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then he had narrowed down the principal roadblocks and was eliminating them one by one in the drive
toward a solution.
Midnight came and went.
How had he come to be lying on one of the big lawn chairs? There'd been no lawn chairs in the office,
but there he was, stretched out on one with pillows propped beneath his head and a ringed notebook on
his chest. Words were handwritten on the open pages.
Was that his writing? It was almost illegible. He vaguely recalled his fingers and wrists becoming tired and
strained from typing. Clenching and unclenching his hands, he'd begun yawning. That was it! That's when
Wilma brought in the lawn chair and prepared it for sleeping, or working if he felt like it. He'd continued
for several more hours, but sleep claimed him at last.
There was still work to do! He plunged back into it, never noticing Wilma asleep on the other chair.
She'd plugged an alarm clock in beside her. It went off, but he didn't hear it. She left the room, but he
never noticed. Only when the aroma of freshly brewed coffee carved its way through his intellectual wall
was he peripherally aware of her. He drank the first cup as though the last train was leaving the station,
almost burning his tongue for not letting it cool first.
The day wore on without his knowledge. He was nearing the end of his quest and was even more
focused than before, but a complete solution wouldn't be possible. Parts would be missing, but they'd be
specified so that someone with more knowledge in those specialized fields could fill in the blanks.
He slept one hour before continuing.
Sometime early the next morning, right after Wilma again brought in freshly brewed coffee, he began tying
loose ends together into a thesis he'd understand after the focus effect wore off. It took the rest of the
day. Just before dark he stood, blinked in surprise when he realized he was done, and stumbled off to his
bedroom. He collapsed on the bed, fully clothed, never moving when Wilma removed the slippers he'd
been wearing.
No dreams visited him.
Chapter Six
His awakening was a combination of every hurt he'd ever experienced, pain far worse than anything
those first few days in the army produced, plus all the mornings-after of his life rolled into one. The taste
in his mouth was that of old, burned coffee at decrepit truck stops, piled on top of Limburger cheese--or
was it musty cellar on top of rancid socks? Maybe actual sewer? Even his clothes smelled. He shed them
on the way to the bathroom, staring at the three-day growth covering his face when he finally stood facing
the mirror. Was that him?
He tried splashing cold water in his face, then brushed his teeth. It helped with the sewer mouth, but only
a shower would work on his aches. While luxuriating under the stinging hot water, he reconstructed the
whole experience--sort of. He had a clear memory of everything, even the fact of it being three days, but
the tremendous piles of data he'd integrated into the final product recalled one of those college courses
where he'd crammed hard for the final, only to have it recede into the depths immediately after.
It could be brought back, with a little stimulation.
And then he remembered his final conclusion!
The washcloth dangled from one hand. Christ, did the solution really need to be that draconian? He ran
swiftly through those final few hours, considering how he'd derived the answer. It was correct; all the
avenues led to that one resolution, but he'd look once more at his final notes. The first results of focusing
a human brain, and it turned out something like this?
What would Jack think? Where was Jack? Oh--he must have gone back to his post. This was what ...
Tuesday? Wednesday? He wasn't sure.
Wilma wasn't in sight, but he heard water running in the other bathroom so she was up. He got coffee
going, then went back to his office. What a mess! The lawn chairs were covered with a disorganized
jumble of pillows. Coffee cups and disposable drink glasses cluttered the trash cans. He started to clean
up, abruptly stopping. The last printout! He swept it up and headed for the kitchen, pouring a cup of
coffee before he sat down. Holy crap, did I type all this? Skip the preliminaries, it's there in the last
pages.
The conclusions were there along with the problem-solving formula, insofar as it could be solved. It was
there all right. The word was written in capital letters and big bold type. It stared back at him like a
challenge, or a call to action.
REVOLUTION.
He'd written it out three times in the ecstasy of his final and irrefutable conclusion.
REVOLUTION.
REVOLUTION.
REVOLUTION.
Revolution--an overthrow or repudiation and replacement of an established government or
political system, by those governed. While he knew the definition, he'd never entertained such thoughts,
or even considered the word itself since those courses in political science. Yet he'd arrived at the
conclusion using logic borne of his own research and his own mind. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]