The Bumblebee Flies Anyway (6 page)

“So tell me about them,” Barney said, investing his voice with a bravado he did not really feel, telling himself to let the blood flow, tempo, rhythm.

The Handyman still sat there, hands clasped on the desk, not having moved since Barney entered the room. While Barney was conscious of having squirmed and fidgeted in his chair and now was letting his arms dangle at his sides, letting the blood flow.

“We’re about to begin a series of procedures involving the brain,” the Handyman said as if he were a teacher addressing a classroom, and Barney only casually involved. “Specifically, the memory. It’s an exciting departure for us. As you know, we are involved in experimental therapy here, but thus far it has been confined to the physical, not the mental. Now we explore new territory.”

The Handyman smiled again—he was breaking some sort of record today—but Barney realized that his eyes didn’t change with the smile. They remained the same, dazzling in their intensity and brilliance but hard and cold.

“The brain, Barney, remains uncharted territory for the most part, one of the last frontiers to be explored. Outer
space is another frontier. The brain is inner space, a land of many marvels about which we know only too little. We know less about the brain than about any other region of the body, but there has been some advancement in knowledge in recent years. In particular we have witnessed the effects of chemicals on the brain. I’m sure you’ve heard of mind-altering drugs, Barney. They range from tranquilizers that doctors prescribe to relieve the anxieties of their patients to sophisticated drugs that have changed the course of treatment of the mentally ill. These drugs have opened the doors to research into the chemistry of the brain.”

The chemistry of the brain.
Barney felt self-conscious suddenly, thinking of his brain: How do I think, where do thoughts come from? He could feel the blood gathering in his hands as they hung limply on either side of the chair.

“Then there’s another side of the drug picture,” the Handyman said, moving for the first time, unclasping his hands, the index finger of his right tapping the desk lightly. “This is the exciting aspect of developments, Barney, the positive, constructive side. If these new chemicals can help afflicted persons, why can’t they improve the performance of normal people? Can they improve mental ability? Increase the capacity to learn, to assimilate, to remember? Some progress has already been made on these fronts, however limited it has been. But now we must push even further.”

He looked fondly at Barney, the way a teacher might look at a favorite pupil.

“Your involvement, Barney, will involve memory. We are going to introduce elements into your system that will affect your memory.”

“You mean make me some kind of genius at remembering things? I could be great on quiz shows, win all kinds of money.”

“We are attempting to do just the opposite, Barney. We will obliterate your memory. A portion of it, anyway. We will introduce a condition similar to amnesia. Temporary, of course, a matter of two or three hours.”

“What do you mean, similar to amnesia?” Barney asked, beginning to chew the inside of his cheek.

“Don’t look so apprehensive, Barney,” the Handyman said. “Let me explain what will happen, and you will see that it is quite a simple matter. The fear of the unknown is always dissipated when knowledge arrives.”

Barney thought: tempo, rhythm.

“Let us consider, Barney, what a wonderful thing memory is,” the Handyman continued. “It’s the ability not only to remember but to be able to reproduce what has been learned or experienced. This is called retention.

“There are two kinds of retention. First, short-term. Remembering information for a brief time, after which the information is discarded. Say, a telephone number you looked up and have no further use for beyond that one call. Or the name of a person you meet casually and never see again.”

The Handyman paused. Barney didn’t say anything, was trying to figure out where all this gobbledegook was going.

“Long-term retention is a complex operation, however,” the Handyman said. “It involves memories of your earliest days. And it also involves retrieval.” Frowned at Barney, then went on to explain, voice hurrying a bit. “Retrieval is the ability to pull information out of the memory, information that has been stored there for a length of time.”

Barney nodded, wanting the Handyman to get down to
specifics and yet not sure whether he wanted to hear all the details.

“There’s a lot more, Barney—for instance, unconscious memory, in which we retain mental impressions of something that is so unbearable to recall that we repress it. Psychiatrists are usually concerned with this repression. There’s also the screen, in which one memory—or an image—is used to shield another memory.”

