"But there are broadcast records of a TV episode and a short documentary film about the experiment. The tape and the film have since disappeared. But the book came out in 1976—the original paperback, that is." He pointed to the hardback in my hand. "That one, there, is a later version from 1978 with some additional chapters. A lot of people still remembered those TV episodes in 78. If the book were published in the last ten years and had the same lack of documentation for events that happened thirty years ago, I'd be skeptical, but it's contemporary with the events claimed and though it's been doubted, it's never been debunked. Even the psychological experiments into conflation and false memory don't disprove the events claimed by the Philip group. The fact that some members have since died or disappeared and the rest now refuse to discuss the experiment doesn't help to clear up any questions.”
I sighed. This was a mess. Dicey experiment number one leading to dicey experiment number two. "Did anyone ever get hurt during the Philip experiments?”
Ben frowned. "No. Not unless you count a few bruises from the table getting frisky—at least I never heard of any injuries. Why?”
I shrugged. "It just seemed that if you could move a table around, you could also do some damage with it.”
"I don't think they ever got anything so dramatic. It was only a folding card table.”
The original group hadn't invested the time or equipment Tuckman had. That wasn't the only place they differed, but how significant were the differences? The fact that Tuckman's group worked in a lab under monitored conditions would make me expect fewer oddities, not more. I tried another tack. "Why did you recommend me to Tuckman?”
Ben blinked. "To be honest, I was surprised he asked—I hadn't heard from him since he moved from U-Dub to PNU—but my reputation as the 'freaky-things expert, as he put it, had stuck in his head and he said he figured that if anyone knew an open-minded investigator, it would be me. I'm not sure it was a compliment…”
I looked askance. "Probably not.”
Ben crooked his mouth into half a smile. He looked about six minutes from falling asleep and his mouth was operating on autopilot. "Yeah, he's a bit of a jerk.”
"Y'think?”
Something thumped downstairs. Albert rushed into visibility. More thumps echoed up the stairs punctuated with a series of grunts and growls. Ben tried to twist in his chair and fell onto the floor in a tangle of limbs.
"Oh. . drat it! Rhino on the rampage." He dragged himself upright. "I'm sorry. He usually sleeps longer after lunch.”
"When do you sleep?”
"When Mara's home—which is about four hours twice a week. Or that's what I remember. Brian will probably grow up thinking I have early Alzheimer's and that Mara is my caseworker.”
"I thought your mother babysat on occasion to give you guys a break.”
Ben shook his head as the thumps approached the attic door. "Not for a while. She fell and fractured her leg.”
I stared at him in horror. "Not Brian. .?”
Ben made it to the door. "No. She slipped walking up some steps in the rain. But she's a tough old lady with strong bones, so it's not too bad.”
I heard Brian say "Graah!" on the other side of the door and then the door bulged inward with a cracking noise and a rattle. Ben snatched it open and Brian tumbled through into his legs.
"Graaaah!”
Ben tried to look stern, but only looked a little cross-eyed. "Schreck-liches kind!”
I wasn't sure what it meant but Brian rolled on the floor and giggled. I didn't think that was the effect Ben had wanted.
"You may need to switch to Russian," I suggested.
"Unfortunately, my mother's already got him started. German is my last recourse for emotional outbursts and my grammar goes all to hell—heck! — when I'm mad. Soon I'll have to switch to Finnish or learn a new language to stay ahead. How long do you think it will take to learn Urdu?”
I didn't know if he was serious.
"Maybe you should try pig Latin.”
Ben hoisted Brian up. "How 'bout frog Latin? If transmogrification actually existed, I would ask Mara to turn him into a frog.”
Brian laughed harder. "Ribbit!" he shouted, clapping his hands.
I followed them down the stairs, reserving judgment on the existence or nonexistence of anything. "Looks like you don't need a witch to do that.”
Brian planted a loud kiss on his father's cheek, then wriggled out of Ben's arms at the foot of the stairs and charged across the hall toward the living room in full rhino-mode once again.
"Well. So much for froggy," Ben sighed. "I think I'm going to have to take him to the park, or he'll never run down. Do you want to come along, or would you prefer to cut short your visit to the wild animal park?”
I did feel a pinch of guilt, but I said, "I'd better get back to work. I've got another couple of quandaries for you, though.”
Ben began stalking the wily rhino-boy as he called back over his shoulder, "What quandaries?”
"First, how come glass—especially mirrored glass—filters the Grey?”
"What do you mean?”
"I mean when I look through glass I see less detail in the Grey. If the glass is mirrored, the filtering is greater, and multiple layers of glass filter still more of the visual component. Why?" I called to him.
Ben tackled his son and carried him into the hall to put on his coat. He reached for what looked like a dog harness and leash hanging from the coat rack and picked it up while keeping one eye on Brian. "OK, you want to go out and run? Do you need a leash or will you let Papa keep up this time?”
Brian eyed the leash and pursed his tiny mouth. "Not doggie. Rhinerosserous.”
Ben knelt down in front of Brian. "Hören, mein kleiner rhino—you need to hold Papa's hand till we get to the park or you'll have to wear the leash. I don't want you running into traffic again. OK?”
Brian looked grave. "OK.”
"So, holding my hand all the way to the park, right?”
"Yes.”
"OK." Ben stood back up and took Brian's hand; then he looked back at me as Brian tugged him toward the door. "What was it…? Oh, yeah. Glass acts as a filter. . There's a lot of folklore about the effects of mirrors and silver on spirits and monsters, but I don't know how that would relate—folklore's not a reliable source.”
"Science hasn't been batting a thousand for me," I reminded him.
"True. . I'll have to look into it. Brian, hang on. I need my coat first." He struggled into a jacket while trying to hold on to Brian's hand and talk to me. "Is this a general question or is it germane to the case at hand?”
"Both. Tuckman's observation room is separated from the experiment space by two layers of glass and I could barely see the Grey effects on the other side, most of the time. The energy concentrations had to be very large or very close to the window for me to see anything distinct. But it's happened before—I can see less Grey in my truck than out of it.”
"The truck might be a special case, but I'll see what I can find out, in general. What else? Quick, before the rhino charges.”
"I need to know how fake phenomena could be manufactured so it would fool the participants in Tuckman's séances.”
"Do you mean that Tuckman is faking his results?" Ben was aghast.
"No. But I need to know how the effects could be faked so I can show him they aren't—I think.”
"OK, you need to know the mechanics of fakery and how to spot them. I'm sure I've got some information about it, somewhere. I'll have to do some research.”
"You don't mind?”
"Not if you don't mind waiting for me to find the time. And it's something to think about aside from playdates and chores.”