E-text prepared by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan,
and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
()
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from "The Counterfeit Man;More Science Fiction Stories by Alan E. Nourse" published in 1963.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyrighton this publication was renewed.
(Note: The following excerpts from Amy Ballantine's journal have neveractually been written down at any time before. Her account ofimpressions and events has been kept in organized fashion in her mindfor at least nine years (even she is not certain when she started), butit must be understood that certain inaccuracies in transcription couldnot possibly have been avoided in the excerpting attempted here. TheEditor.)
Tuesday, 16 May. Lambertson got back from Boston about two thisafternoon. He was tired; I don't think I've ever seen Lambertson sotired. It was more than just exhaustion, too. Maybe anger? Frustration?I couldn't be sure. It seemed more like defeat than anything else, andhe went straight from the 'copter to his office without even stoppingoff at the lab at all.
It's good to have him back, though! Not that I haven't had a nice enoughrest. With Lambertson gone, Dakin took over the reins for the week, butDakin doesn't really count, poor man. It's such a temptation to twisthim up and get him all confused that I didn't do any real work allweek. With Lambertson back I'll have to get down to the grind again, butI'm still glad he's here. I never thought I'd miss him so, for such ashort time away.
But I wish he'd gotten a rest, if he ever rests! And I wish I knew whyhe went to Boston in the first place. Certainly he didn't want to go.I wanted to read him and find out, but I don't think I'm supposed toknow yet. Lambertson didn't want to talk. He didn't even tell me he wasback, even though he knew I'd catch him five miles down the road. (I cando that now, with Lambertson. Distance doesn't seem to make so muchdifference any more if I just ignore it.)
So all I got was bits and snatches on the surface of his mind. Somethingabout me, and Dr. Custer; and a nasty little man called Aarons orBarrons or something. I've heard of him somewhere, but I can't pin itdown right now. I'll have to dig that out later, I guess.
But if he saw Dr. Custer, why doesn't he tell me about it?
Wednesday, 17 May. It was Aarons that he saw in Boston, and now I'msure that something's going wrong. I know that man. I remember him froma long time ago, back when I was still at Bairdsley, long before I camehere to the Study Center. He was the consulting psychiatrist, and Idon't think I could ever forget him, even if I tried!
That's why I'm sure something very unpleasant is going on.
Lambertson saw Dr. Custer, too, but the directors sent him to Bostonbecause Aarons wanted to talk to him. I wasn't supposed to know anythingabout it, but Lambertson came down to dinner last night. He wouldn'teven look at me, the skunk. I fixed him. I told him I was going topeek, and then I read him in a flash, before he could shift his mind toBoston traffic or something. (He knows I can't stand traffic.)
I only picked up a little, but it was enough. There was something veryunpleasant that Aarons had said that I couldn't quite get. They were inhis office. Lambertson had said, "I don't think she's ready for it, andI'd never try to talk her into it, at this point. Why can't you peopleget it through your heads that she's a child, and a human being, notsome kind of lab