Short Stories by Robert A. Heinlein Vol 2 is a Webnovel created by Robert A. Heinlein.
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Philosophy. But philosophy wasn’t the answer. There really isn’t anything to philosophy. Did you ever eat that cotton -candy they sell at fairs? Well, philosophy is like that—it looks as if it were really something, and it’s awfully pretty, and it tastes sweet, but when you go to bite it you can’t get your teeth into it, and when you try to swallow, there isn’t anything there.
Philosophy is word-chasing, as significant as a puppy chasing its tail.
“I was about to get my Ph.D. in the School of Philosophy, when I chucked it and came to the science division and started taking courses in psychology. I thought that if I was a good little girl and patient, all would be revealed to me. Well,
Phil has told us what that leads to. I began to think about studying medicine, or biology. You just gave the show away on that. Maybe it was a mistake to teach women to read and write.”
Ben laughed. “This seems to be experience meeting at the village church; I might as well make my confession. I guess most medical men start out with a desire to know all about man and what makes him tick, but it’s a big field, the final answers are elusive and there is always so much work that needs to be done right now, that we quit worrying about the final problems. I’m as interested as I ever was in knowing what life, and thought, and so forth, really are, but I have to have an attack of insomnia to find time to worry about them. Phil, are you seriously proposing to tackle such things?”
“In a way, yes. I’ve been gathering data on all sorts of phenomena that run contrary to orthodox psychological theory—all the junk that goes under the general name of metapsychics—telepathy, clairvoyance, so-called psychic manifestations, clair-audience, levitation, yoga stuff, stigmata, anything of that sort I can find.”
“Don’t you find that most of that stuff can be explained in an ordinary fashion?”
“Quite a lot of it, sure. Then you can strain orthodox theory all out of shape and ignore the statistical laws of probability to account for most of the rest.
Then by attributing anything that is left over to charlatanism, credulity, and self-hypnosis, and refuse to investigate it, you can go peacefully back to sleep.”
“Occam’s razor,” murmured Joan.
“Huh?”
“William of Occam’s Razor. It’s a name for a principle in logic; whenever two hypotheses both cover the facts, use the simpler of the two. When a conventional scientist has to strain his orthodox theories all out of shape, ’til they resemble something thought up by Rube Goldberg, to account for unorthodox phenomena, he’s ignoring the principle of Occam’s Razor. It’s simpler to draw up a new hypothesis to cover all the facts than to strain an old one that was never intended to cover the non-conforming data. But scientists are more attached to their theories than they are to their wives and families.”
“My,” said Phil admiringly, “to think that that came out from under a permanent wave.”
“If you’ll hold him, Ben, I’ll beat him with this here thermos jug.”
“I apologize. You’re absolutely right, darling. I decided to forget about theories, to treat these outcast phenomena like any ordinary data, and to see where it landed me.”
“What sort of stuff,” put in Ben, “have you dug up, Phil?”
“Quite a variety, some verified, some mere rumor, a little of it carefully checked under laboratory conditions, like Valdez. Of course, you’ve heard of all the stunts attributed to Yoga. Very little of it has been duplicated in the
Western Hemisphere, which counts against it, nevertheless a lot of odd stuff in
India has been reported by competent, cool-minded observers— telepathy, accurate soothsaying, clairvoyance, fire walking, and so forth.”
“Why do you include fire walking in metapsychics?”
“On the chance that the mind can control the body and other material objects in some esoteric fashion.”
“Hmm.”
“Is the idea any more marvelous than the fact that you can cause your hand to scratch your head? We haven’t any more idea of the actual workings of volition on matter in one case than in the other. Take the Tierra del Fuegans. They slept on the ground, naked, even in zero weather. Now the body can’t make any such adjustment in its economy. It hasn’t the machinery; any physiologist will tell you so. A naked human being caught outdoors in zero weather must exercise, or die. But the Tierra del Fuegans didn’t know about metabolic rates and such. They
Just slept—nice, and warm, and cozy.”
“So far you haven’t mentioned anything close to home. If you are going to allow that much lat.i.tude, my Grandfather Stonebender had much more wonderful experiences.”
“I’m coming to them. Don’t forget Valdez.”
“What’s this about Ben’s grandfather?” asked Joan.
“Joan, don’t ever boast about anything in Ben’s presence. You’ll find that his
Grandfather Stonebender did it faster, easier, and better.”
A look of more-in-sorrow-than-in-anger shone out of Coburn’s pale blue eyes.
“Why, Phil, I’m surprised at you. If I weren’t a Stonebender myself, and tolerant, I’d be inclined to resent that remark. But your apology is accepted.”
“Well, to bring matters closer home, besides Valdez, there was a man in my home town, Springfield, Missouri, who had a clock in his head.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean he knew the exact time without looking at a clock. If your watch disagreed with him, your watch was wrong. Besides that, he was a lightning calculator—knew the answer instantly to the most complicated problems in arithmetic you cared to put to him. In other ways he was feeble-minded.”
Ben nodded. “It’s a common phenomenon—idiots savant.”
“But giving it a name doesn’t explain it. Besides which, while a number of the people with erratic talents are feeble-minded, not all of them are. I believe that by far the greater per cent of them are not, but that we rarely hear of them because the intelligent ones are smart enough to know that they would be annoyed by the crowd, possibly persecuted, if they let the rest of us suspect that they were different.”
Ben nodded again. “You got something there, Phil. Go ahead.”
“There have been a lot of these people with impossible talents who were not subnormal in other ways and who were right close to home. Boris Sidis, for example—”
“He was that child prodigy, wasn’t he? I thought he played out?”
“Maybe. Personally, I think he grew cagy and decided not to let the other monkeys know that he was different. In any case he had a lot of remarkable talents, in intensity, if not in kind. He must have been able to read a page of print just by glancing at it, and he undoubtedly had complete memory. Speaking of complete memory, how about Blind Tom, the negro pianist who could play any piece of music he had ever heard once? Nearer home, there was this boy right here in Los Angeles County not so very many years ago who could play ping-pong blindfolded, or anything else, for which normal people require eyes. I checked him myself, and he could do it. And there was the ‘Instantaneous Echo.
“You never told me about him, Phil,” commented Joan. “What could he do?”
“He could talk along with you, using your words and intonations, in any language whether he knew the language or not. And he would keep pace with you so accurately that anyone listening wouldn’t be able to tell the two of you apart.
He could imitate your speech and words as immediately, as accurately, and as effortlessly as your shadow follows the movements of your body.”
“Pretty fancy, what? And rather difficult to explain by behaviorist theory. Ever run across any cases of levitation, Phil?”
“Not of human beings. However I have seen a local medium—a nice kid, non-professional, used to live next door to me—make articles of furniture in my own house rise up off the floor and float. I was cold sober. It either happened or I was hypnotized; have it your own way. Speaking of levitating, you know the story they tell about Nijinsky?”
“Which one?”
“About him floating. There are thousands of people here and in Europe (unless they died in the Collapse) who testify that in Le Spectre de la Rose he used to leap up into the air, pause for a while, then come down when he got ready. Call it ma.s.s hallucination—I didn’t see it.”
“Occam’s Razor again,” said Joan.
“So?”
“Ma.s.s hallucination is harder to explain than one man floating in the air for a few seconds. Ma.s.s hallucination not proved—mustn’t infer it to get rid of a troublesome fact. It’s comparable to the ‘There aint no sech animal’ of the yokel who saw the rhinoceros for the first time.”