“What kind of memory stuff are you going to try on me?” Barney asked, impatient finally with all the explanations.

“Short-term,” the Handyman said, looking pleased at Barney’s question. “We will blot out an area of memory with a chemical that is a new compound. You will be tested while the compound is active in your system. There should be no physical effects.”

The blood had gathered in Barney’s hands, and they dangled at his sides like ripe fruit.

“What’s it going to feel like, doctor? I mean, will I wake up and find that I won’t know who I am or anything? My name, my address? I remember once when I got lost in a department store when I was just a kid. My mother was there one minute and not there the next. I wasn’t tall enough to reach the counters. All I could see were legs. And my mother gone, vanished. I started to scream, not only because I had lost my mother but because I didn’t know who I was. Without my mother to verify who I was, I was lost.” The terror of that moment came back now to Barney as if it had happened yesterday or last week; lost, without identity, nameless. His screams reverberating in his ears, his spine rippling from a chill, until his mother was suddenly there, clutching him, sweeping him into the soft folds of her coat, kissing and hugging him—and he was
suddenly restored to the world, he knew who he was, he was little Bunny Snow and his mother loved him and he was safe and secure in her arms.

“Control is the key, Barney,” the Handyman said. “The experiment will be conducted in controlled circumstances by a scientist who is one of the world’s leading theorists in the field. We’re not abandoning you to the mercies of a rogue chemical, Barney. You have seen our processes here. Rest assured that we keep your welfare in mind at all times, and we must proceed as always according to the rules and regulations of experimental medicine.”

Barney was afraid his hands, pulsing with the blood now, were going to drop like fruit to the floor.

“We have four tests indicated for you, Barney, each affecting certain aspects of memory, each providing us, we anticipate, with more knowledge to further studies in the field. It is a pioneering effort, and you are one of the pioneers.”

“Tell me one thing, doctor,” Barney said.

“Anything you want to know that will put you at ease.”

“Can you guarantee that my memory will come back? That the part you block out will return? Once you said there are no guarantees in the work you are doing. When you were talking about Billy and Mazzo and Ronson and Allie Roon—you said there were no guarantees.”

“But we are dealing with disease in their cases, Barney. Terminal illness. Irreversible conditions. Their diseases control their lives and even affect the tests. With you, it’s different.
We
have control. In dealing with memory study, we are setting the rules, establishing the conditions, determining the patterns.”

“Can you tell me what memories you’re planning to blot out?” Barney asked, lifting his hands to the arms of the
chair, letting them rest there, letting the blood flow free again through his body.

“I prefer not to, Barney. Any preknowledge on your part might affect your thought processes at the time of the experiment.”

“How about this expert? Who is he?”

“His name is Dr. Emile Croft, and he is eminent in his field. He will administer the chemical and observe your reactions, but I will be involved personally with you in the procedure. While you are under the influence of the drug, I will be your contact, interrogate you, be a link between Dr. Croft and you. This is one of the reasons we brought you here early, before commencing the tests. We wanted someone—in this case, myself—with whom you are familiar to be involved.”

Barney was tired suddenly, not a physical tiredness but a weariness of his mind, as if he’d been doing too much thinking.

“We will talk again before the test begins, Barney. In the meantime, follow your usual routine. Take advantage of our relaxed rules. Try to get some fresh air. Try to relax. You don’t need any particular physical preparation and no advance medication. Perhaps a light diet, mostly liquid, within twelve hours of the beginning. And we will suspend your evening sessions with what you call the Machine, until later.”

“Fine, doctor,” Barney said, rising, conscious that the Handyman was terminating the conversation. The inside of Barney’s cheek was raw and stinging. He hadn’t realized he had done that much chewing.

“This will be a great adventure, Barney,” the Handyman said, flashing one of his stingy smiles.

It wasn’t until he was in the corridor that Barney realized
he hadn’t mentioned the incident on the fence, how the nightmare of the car had become a daylight nightmare, if such a thing was possible.

