Night of the fireflies


DAY SIX – MONDAY 24TH DECEMBER 1984

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DAY SIX MONDAY 24TH DECEMBER 1984
A BIG BREAKFAST
Fat spitting everywhere, the pan so hot the eggs juddered like hovercraft. Draped in Agi’s once white apron, Rainer was making breakfast while Rosa darted about in step with her master’s hyperactivity. Pieces of charred toast stood smoking in a rack.

“Nearly ready!” he shouted. “Big day, today. The American party ... and who knows …” His exuberance alone spelt trouble and, coming from him, the “what else” was ominous.

He added a peel of laughter to the spurting of the volatile oil. “With your tinned ham from Zimbabwe I create ‘Full Hotel Breakfast!’ ”

We ate like ravenous animals, facing one another across the kitchen table. We ate without words, smacking our lips and slurping in a spontaneous and tacit act of gluttony. When we had done, even Rainer had built up a sweat. He put his plate on the floor for Rosa to lick clean and grinned broadly at me. Ignoring the sheaves of ham in his teeth, I grinned back. He fetched two tea towels and gave me one. We sighed a lot as we wiped our faces of food and sweat.

“So tell me about Zeega!”

Instead of addressing my midriff as he often did – he rarely looked into your eyes, preferring to throw random glances in your direction, or else to abandon his gaze and let it slide all over you – this time he answered my question with a head-on stare. Weighing his words, he answered, “Zeega is not part of the Milky Way – it is in the Virgo Galaxy, seventy-five million light years from here.”

“What’s it to you?”

“Zeega was the planet of my last activation.”

I was unable to hide the difficulty I had in taking his proposition seriously. For his part, he could not disguise his disappointment at the predictability of my response.

He filled our glasses with water and continued nonetheless. “It was the first time in my evolution that I had what we call ‘full recall’; from Zeega I could see my last life on earth, as well as my time as Richard III. And in Zeega I acquired more powerful psi access to Life-Lines other than my own throughout the Fields.” He stopped and waited for some response. Getting none, he asked, “Did I not mention Fields to you?”

I was trying to separate what I had heard from him and what I had pilfered from his notebook. I knew that he had mentioned “Fields”, but “recall” (abbreviated to “rec”) I had only secretly read about. Eventually I said, “You’ve mentioned ‘Fields’. Tell me more.”

“Ho! If I started explaining the workings of the Fields ... I do not know if I have enough time left to do so.”

“Dear Rainer,” I said, laughing at his weakness for the apocalyptic, “it’s hard for me to go from interviewing a healer to talking to a man from outer space.” Caught up in the bonhomie of breakfast, I even dared make light of his shady political activities. “ ‘Fields’ couldn’t be a code word, could it? Used by you, or by the CIA, or the KGB, or PIDE, SNASP or whatever?”

He stood up with a groan of disgust, unfurled his long fingers and held the flat of his palm in front of me. “There you have a picture of the Universal Field and the Life-Lines.”

I could imagine him lying beside a pool in Santa Monica surrounded by devotees and playing Svengali – a disillusioning picture. I responded glibly, “I’m familiar with the method of using riddles as smoke screens.”

“But I do not talk in riddles. Look!” he said wiggling his fingers. “The palm is a good illustration of the Universal Field as the original place where the fingers – the Life-Lines – materialise from ...”

Without warning, a dramatic change overcame him: his smile dissipated like the subsiding agitation on the surface of a pond, and troubled thoughts rose to the surface. He began to mutter, “So many dead ends riding the Lines! So many! The Big Bang is one horizon going back in time. Zeegans claim they can see beyond it, but I do not believe much of what they say ...” – sagging under the weight of his incapacities – “Why, only yesterday I got stuck trying to trace your Life-Line into your past. Lost it along the way! As for going forward, well, that is even harder …” – pressing his arms down on the table, hunching his shoulders like a ruffled crow – “My future trajectory ... all day I am digging into my own Line, hunting for clues. Repetitions … repetitions are all I find! Eternal circles of destruction ... darkness and destruction.”

