The Kingdom of the Blind
By GEORGE O. SMITH
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Startling Stories, July 1947.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
CHAPTER I
Amnesiac!
Doctor Pollard, psychologist, seemed puzzled.
"This has happened before," he remarked.
"Too often," said the director of the laboratory.
Doctor Pollard nodded in silent agreement. He faced the well-dressed man seated asprawl in the chair before him and asked, "You have never heard of James Forrest Carroll?"
"No," said the other man.
"But you are James Forrest Carroll."
"No."
The laboratory director shrugged. "This is no place for me," he said. "If I can do anything—?"
"You can do nothing, Majors. As with the others this case is almost complete amnesia. Memory completely shot. Even the trained-in mode of speech is limited to guttural monosyllables and grunts."
John Majors shook his head, partly in pity and partly in sheer withdrawal at such a calamity.
"He was a brilliant man."
"If he follows the usual pattern, he'll never be brilliant again," Doctor Pollard continued. "From I.Q. one hundred and eighty down to about seventy. That's tough to take—for his friends and associates, that is. He'll be alone in the world until we can bring his knowledge up to the low I.Q. he owns now. He'll have to make new friends for his old ones will find him dull and he'll not
understand them. His family—"
"No family."
"None? A healthy specimen like Carroll at thirty-three years? No wife, chick nor child? No relations at all."
"Uncles and cousins only," sighed John Majors.
The psychologist shook his head. "Women friends?"
"Several but few close enough."
"Could that be it?" mused the psychologist. Then he answered his own question by stating that the other cases were not devoid of spouse or close relation.
"I am about to abandon the study of the Lawson Radiation," said Majors seriously. "It's taken four of my top technicians in the last five years. This—affliction seems to follow a set course. It doesn't happen to people who have other jobs that I know of. Only those who are near the top in the
Lawson Radiation is about as well understood now as it was when discovered some thirty years ago."
"Just about," smiled Majors wearily. "However, you know as well as I that people going to work at the Lawson Laboratory are thoroughly checked to ascertain and certify that frustration will not drive them insane.
"Research is a study in frustration anyway, and most scientists are frustrated by the ever-present inability of getting something without having to give something else up for it."
"Perhaps I should check them every six months instead of every year," suggested the psychologist.
"Good idea if it can be done without arousing their fears."
"I see what you mean."
Majors took his hat from the rack and left the doctor's office. Pollard addressed the man in the chair again.
"You are James Forrest Carroll."
"No."
"I have proof."
"No."
"Remove your shirt."
"No."
This was getting nowhere. There had to be a question that could not be answered with a grunted monosyllable.
"Will you remove your shirt or shall I have it done by force?"
"Neither!"
That was better—technically.
"Why do you deny my right to prove your identity?"
This drew no answer at all.
"You deny my right because you know that you have your name, blood type, birth-date and scientific roster number tattooed on your chest below your armpit."
"No."
"But you have—and I know it because I've seen it."
"No."
"You cannot deny your other identification. The eye-retina pattern, the Bertillion,
the fingerprints, the scalp-pattern?"
"No."
"I thought not," said the doctor triumphantly. "Now understand, Carroll. I am trying to help you. You are a brilliant man—"
"No." This was not modesty cropping up, but the same repeating of the basic negative reply.
"You are and have been. You will be once again after you stop fighting me and try to help. Why do you wish to fight me?"
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