Superstition (14 page)

A couple of nights after the first rap, and before the excitement had quite worn off, Joanna stopped by the lab around six to pick up Sam. They had planned to catch an off-off-Broadway theater group, then have dinner at a new Thai restaurant they'd heard about. When she got there, he and Pete had something to show her that they were very excited about. A friend of Pete's in the engineering department had analyzed the table rap that they'd gotten on tape. It had proved to be as radically different from any ordinary kind of knock as it had sounded. She pored over graphs and printouts that meant little to her aside from the obvious differences that Pete pointed to.

“In an ordinary rap,” he said, “if I hit the same table with my knuckles or a hammer or any hard object, the sound starts with maximum amplitude and dies away.
This
rap, on the other hand, builds up gradually and
ends
with maximum amplitude. It's exactly the opposite of normal.”

“They found the same thing in Ontario with the ‘Philip’ experiment,” Sam added triumphantly. “We're on our way.”

The theater show was interesting enough to keep them in their seats until the end, and the restaurant was worth waiting for. It was way up on the West Side, so they decided to spend the night at Sam's place. On the cab ride back he fell silent and she sensed a change in his mood. He was unaware of her watching him as he gazed out into the passing night. It was one of those moments of distraction she had learned to accept in him. It couldn't have lasted more than a minute, but when he turned to her it was with the look of somebody waking from sleep to find a loved one watching over them. He took her hand.

“Well…?” she said softly.

He shrugged. “Just the usual question. What does it all add up to? And if it doesn't add up to anything, why is it there?”

“I thought science didn't ask why. Just how.”

“I know. But as Roger likes to point out, his end of it has built the microchip and the Teflon frying pan, while we're no closer to understanding the paranormal than William James was in 1910. He wrote something that I've never had to memorize, because ever since I read it I haven't been able to get it out of my head.”

He paused a moment, his gaze going out again to the Manhattan night.

“‘I confess,’” he began quoting softly, “‘that at times I have been tempted to believe that the Creator has eternally intended this department of nature to remain baffling, to prompt our curiosities and hopes and suspicions all in equal measure, so that although ghosts and clairvoyances, and raps and messages from spirits, are always seeming to exist and can never be fully explained away, they also can never be susceptible to full corroboration.’”

“Good quote. I'll use it in the article.”

“You can add,” he said, with some of the usual vigor returning to his voice, “that it didn't stop him trying.”

She increased the pressure of her hand on his. “Can I tell you something?” she said.

“Sure.”

She leaned over and kissed him. “I love you.”

He looked deeply into her eyes.

“Funny,” he said, “I've been thinking the same thing.”

“Telepathy?”

“No, I don't think so.” They kissed again. “Just coincidence.”

The tub of warm paraffin wax excited much interest at the start of the group's next session. Sam repeated the story he'd told Joanna about the phantom hands in Paris.

“Now that's funny,” Maggie said pensively when he'd finished. “That's Paris three times.”

“How do you mean, Maggie?” Sam asked.

“These plaster casts you're talking about are in Paris. We put Adam in Paris. And Joanna was just telling me that her parents are on holiday in Paris.”

Sam thought about it, raised his eyebrows, then he laughed. “You're right. I wonder what it means.”

“The point of synchronicity,” Roger said, taking his usual place around the table, “is that it has no point.”

“Except insofar as it points to what Jung called ‘a unifying principle behind meaningful coincidences,’” Ward Riley demurred.

“The logic of that argument is flawed,” Roger responded, happy to have found someone he could argue with almost as vigorously as he did with Sam. “It rests on the assumption that coincidences are meaningful, for which there is no evidence. To say that a
meaningful
coincidence has
meaning
is to say nothing.”

“Steady, Roger,” Sam said, not wanting to be left out of this, “Wolfgang Pauli was on Jung's side. They even wrote a book on the subject.”

“I knew Pauli,” Roger said with a sniff of disapproval. “A genius, but given to flights of fancy, and he drank too much.” He pulled his chair up to the table in a way that suggested the subject was now closed.

