“Just because you can’t see a bug doesn’t mean it isn’t there,” Morrissey growled. “What about a filterable virus? A few years ago nobody could conceive of liquid life.”
“Next you’ll be going back to Elizabethan times and talking about spleen and humors.” Bruno resumed his shirt and coat. He sobered. “In a way, though, this is a transfusion. The only type of transfusion possible. I’ll admit no one knows all there is to know about psychoses. Nobody knows what makes a man think, either. But that’s where physics is beginning to meet medicine. Witchcraft and medicine isolated digitalin when they met. And scientists are beginning to know the nature of thought—an electronic pattern of energy.”
“Empirical!”
“Compare not the brain, but the mind itself, to a uranium pile,” Bruno said. “The potentialities for atomic explosion are in the mind because you can’t make a high-specialized colloid for thinking without approaching the danger level. It’s the price humans pay for being homo sapiens. In a uranium pile you’ve got boron-steel bars as dampers, to absorb the neutrons before they can get out of control. In the mind, those dampers are purely psychic, naturally—but they’re what keep a man sane.”
“You can prove anything by symbolism,” Morrissey said sourly. “And you can’t stick bars of boron-steel in Gregson’s skull.”
“Yes, I can,” Bruno said. “In effect.”
“But those dampers are—ideas! Thoughts! You can’t—”
“What is a thought?” Bruno asked.
Morrissey grimaced and followed the Chief of Staff out.
“You can chart a thought on the encephalograph—” he said stubbornly.