“I wish we could make it less subjective,” she said. “I think the virus will be our best bet, don’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“What we need are incubators so we can keep the virus at the same temperature, same light conditions, same humidity, here and at my place. I’ll visit the biology department later, see what they have to spare.”
“Good idea.” Nate was beating his fingers against the lip of the table like a kid mimicking drums. He grabbed a pen and wrote that down.
Her freckled brow scowled at a sudden thought. “Damn! I wish we could keep our control group close by. We ought to be taking our readings simultaneously. The time of day might have an effect, particularly on the mice. We never get over to my place until after three with my class schedule.” Chalmers. The worm.
“But we can’t have the control group anywhere near the pulse, and we’re not sure how pervasive the pulse is.” Nate waved at the ceiling, “Or if any of this stuff keeps it in. We agreed: the control group shouldn’t even be on campus.”
“I know. I’m just saying—if we did know exactly what would contain the pulse…” She chewed on a fingernail. “We know so little about the one-minus-one.”
She felt Nate looking at her and met his gaze. He had his pensive philosopher’s face on. “I’m not even sure it’s smart to have the control group at your house.”
“Why not?”
“Well… you’re down here quite a bit. So am I, actually. Anyway, the change in the one-minus-one affects waves, right? See what I mean? You and I are made up of particles, just like the fruit and the virus cultures. More particles maybe. But that could even make it worse. Because you are connected to your house and the objects in it. We both are in a way, since I go over there, too. It’s not my place, but I’m there.”
He was talking with his hands, his words rapid.
“Nate—”
“So if the interference model is correct, wouldn’t your own personal waves have some effect on the waves over in the control lab? If we really wanted to be safe, our control group should be run by someone we don’t even know over in Siberia or something. And maybe we shouldn’t even talk to that lab on the phone. We could pass the information through a router which—”
“Nate!”
“Huh?”
“You’re babbling.”
Nate blinked, as if he couldn’t remotely see her point. “Me? I’m cool. I’m just saying.”
Jill went over to check on the radio transmitter. It was broadcasting steadily. “Which reminds me, I think we both should start journals.” She hesitated, not eager to bring this up, to verbally admit to the chances they were taking. “How are you feeling? You’re down here even more than I am. If you start to feel bad, Nate, I want you to tell me.”
“Bad?” Nate’s eyes grew big and bright. His fingers bounced on the desk, rat-a-tat-tat. “No way. I feel great. Great. Really. Really, I feel great. It’s totally fun.”
“I feel good, too,” Jill admitted. A smile of sheer unfettered optimism teased her lips. She gazed lovingly at the white board across the room.
Nate cleared his throat. “It’s kind of strange, actually.”
“What?”
He didn’t answer and the silence grew… pointed. She glanced at him curiously. He was blushing. “What, Nate?”
“Never mind.”
“What?”
Nate tried to make light of it, joked, “Well, you know, I’m feeling about as… as, um, reproduction-oriented as the mice. Big-time. Big-, big-time.”
He gave her a look that was so smoky it punched her in the gut like a fist. She turned away, looked at some dials. Her face burned like a goddamn schoolgirl’s. She hated herself for reacting so virginally, hated it even more that it had to be visible a mile away. Then she was irritated at him for bringing up something so… personal. And inappropriate, damn it. Then she thought that she had asked.
She said, in the coolest voice she could muster, “That’s the sort of thing you should write in your journal. Of course, anything we feel may be purely psychological. You know that expectations often—”
“This is not psychological. Trust me. So you’re not feeling anything like…”
“No.” The machinery below her was really quite interesting, though she was beginning to feel that if she didn’t get out of here soon, she’d make a complete ass of herself. And now that he mentioned it… she had been particularly enjoying her hot baths recently, her skin especially sensitive. And this sudden interest she had in studying him—was it really just because he was a subject in the experiment? The thought made her hyperventilate.
“Jill the Chill,” Nate muttered, almost too soft for her to hear.
She spun to look at him, but he was typing at his keyboard, face stolid, and somehow… It was easier to pretend she hadn’t heard. She went to the sink, poured her coffee down the drain, then rinsed the cup with a thoroughness that would have made Martha Stewart sweat.
“The important thing,” she said firmly, “is our subjects. I think we have to make some assumptions. We have to assume that the further we get from this room, the weaker and more inconsequential any effect of the pulse will be. As long as we recognize what our assumptions are, and document them, we’re ahead of the game.”
“I guess so.”
Satisfied that she’d made her point, or at least sidestepped his, Jill glanced at his screen. “Where are we at now? Can you run the numbers?”
Nate punched some keys, brought up an Excel spreadsheet that matched their white board. “I haven’t finished entering today’s data yet.”
“So finish.”
She waited while he typed in the numbers. When he was done he ran the total. “Twenty-one percent differential between the subjects here and the control group.”
That put her in a better mood. Her shoulders relaxed. “Good. It’s still increasing. But I’d like to see at least a fifty percent differential. I think we’re ready to bump up the power; don’t you?”
Nate grimaced. “To what—sixty percent of power? Sixty-five?”
Jill drummed her fingers against her collarbone, considering. “Why not seventy-five? We’re not seeing anything all that spectacular. I don’t think there’s any danger. We can always lower it if…” If something happens. “…if we want.”
Nate stood, shakily, like he’d been drinking a lot of caffeine after all. He went to the transmitter and pumped up the power level to 75 percent.
Neither of them said anything. They both stood there, feeling the room, feeling that additional 25 percent, as if the one-minus-one were a living creature and if they listened hard enough, felt deeply enough, they would be able to detect its now-panting breath brushing up against their very cells.
5.3. Aharon Handalman
Rabbi Aharon Handalman was becoming very frightened. Over the past month it had come upon him gradually. At first, his stomach terrorized his esophagus and he was reduced to living on yogurt and saltines. Then, as their discoveries accumulated, the acidic fingers were superseded by a deadening numbness at his breastplate, which was maybe worse. Emotionally, he was a wreck, as if a divine finger were stirring up the stuff of his soul.