Like a steer’s in a slaughterhouse his eyes rolled in alarm. He was mad! To avert the possibility of another fit, I had to keep him talking. “Of course you desire to read the past and the future, like all clairvoyants – man’s eternal wish for godly powers ...” I could see he wasn’t listening. More urgently, I said, “Why don’t we get back to your analogy of your fingers as Life-Lines, and the palm ...”

But he had slid further into his private abyss. His only anchor – his hands – lay flat upon the table, pink-edged with pressure. I grabbed one of them and thrust the palm in front of his eyes. At first he stared at it stupidly, until the wildness drained from his vision and his errant consciousness bore down upon his palm as upon a landing strip. His ruinous smile popped back on his cheeks like tenuous debris, and he took up his tutorial precisely where he had left off – “... the fingers grow out of the palm where the idea of the fingers is stored as a blueprint.”

Relieved to have him back on track, I asked, “This idea you’re on about: Life-Lines coming from a Universal Field – are you not just dressing up the concept of a spirit world and a living one?”

“Bah!” He wagged his finger at me. “Right away we hit a problem with the word ‘spirit’: the Universal Field and the Life-Lines are both material worlds.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Field represented by the palm is made of finer stuff than the Life-Lines seen here as my bony fingers. It is a difference in mass and charge and so on that I am talking about, another brand of energy and of function. The Universal Field was there before the Big Bang. It envelops our universe like a wave function. It is superluminary. The mass of light and rays comes into play only when Life-Lines are re-activated.”

“If you’re saying the spirit world is made of matter …”

“Matter or energy,” he interrupted, “They’re one and the same.”

Now that I was confident he was more or less normal again, I was eager to risk challenging him on the way he linked the political and the psychic. “António said to you that I may or may not have been drawn by you from something called the ‘chaotic transmitter’. This sounds ominous. Mozambique is not my country. I have to tell you, Rainer, I don’t wish to find myself in some political soup!”

He smiled, for once without conceit. “There is nothing political about the Universal Field – well, at least not at the level I speak of it. And the chaotic transmitter is António’s description of anything I do that he thinks is negative. He thinks I attract chaos.”

“Then what exactly does it mean to be a Life-Line that should or shouldn’t cross with yours? Isn’t this what António and you were concerned about during my first night in your house?”

Unrattled by my query, he answered with confidence and flair: “In nature, bodies are attracted or repelled. Should two or more bodies interact, it is either positive or negative, it is never neutral. Neutral is an ideal – a dream, like God and heaven. António feels you may exert a negative force on me.” He chuckled, and reflected for a moment before saying, “Perhaps you have arrived out of the blue to help me. I have never talked to anyone like this ... about my secret world. But I saw in your healing interview that you have the skill to pick out incoherence and guide my thoughts. In this sense our interaction is positive for me.”

“The important thing you seem to be trying to explain with your Field and Life-Line theory is that an idea’s worth nothing until it emerges as physical action. This is indeed chilling if your action is political.”

Goaded at last, he took such a deep breath that his Adam’s apple shuddered like a trapped bird. “What I am is a researcher. What I know is that the Universal Field and the Life-Lines are interdependent: the second emerges from the first and feeds back into it – this to-ing and fro-ing is the source of evolutionary dynamics. Or ...” He stopped for a moment, searching for better metaphors – “... in scientific language nothing happens in the Fields, everything waits – inert. You see, Miguel, nothing is ever lost, as I have told you already, substances can only be exchanged or converted – this is one of the harsh truths of nature. A Life-Line after death lies ‘locked in phase’, in its ‘ground’ or ‘rest state’. Then there is a shift as you re-enter an ‘excited state’ and your next activation begins either down here on earth, or in Zeega, or elsewhere – at which stage you carry on forging your developmental plan both as an individual and as a species.”

“Prettily put! Why are you so keen to explain this particular point?”

He glanced at me quizzically. “Do you expect me not to want to change? To remain stuck ... stuck in this ravaged country with my stupid father on a planet of low calibre?”

