“Fear —!”
“Yes. You will find that in spite of the simplicity of Socrates’ admonition it is quite a fearful thing to attempt to know thyself. So instead of taking a full, unobstructed view at first it is necessary to take a knothole view, so to speak. Get a tiny peek at one aspect of yourself and digest that and learn to live with it before broadening the outlook.”
“I fail to see why there should be any fear involved in this — as long as a man hasn’t committed some crime which he’s afraid to face.”
“We don’t need anything as melodramatic as criminal acts. You’ll see. As an indicator, however, you might consider the common, publicly acknowledged fact that Man uses twenty per cent or less of his available brain power. This is regarded quite sadly with clucked tongues about what a shame and a waste it is — but any determined effort to increase this percentage is greeted almost with fury. Psychoanalysis is a fair target for anybody’s humor. To ascribe one’s deficiencies to cruelties and inadequate care in childhood is to acknowledge ignoble surrender. You’ll find it quite curious that there should be such antipathy toward investigating and increasing the powers of the individual. It requires a genuine self-appraisal to be effective. And this is simply too painful. It has to be fought: ‘No thanks, I’m not crazy yet.’ ‘There’s nothing wrong with my brain!’
“There are two main causes for this reaction. The deficiencies of orthodox psychiatry cause it to miss the boat more often than not. It essays to deal with the explosive forces of human esteem - inadequately. The Mirror has no such drawbacks. It permits you to ask: Who am I? What am I doing? What do I know? And gives you a source of a perfect, undistorted answer: yourself. This is strong meat, however. A full, reflexive view is loaded with absolute terror. That’s why we begin with the knothole picture and expand gradually.”
“I still seem to miss the connection between all this and the ability of an engineer to build a better airplane — which was the initial incentive that brought most of us here.”
“That won’t remain a mystery very long,” said Wolfe. “You will examine the ten thousand agreements you have made with your professors and with other engineers that This is the Right Way to Proceed. You’ll examine the ten thousand agreements you’ve made that your ability is not sufficient to do the job before you. One by one you’ll examine each of these tiny homeostats which control your thinking now — and decide whether it’s worth keeping. Every derogation of yourself, every acceptance of someone else’s solution to a problem without working it through for yourself, is such a homeostat. Some of them you will keep. Most you will throw away, and wonder why you ever saddled yourself with them in the first place!”
It was becoming the most incredible mass of hokum he had ever heard, Montgomery thought. If it were not for the Norcross demonstrations, which still had to be explained, he would have given up now and called for Dodge to come in and take over. He regarded the panels of the Mirror with a degree of fear as Wolfe rose and began manipulating controls there — it was not the kind of fear Wolfe had been talking about, however, it was fear of how far he could go with this mechanical hypnotic-psychoanalytic gadget without risking harm to his own brain. He wished now that he had pushed Dodge’s suggestion that Spindem be sent out. As much as he disliked the psychiatrist, he felt his advice would be valuable — and protective! — now.
Wolfe was holding out a small head-piece similar to those Montgomery' had already seen. “You can try it out if you like, work with it as long as you care to — or walk out now and forget everything we’ve told you.”
Montgomery’s face felt moist. He wished he were free to take the last alternative. He thought of Dodge, and the possible promotion that might come out of his investigation.
“I’ll try it,” he said. “What do I do?”
“Just put this on and take it easy. You can lie down or sit in the easy-chair. When you are through take off the headpiece and the circuits of the Mirror will shut themselves off automatically.”
He helped Montgomery adjust the metal tabs on either side of his skull. The major took the easy-chair and leaned back. “Nothing’s happening,” he said. “Something must be wrong.”
Wolfe smiled. “It’s working, all right. Come in to the office if you care to when you’re through.”
He left the room, closing the door softly. Montgomery sat in the chair, swearing to himself — not quite so softly.
How had he ever got sucked into this in the first place?
IV.
He sat tensely for at least five minutes, pressing the tips of his fingers together and waiting for some manifestation from the apparatus. When nothing had occurred at the end of that time he allowed himself to relax a trifle. It appeared he was not going to be overwhelmed with some kind of mechanical hypnosis trying to convince him he was a five-star genius, misunderstood and unsung, anyway. How long should he sit here before going back to the hotel and reporting to Dodge, he wondered.
Of course, if he had it his way, he never would report to Dodge — ever again. Dodge was an administrative windbag who knew virtually nothing whatever of the research processes he was called upon to program and direct. It was more important to him to keep Senator Graham’s sixth cousin happy as director of a study that was way over his head than it was to find a way of shrinking the size of the XB-91.
But, then, his own position was not so different. He considered it superior to that of the engineers doing the actual work. In reality, he was little more than an office boy in gold braid —
He sat up sharply. What the devil was going on? What kind of thinking was that? He held an important post — a very important post. Without his coordinating efforts the XB-91 wouldn’t have been built for another year, at least. Anybody could push a slipstick back and forth, but it took someone who understood the engineering and possessed the administrative qualities —
His thought ceased momentarily in a swirl of confusion. He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes, clinging to the single concept of his key importance as Liaison Officer over construction of the XB-91. He had to cling to that idea. It was suddenly of overwhelming importance.
And then it was gone. A swirl of panic surged in his belly. He felt as if he were trying to reach out for something lost and forever beyond him. But it was gone, and he glimpsed what was left.
He was not merely Dodge’s kind; he was worse. He pretended to be an engineer. Dodge didn’t make the pretense.
He had a degree in engineering, but he was no engineer. He never had been. He knew the formulas and he could find things in the handbooks, but a new, complex problem that had no handbook solution left him in panic. None of his kind, who spent their time telling the genuine engineers what ought to be done, could do the job themselves if it were turned over to them.
He was as close as he could get. His training had won him a commission and he’d stayed on, ending up in R&D liaison. He had to be proud of it. It was all he’d ever have —
And now he didn’t have even that. He’d forced himself never to recognize it before — that he was a fake, a phony, a completely false front hiding an unbearable incompetency. He bent forward, burying his face in his hands, and wept.