it, scientists also want acceptance outside their own special community. Thatâs what often holds them back more than anything else.â
Julie put the question to him again. âDo you believe in telepathy? Yes or no?â
âThere must be something to it,â he conceded.
There was an impressive amount of evidence in favor of humans having such an ability. But little of it scientifically acceptable. Except for the work of J. B. Rhine at Duke and a few others, all of whom had gone at it rather defensively, attempting to prove the existence of telepathy rather than assuming it did exist and concentrating their energies determining how and why.
The new challenge of it appealed to Kersh. Also, for him, a not unimportant consideration was Julieâs enthusiastic interest. Work was better when there was love in it.
He outlined a research program and submitted an official request to the appropriate board of grants at Harvard. The board, though taken aback by Kershâs proposal to research telepathy, did not turn him down. They just politely tried to dissuade him, urged him to continue with his brilliant work in molecular biology.
Kersh stood fast. The board stalled, suggested he take another sabbatical.
Kersh insisted.
Harvard lost him.
But where to get financing for the research of telepathy? One of the private foundations? Too controversial a field for them, Kersh decided. He looked to a more likely money source.
The letter he wrote to Washington was purposely vague, but it received a prompt reply and a week later Kersh flew the shuttle down to Washington for a meeting. As he was escorted down one of the wide upper corridors of the Pentagon, past offices with doors displaying gold-leaved eagles and stars and other emblems, he felt sure heâd come to the right place.
His timing was perfect. There were just six weeks left in the fiscal year and every federal agency was concerned with its dollars; not pinching to make do, rather trying to spend what remained of that yearâs appropriation. The worst thing would be to have money left over, which might cause next yearâs appropriation to be reduced. A federal agency could lose its standing if it were too conscientiously frugal. It was the season to be prodigal, and Kersh sensed the spirit of waste in the air.
He was led to and through double doors to his appointment with an Assistant Deputy Director of Plans. Kersh wasnât kept waiting, was shown right in to an office that had much the same durable character as the corridors, the most noticeable difference being underfootâwall-to-wall gray carpeting. In one corner a stanchion held a drooping Stars and Stripes fringed cheaply in gold. On a wall were framed photographs in proper nonpartisan sequence. FDR, Harry, Ike, Jack, LBJ and Dick. Signed but probably not really by them. The only thing on the desk was a gray manila folder, not thick, not labeled. A dossier on Kersh.
The Assistant Deputy Directorâs name was James W. Mumford. So said a propped-up plastic strip. Mumford was in his late forties. Heâd recently taken off twenty-five pounds and looked the worse for it, drawn and sallow. His gray suit hung on him, and his shirt collar, at least a size and a half too loose, was forced into gathers by the shoved-up knot of his tie.
Mumford did his best imitation of a warm smile. He began with some flattery and then got abruptly to the point. He let Kersh do most of the talking. Within fifteen minutes the proposition was laid out.
âRumor had it that we tried telepathy with the submarine Nautilus, â Mumford said.
Kersh remembered hearing about that. Surface to underwater telepathic communication. A futile attempt at best, never verified.
âNot true, of course,â said Mumford. âWe think the CIA started the story just to make us look foolish.â
Rivalry between the various intelligence agencies. That was something Kersh was counting on. There were ten