evidently founded, he ought to be in line for a promotion.
Dr. Nagle stopped with his hand on a doorknob. “This is our music class. We’ll be breaking into the middle of a session, but it will be all right if we don’t disturb the performer.”
Montgomery started to ask what possible reason there could be for a music class in an Institute supposedly devoted to advanced technology, but he didn’t get a chance. A wave of sound burst upon them as Nagle opened the door slowly. Montgomery caught sight of an enormous stage occupied by a symphony orchestra of at least a hundred pieces. Nagle beckoned him forward and closed the door.
There was a feeling of unreality about the place. While the music crashed and sang in torrents of melody, Montgomery stared about. The room facing the stage was tiny, and there were only five men present. Four of these seemed to be concentrating their attention, not on the orchestra, but on the fifth man, whose head nodded and jerked in rhythm with the music.
“Sit down,” Nagle whispered."
The back of the sandy-haired fifth man in the group seemed strangely familiar. Montgomery shifted until he got a better side view. Then he inhaled with involuntary sharpness. It was Norcross, the top design engineer who had first interested Gunderson in the Institute. Montgomery wondered why he was the center of interest now. Possibly he was the composer of the symphony? That seemed merely fantastic. Montgomery was certain he possessed no such talent.
In spite of his tense curiosity the major leaned back and gave himself over to the flowing warmth of the music. He was no critic. He didn’t know whether it was good or not. But it sounded good. As it picked up tempo to an almost frantic pace, they were joined by Soren Gunderson and Dr. Kenneth Berkeley.
The face of Norcross was filmed with perspiration now. His hands beat time as if he were actually conducting the orchestra himself. Then with a triumphant crash of sound the performance came to an end.
Norcross sank down in his chair, stretching his feet at full length and fanning his face wearily. The four other men gathered round and clapped his shoulder in hearty congratulations.
“Boy, I didn’t think I’d ever make it through that last movement!” Norcross exclaimed. “I bit off a little more than I could chew.”
Montgomery was scarcely listening. The stage had suddenly gone dark and the orchestra had vanished as if never there at all. And the stage was not enormous, after all. It was no wider than the end of the small room.
Montgomery was still staring as Norcross turned around and spotted Gunderson. He jumped to his feet and rushed forward with extended hand. “Soren! You made it, after all! I didn’t think you were ever going to get the lead out and leave that kite factory. How’d you like my music? Believe it or not, six months ago I couldn’t play a tin whistle.”
Gunderson took his friend’s hand warmly. “I’m no musician, but it sounded good to me. I had no idea you went in for composition. And I expected you to be spending all your time with stress analysis and engine-loading figures. How come the music?”
Montgomery interrupted before Norcross could make any answer. A slow, tight feeling was advancing along the skin of his back. “What happened to the orchestra?” he said.
As if he had made a joke, this was a cue for general laughter among all the men of the Institute. Dr. Nagle held up a hand even as he joined in the amusement. “I think we had better enlighten our visitors,” he said, “before we have a blown gasket or two.”
He gestured toward the stage. “There was no orchestra, of course. What you see is merely a shadow box in which the projections of the student’s mind are made visible and audible. You perhaps didn’t notice the small headpiece Mr. Norcross was wearing, but through it the impulses of his mental composition were conveyed to the mechanism of the shadow box and made perceptible to everyone in the room.”
“You mean you composed the music and imagined the motions of the orchestra as you went along!” Gunderson exclaimed incredulously.
Norcross nodded. “It’s tough going at first, but you can learn it. I hope we got a good tape. I want my wife to hear it. That’s about the best one I’ve done yet.”
Montgomery felt as if the whole situation had become completely unreal. In a moment someone would break down and give the trick away. The shadow box was some kind of movie projection device. It had to be. Nobody could be good enough to do what was claimed. Certainly not Martin Norcross, airplane engineer and designer —
But they were beginning to move out of the room and Nagle was speaking again. “If any of you still question the presence of a music department in an engineering school, let me assure you that what you have just seen and heard is a rigorous mental exercise on a par with anything you will ever do in creative science. You can estimate for yourselves the number of factors that must be coordinated and manipulated and kept under absolute control at all times. It is an excellent engineering practice!”
They entered an adjoining room which contained a dozen seats and had one wall that resembled a blackboard except that it was a smooth milky whiteness. At Nagle’s bidding, Norcross donned another headset. It was a small, narrow band that clamped a pair of thin electrodes above his ears.
“Show us your next electronic design problem,” said Dr. Nagle.
Norcross scanned through some sheets in a notebook. “It’s an airborne radar,” he said. “Thirty-mile range —”
Almost at once there began to appear on the white wall a schematic diagram. A little shaky at first, it grew in complexity with startling rapidity. Beside the components there appeared electrical or mechanical specifications. In a little less than ten minutes the intricate diagram was completed. Norcross took off the headset. “I think it’ll work,” he said, “but I wouldn’t want to guarantee it!”
“It will work,” said Nagle confidently. He turned to the others. “These items are part of Mr. Norcross’ graduation program, incidentally. This is the kind of routine all our students go through before they leave.”
Montgomery continued to regard the wall with the same sense of unreality that had come upon him in the other room. He touched a finger to its smooth, glassy surface. The markings were on the other side.
“We photograph them for permanent record,” said Nagle. “Except when it’s a mere practice session which the pupil does not wish to keep. For most of that kind of work, however, we use the small three-dimensional box.”
He went to the rear of the room and drew away from the wall a four-foot cube on rollers. He pressed a button at one side and the thing became luminous in the interior.