When he had them all around the table, Sam announced the test results on the rap recording that Joanna had heard two days ago. Even Roger, she could see, was genuinely interested.

“The last session,” Sam continued, “marked a significant breakthrough, and I'm sure we're going to build on it. I suggest that we try to get a conversation going with Adam, first of all putting questions to him and having him answer one rap for yes, two for no.” He glanced around the group, and received nods of general assent.

“All right,” he said, “let's give it a try.”

He placed his hands lightly on the table in front of him. The others did the same.

19

P
erhaps the strangest part of it, Joanna reflected later, was how quickly they all accepted the situation, talking with the imaginary Adam as though it was the most normal thing in the world. Admittedly, the need to phrase everything as a question to which a straight yes or no answer could be given was limiting, but after a while they streamlined the process. They would talk among themselves, sometimes rummaging through the stack of books on the period that they kept in the room, then place their hands on the table and toss a question to Adam that allowed him to confirm or deny something they'd been discussing. Did he know so-and-so? Had he seen this or done that or been there?

“What were the names of those shady guys Ward mentioned?” Pete asked after a while.

“Cagliostro and Saint-Germain,” Ward replied. “And of course the Marquis de Sade.”

“Did you meet any of those guys, Adam?” Pete asked.

A single rap confirmed that he had. Joanna noticed Ward's eyebrows arch slightly with interest. “All of them?” he asked.

Another single rap.

“This boy got around,” Pete remarked under his breath, and jumped slightly when a rap came from the table directly where his hands rested on it.

“Did you ever see any evidence,” Ward asked, cutting through the murmur of amusement that had run around the table, “that any of them possessed unusual powers?”

This time there was a pause, then a slightly less firm single rap.

“You mean you did see something?”

Another slightly tentative single rap.

“Can you tell us what it was?”

This time two raps for no.

Sam caught Ward's eye, and took over the questioning.

“I don't believe you saw anything at all, Adam. You're just making this up to please Ward, aren't you?”

There was a silence lasting for some time, broken by Maggie.

“Perhaps he doesn't want to talk about it,” she said, clearly not relishing this line of questioning herself. “Is that so, Adam?”

There was an immediate and loud single rap from the table.

“Very well, Adam,” Sam said, “if that's what you want, we'll change the subject.”

Ward shrugged his acquiescence.

“I want to ask about the political situation,” Barry said. “Adam, was there any point during those five years prior to 1789 when you realized that a violent revolution was inevitable?”

There was only a slight pause before the table gave two raps for no.

“Looking back,” Barry continued, “can you see with hindsight that it was—inevitable I mean?”

A clear, firm rap for yes.

“Looking back from where exactly?” The question came from Roger and was addressed to Barry.

“Yeah, that's a good point,” Barry said. “Where exactly is he looking back from?”

“From here,” Sam said. “He knows everything we know because he's part of us. Isn't that right, Adam?”

Two very firm raps came from the table. Everyone looked at Sam.

“It seems that he has a mind of his own,” Roger remarked with faint amusement. “Or thinks he has.”

Sam grinned, keeping his hands on the table, as did the rest of them. “All right, Adam,” he said, “if you're not here with us, we're going to have to find out where you are.”

He was about to phrase a question when there was a sound they hadn't heard before. It came from the table, but instead of a rap it was a strange scratching noise, as though something inside the wood was trying to get out.

They looked at each other in bewilderment, wondering what it meant. Then suddenly Maggie said, “He's trying to write!”

The explanation was so obvious that no one bothered to comment on it. Sam leaned back and reached behind him for the Ouija board, and they all lifted their hands from the table to make room for it, then placed their fingertips on the pointer.

Sam repeated his question. “If you're not here with us, where are you?”

Again there was a silence—long enough for them all to wonder whether they were going to get an answer at all. Then the pointer began to move, slowly at first, but gaining speed. It spelled out “I DO NOT KNOW.” And stopped.

