L.A. Mental by Neil McMahon

was also including me. That gave me a hint as to why they were telling me at all. It was a sort of preemptive strike. They, or more probably Cynthia, figured that trying to draw me in was a better bet than having me stunned and angry when the news dropped on me from some other source.
    Then Paul threw me another curve, a first inkling that he had another new passion besides Cynthia—that his involvement with Parallax went much deeper than straight business. He leaned toward me confidingly, with the air of someone passing on weighty and privileged information.
    â€œSee, Tom—awhile ago I started feeling like I had to do something with my life besides just make money,” he said. I managed not to wince. “Then I met Cynthia, and she’d been in the same place. She introduced me to Gunnar, and—well, the work he’s doing is really important. Parallax is about a lot more than making movies.”
    â€œHow so?”
    â€œI’ll let her explain. She’s been with Parallax a lot longer.”
    Cynthia didn’t show the same recent-convert fervor as Paul; she’d probably made this same pitch many times, and it was more like, This is how it is—take it or leave it .
    â€œIt’s impossible to really explain,” she said. “You have to spend time around Gunnar—then it just starts to come to you. But basically, when he was at the Planck Institute years ago, he started trying to integrate philosophy with his research—not just theoretically, but in terms of real life. The mainstream scientific community didn’t like it, and they hounded him out. But he kept going on his own, and he finally made a breakthrough. Do you know quantum mechanics, Tom?”
    â€œI took some physics a long time ago, and I wasn’t much good at it. I remember a few basics, but that’s all.”
    â€œAtoms and molecules have electrons orbiting around the nucleus, right? They’re constantly bombarded by quanta, tiny bundles of energy. If an electron absorbs enough of them, it jumps to another orbit—a quantum leap. Gunnar realized that it’s the same in our lives, except the energy is personal power. We can learn to accumulate it and make our own quantum leaps.”
    â€œIt’s science ,” Paul interrupted emphatically. “That’s the key.”
    Huh.
    My first hit was an obvious one—that this had a cultlike ring. I was reasonably familiar with cult mentality in general and with several specific variations. I’d encountered all that fairly often both in clinical work and with the college kids I counseled, and it tied in to one of my major interests, the strange psychology of cognitive dissonance. Quasi-scientific spins weren’t unusual in cults, especially in the more sophisticated ones. My own take on that tended toward cynical; by my lights, the object was precisely what Paul seemed so enraptured by—to give members a sense of superiority because they weren’t buying into not just unfounded and often outlandish beliefs, but an intellectual system.
    But the quantum physics angle was new to me, and at first glance it did seem to have some logic, backed by Kelso’s impressive credentials. He sure didn’t come across as the kind of messianic raver that tended to crop up in that field.
    Then again, first glance also brought up a string of questions, starting with just what this “personal power” was, along with how you were supposed to acquire and apply it.
    But before I could ask anything, Cynthia ended the conversation, nudging Paul with her elbow.
    â€œLet’s quit babbling—Tom’s supposed to be enjoying himself,” she said.
    â€œRight, right,” Paul agreed. “How about a drink, Tom? I’m ready.”
    â€œNot just yet. Thanks.”
    â€œDig into the buffet, then. It’s a choice spread.”
    It was certainly that—caviar, pâté de foie gras, prosciutto, iced bowls