A Conversation on Psionics

    Now for something completely difference: a discussion at a WorldCon party, a few years ago, on the subject of psychic phenomena.

    I don't remember which WorldCon it was (I've been to so many, they begin to blur together), but by some forgotten circumstances I wound up in the Con Suite, nursing a beer and nibbling some pretzels, at a table with a gritty-looking middle-aged guy who's badge wasn't visible, grousing about the lousy state of science education in the public schools.  Eventually Mr. Gritty got around to sneering at the number of college students these days who "actually believe in" psychic phenomena.  

    At that point I felt that I should chime in on the side of forgotten facts.  I didn't quote the large and growing body of established evidence, since I didn't have access to the records at the time, but instead claimed:  "Well, in my case I've got no choice;  I've not only seen it done, but I've done it myself -- several times."

    "Oh yeah?" he countered.  "So what am I thinking about right now?"  And he squeezed his eyes tight shut, concentrating.

    The answer to that was almost too easy.  "Some big long number that doesn't mean anything to me, although it... hmmm, has something to do with... avocados?"

    He snapped his eyes open, and couldn't help correcting: "Avogadro's number."

    "Still means nothing to me," I said.  "The talent doesn't make you all-knowing, and it isn't easy, and because it works through a human nervous system, it's not 100% accurate.  And even under the best of circumstances, it's hard to prove it's real to a determined skeptic.  For instance, I could tell you about incidents where information that I couldn't have gotten any other way saved my neck -- but then, you'd say I was lying, or remembering wrong.  Or I could drop into alpha-trance state, lay hands on your bare skin and tell you things about yourself that you haven't told me---"

    He jerked his bare forearm out of my reach.

    "--but then, you'd say I was just making good guesses, or must have heard something from somebody else and consciously forgotten about it.:

    He couldn't help smirking at that.

    "No, about the only psychic talent that would prove its existence is telekinesis -- moving physical objects with psychic energy alone.  And of course that's the rarest and weakest of the psychic talents."

    Oh?  Why is that?"

    Because moving matter around takes a lot more energy than transmitting information, because there's a helluva lot more energy tied up in matter.  E equals MC squared, and no matter how you slice it, C is one helluva big number.  The human brain doesn't really have much energy to play around with.  I think a brain at full gallop produces only 25 volts of energy, and at least 7 of those are tied up in basic maintenance: things like maintaining your heartbeat, breathing, working the guts and glands -- stuff like that.  That leaves, what, 18 volts, at most?  And keeping even that much focused and aimed isn't easy."

    "But you say you can do it?"

    "Yes, but mostly on small stuff: moving a column of cigarette smoke, nudging rolling dice, little things like that."

    He broke off a piece of a pretzel, set it on the table and said: "There.  Move that."

    I tried, and managed to feel my way into the piece of pretzel, but I couldn't find enough resonance to move it.  "I can't,"  I admitted.  "It's too heavy."

    "Dice are a lot heavier."

    "I can't move a stationary die, either," I explained.  "I can only nudge them while they're in motion -- sort of like the working of a transistor: using a little energy to divert a lot.  I've learned how to feel my way into dice, though it's tough because they're made out of plastic.  Metals and crystals are a lot easier.  Plastic is like a tangle of dried spaghetti;  there's enough space between the molecules to make it sort of like a sponge, and you can fill that sponge with psychic energy the way you fill a regular sponge with water.  Again, that's easier with metals or crystals.  But anyway, once I've got the energy in there, I sort of create a mood in it;  I make the dice want to land in a certain position -- ones down, sixes up.  I call it 'tits down, teeth up'.  Then I shake the dice -- in my cupped hands or in a real cup -- until I can feel the precise instant when, if I drop the dice right then, they'll land the right way.  It works about two-thirds of the time."

    "Then why," he bristled, "Haven't you gone to Las Vegas and cleaned up at the craps tables?"

    "I did," I said.  "Last time I was passing through Las Vegas with my publishers, we stayed overnight and spent a couple hours in the casino.  I used my talent then.  And guess what I found out."

    "What?"

    "That proper, respectable, rrrrrrreputable scientists may not believe in psychic phenomena, but Las Vegas croupiers do."

    "In what way?"

    "Well, when the guys running the table saw that I was rolling up the six-face way too often for chance, first they changed the dice on me.  Then they changed them again.  When that didn't stop me, they tried shouting at me -- 'Come on, throw already!  Quit holding up the line!  Throw!' -- in order to break my concentration.  When that didn't stop me, they sent in a spoiler disguised as an amiable drunk.  He slapped an arm around my shoulders and mumbled cheerfully: 'Hi.  I'm from St. Louis.  Where're you from?'  So I answered and shook hands and chatted politely until it came my turn to throw the dice again, and he kept his hand on my shoulder while I shook and threw the dice -- and came up with a double-six. After that he gave up.  I don't know what he signaled to the croupiers, but they called out that they were closing the table for 'maintenance', so we wandered off elsewhere.  I'd been making only one-dollar bets, so my winnings after an hour and a half of playing were all of ninety dollars;  not exactly a big score, but satisfying."

    "Do you have any witnesses for this story?"

    "Sure.  My publishers were right there at the table with me.  They're in the dealers' room right now, if you want to talk to them."

    "...Do you think you could move smaller objects?"

    "Sure," I enthused.  "I'd love to get access to a bubble-chamber, or a cloud-chamber.  I'm sure I can push atom-trails around, and that would give us conclusive proof. Say, do you know where I could get access to something like that?"

    "Maybe," he muttered.  Then he took his cup, got up and went back to the bar.  

    I didn't see him again, not through the whole convention.  I guess he lost interest in the subject.

--Leslie <;)))>< Fish