“That's kind of a tough one to follow,” Joanna said. “What do we ask for a supplementary?”

There was a ripple of amused agreement from the others.

“Why don't we just ask him if there's anything he wants to tell us?” Pete suggested. “Is there, Adam? Anything at all?”

Again there was silence. One by one they all put further questions, each time without response.

“Do you think he's gone?” Drew asked.

“Perhaps the problem is that we asked a question that we ourselves have no answer to,” Ward Riley said thoughtfully. “Knowing that Adam is a composite personality created by all of us is one thing. Knowing exactly where he exists between us all is quite another.”

“Maybe we should go back to asking straight yes or no questions,” Maggie said. “If he needs to spell something out, he'll make that scratching noise again.”

Once again Maggie's pragmatic common sense was accepted without comment. They went around the table, asking a question each. And once again they were met with silence.

“He's gone,” Drew repeated. This time it was a statement of fact.

They all sat back, taking their hands from the table as though acknowledging the truth of what she'd said.

“I guess that's a wrap for today—no pun intended,” Sam said. Then he glanced at his watch. “Though we've still got some time if anybody wants to try anything.”

No one seemed in any hurry to get away. But neither did they have any ideas. Barry wandered over to get some coffee. Maggie followed him. Pete got up and stretched luxuriously. Roger turned in his chair and began talking to Joanna.

“You know what they did in Toronto with the ‘Philip’ experiment?” Pete said, taking the coffeepot from Maggie and pouring himself a cup. “Sometimes they used to sing to it and tell jokes. Hey, Adam, how about that? Would you like us to sing to you?”

The rap that came from the table took them all by surprise, not just because of its strength, but because nobody was anywhere near it. They all stopped what they were doing and turned to look first at the table, then at one another, as though seeking confirmation of what had just happened.

“He's back now,” Joanna said, “and with a vengeance.” She turned to look at Pete. “Okay, Pete, it's your idea. You'd better decide what you're going to sing.”

“Hey, I can't even carry a tune,” he protested. “You're all gonna have to give me some help here.” Nobody spoke. “Oh, come on, now,” he appealed to them, “we're all in this together!”

Once again they all exchanged looks, this time in a general attitude of, well, what the hell, why not?

“So what do we want to sing?” Sam asked. “Show tunes? A Gregorian chant or two? Elvis? The Beatles? Greensleeves?”

Since they had no sheet music, it had to be something they all knew the words to by heart, which significantly limited their choice. They finally settled on “Ten Bottles of Beer,” reducing it to “Eight” since there were only eight of them around the table.

Ward said he thought he could recall how it went, but he still had to be reminded of the tune by a quick solo from Barry.

Pete started, and they all joined in the chorus at the end of his verse. Then Maggie took over, surprising them with a powerful and attractive soprano. Sam sang with great energy, but slightly off key. Next came Ward, revealing a singing voice considerably richer and more resonant than his speaking voice. It was during the chorus following Ward's solo that the table started to beat time.

Once again it was obvious to everyone there that no one was touching the table with hand or foot. At first they faltered, but the table thumped on with such emphatic rhythm that they picked up the tempo and sang more loudly. When they'd finished their eight verses, the steady drumbeat they'd been hearing became a series of pitter-patterings that seemed to roll around the tabletop, creating a sound that was uncannily like applause.

They were all so taken by this unexpected and somehow touching development that they broke into delighted laughter, like children.

“He likes us! Guess you want another one—right, Adam?” Pete said, and there were no protests when the table, still untouched by any of them, delivered a reverberating rap in the affirmative.

It took them only moments to determine that they could all manage at least a few lines of “Tom Brown's Body,” but the tune was so strong that it didn't seem to matter if they sang nonsense lyrics when they forgot the real ones. Certainly it didn't bother Adam, who thumped along as enthusiastically as before, and delivered an even louder round of applause at the end.

“Okay, what now?” Pete asked, looking around the group.

The table gave several more thumps of encouragement, obviously not wanting the fun to stop yet.