He hesitated, almost went back, but didn’t.

Maybe the new chemical would take the nightmare away.

P
ERCHED
on the fence, knees pressing the weather-roughened wood, Barney focused on the MG, marveling at the sleek low lines and the gleaming scarlet hue. It looked out of place in the junkyard, an alien among the disreputable wrecks surrounding it. He squinted against the sun, narrowing his eyes. Movement caught his attention at the far end of the junkyard. Two men walking in his direction, picking their way across the junk-strewn lot. Barney hugged the fence, tightening his legs against it, trying to make himself small as he huddled there. Which was ridiculous, of course. How can you hide sitting on top of a fence? To his relief he saw the men moving away, back toward the front of the place, too engrossed in their conversation to notice Barney. He was at least five hundred feet away, in any case.

The presence of the car was baffling to Barney. Why was it here? As he lifted his head, the world tilted slightly. Not the world but himself, assailed by sudden dizziness. Would the nightmare of the car slanting down the hill begin now? He should have stayed inside the Complex, shouldn’t have come out here, climbed this fence, vulnerable, unprotected. He closed his eyes—worse with his eyes closed—
opened them and saw that the world was stationary once again. No nightmare. Here and now, Barney Snow in command.

But the MG. He had to get a closer look, touch the car, establish its reality. He felt a kinship with the car: It was like him, different from the other vehicles in the junkyard just as he was different from the other patients in the Complex. Both aliens.

He swung one leg over the top of the fence. Crazy, don’t do this. Did it anyway. Now he was sitting on the fence top, balancing delicately. Swung his body around, let his legs drop, used every bit of strength in his arms to secure a hold while his feet sought support on the fence. And found it somehow. Barney let himself down tentatively, carefully, proud of the way his body functioned, smoothly, easily, doing what he commanded it to do: Get down from the fence.

On the ground Barney tested the earth beneath his feet, heart pounding, breath coming fast. Felt the solidness of the ground and realized he trusted nothing these days, not even earth. He began to walk carefully toward the MG, picking his way through the yard’s debris, abandoned carburetors and batteries and other stuff he couldn’t identify. He felt as if he were making his way through a battlefield long after the bombs had exploded and the soldiers had fled, taking the dead and wounded with them.

The wind began to rise, whistling through the abandoned cars, a door banging hollowly nearby, its clangor like the sound of doom. Stop the dramatics, Barney, he told himself. He slipped in a puddle of grease, lost his balance and reached out to a sagging station wagon for support. A rat scurried out of the car, spurted between Barney’s legs and fled the scene.

Barney stopped short as he approached the car. Felt his jaw drop open, like in a comic book. The MG was a fake. Not a car at all but a mock-up, made of plywood, the doors and hood and the other parts held together by screws and hinges. He kicked at the phony car in anger, feeling tricked and betrayed. Up close, he saw that the paint was somewhat faded, although it looked fresh and new compared to the wrecks that surrounded it. The interior was unfinished, thin boards serving as the front seat and the floor. The steering wheel was fastened to an aluminum shaft, the wheel itself small and out of proportion to the rest of the car, probably taken from a child’s toy automobile. The dashboard was another piece of plywood, but someone had cleverly drawn a speedometer, gasoline gauge and other dials on it to give the dash the appearance of reality.

Grudgingly, Barney admired the handiwork that had gone into the making of the car, the care with which the various parts had been screwed together. He kicked one of the rear tires, the way people did in used-car lots. The tire was real but smaller than an ordinary one, maybe a tire from a motorbike.

Walking around the car, stroking the smooth wood, he wondered what the hell it was doing here. Who built it? And why? The front bumper was simulated silver, dull in spots, but still glinting in the sun. Barney noticed a label attached to the bumper. Squinting, shading his eyes from the sun, he bent down and read the faded print.

So that was the big secret. A bunch of kids in a trade school had built the car as part of a course and then either sold it or turned it over to the junk dealer once its usefulness was over.