Free The Call-Girls by Arthur Koestler Page A

research to which he had referred. There might even be signs of a possible break-through in the near future if certain recent experiments were to be confirmed-experiments which could be reported in his paper at a forthcoming session of the conference. But even if the results were to be positive, as he hoped, even so the beneficial effects would be slow, very slow to make themselves felt – and they could hardly be a fitting subject for an Einstein letter to Mr President or Her Majesty the Queen …
    Burch fought a brief battle with himself, trying to keep his mouth shut in dignified silence, and lost. Peering sharply over his lenses at Wyndham, he said: ‘You object to the term social engineering. Is not what
you
are trying to do exactly that?’
    â€˜Oh no. I wouldn’t call that engineering. I would rather call it officiating – to the newborn.’ Smiling guilelessly, Wyndham looked rather like a dimpled baby himself.
    There was some polite laughter, and the discussion seemed to be grinding to a halt when, with his infallible instinct for timing, Bruno Kaletski went into action.
    â€˜Mr Chairman, with your permission …’ He raised his left hand while his right, which had been busily taking notes all the time, continued to do so. Solovief nodded at him without enthusiasm, but Bruno went on to finish whatever he was writing with an expression of utter concentration, thus creating an expectant silence that lasted nearly twenty seconds. Then he put down his monogrammed fountain pen with an air of accomplishment:
    â€˜Mr Chairman, it seems to me that there is considerable confusion regarding the scope and aims of this conference, and the ways and means of achieving them. Speaking in myhumble capacity as a social scientist – or a scientifically orientated student of society, if you prefer that label – the reason for this confusion seems to me obvious …’ He paused, took a few quick steps to the blackboard standing against the wall, and picked up a piece of chalk. ‘The reason is that we are all suffering from controlled schizophrenia…’ He wrote on the blackboard in small, neat capitals: CONTROLLED SCHIZOPHRENIA. ‘No personal offence – or offences, plural – is or are meant, of course.’ He wrote under the previous line: NO OFFENCE. ‘The term is offered as a metaphor, but not purely as a metaphor. Schizophrenia, loosely speaking, means a split mind. Our minds are split…’ With a dramatic vertical stroke of the chalk he divided the blackboard into two halves. ‘On the one hand, we lead, as our friend Wyndham so aptly remarked, sheltered academic lives, pursuing our scientific quests
sub specie aeternitatis
– in the sign of eternity, as it were …’ He wrote on the left half of the blackboard: SUB SP. AET. ‘But pure research has no direct bearing on the ills that plague our threatened mankind. The distant galaxies we probe with our radio-telescopes won’t feed the starving millions, nor bring freedom to the oppressed millions. Even applied research in the biological and social sciences is always based on long-term projects, always taking for granted that we have plenty of time before us, that the next generation will continue where we have left off and bring our modest endeavours to a fruitful conclusion. But ay, there is the rub …’ He paused and wrote on the same line as SUB SP. AET., but on the right half of the blackboard: TOMORROW!? … Yes, my friends, the other half of the split mind knows that there may be no tomorrow, so we feel tempted to let the galaxies look after themselves and let eternity look after itself, and concentrate all our energies, quests and endeavours on the task of ensuring that there should be a morrow. But would that not be another kind of betrayal – the abandonment of what some of us regard, if I may use that term, as our sacred mission? So we are caught