My hackles rose at the arrogance that underpinned so much of what he said. “I’m sure you can find better places,” I snorted. “The moon is still trouble-free. And what about your Spirit Field? Why don’t you go there? And why can’t you call it paradise or nirvana – like everyone else?”

Meu póbre amigo! You are quite right. The Universal Field has many poetic religious images. How I would love to believe that I shall never be coming back to this shit hole, and can rest in Elysian Fields tended by angels! But our Big Bang universe is the only one we shall ever know – dead or alive!” He let his full-blooded African lips fall like a shroud over his unhappy mouth. “There is no paradise, no ‘beyond’,” he said bitterly. “We are trapped forever within our event horizon. Buried in the eternal tomb of an enclosed system.”

Looking at him I thought: Nothing in your behaviour – your fears, your restlessness, your fits – none of this supports a warranty of truth on your part, no matter how exceptional your psychic talents are.

To expel his gloominess, Rainer got up suddenly, clapped his hands twice like pistol shots and announced, “Living is the anvil of the spirit! There you go! It is the title!”

“The title for what?” I gasped.

Living: The Anvil of the Spirit – your title for your article on the Universal Field and Life-Lines, which you will write up later.” And he detonated an ear-shattering salvo of hilarity. To make things worse he plunked his hand on my shoulder and brought his lips so close they brushed against my neck. “Give me a few days, Miguel, and I will show you there is no real-unreal, no dead-alive, no magic, no miracles, no such thing as extra-sensory, paranormal, supernatural. All is sensory, normal and one hundred percent real!”

I responded with a dry laugh as I stood up and stepped back from him. “Come now, Rainer, tell me where this solid heaven of yours is supposed to be.”

Meeting mockery with mockery, he replied, swinging his arms about, “Here! There! In the kitchen, outside! Everywhere! And, want to know the big cosmic joke? It is hell in heaven!” He roared at the ingenuity of his own aphorism.

“Well then, since you have so much power, what’s holding you back from going forward to better times on your so-called Life-Line? What’s the big hang-up? The ‘Block’ – is that it? – like you said during your chess game? And how will you trick ‘Them’? Eh? And who the hell are ‘They’ and ‘Them’ and the ‘Pigs’? Are they the Zeegans or the Mozambican government? All those bastards you keep on speaking about with their natural or unnatural barriers and ...”

He cocked his head and frowned. “I do not recall telling you about the barriers!”

I back-peddled furiously: “Filters! I overheard you talking to António about filters. ‘Escaping your state of torpor’ – you definitely said that.”

He shrugged. “I do not know what my barrier really is. But I intend to deal with it. Devious methods are my only hope. Of course I may fail. At least I will have attempted to force a change, which is more than can be said for most people.”

Drawing up in front of him I inquired with an emphasis bordering on the shrill, “A political change, no doubt? Involving some conspiração that includes weapons code-named ‘ham’.”

He shook his head in perplexity. “Why do you keep going on about politics, Miguel?”

“Everyone’s talking about you, that’s why! Someone from Frelimo asked me questions. People in the bar warned me about you ...”

At that instant Agi entered the kitchen through the back door, exclaiming at the mess. Like a nail penetrating a tyre her arrival drained the space of its mental pressure. Rainer rushed up and gave her a hug, to which she responded sweetly. Agi was too smart to make waves in this afflicted household – for twenty years she had got along with everyone. She giggled like a favourite auntie and asked about lunch. Rainer informed her we were going out.
THE JOURNEY TO THE CLUBE NAVAL
The American Christmas Eve Party was scheduled for midday on the embassy’s yacht. Rainer was dressed as if he were going to a ’20s costume ball as a spiv: white shoes, black socks, white trousers, a scarlet shirt, and his jet-black sunglasses. The reason for this outrageous get-up was to become evident in the course of the day.

As we passed from the shadow-draped Kruger gateway into the street’s pulsating glare, I saw Toto peering over a broken wall. This time I had no doubt who it was. With no attempt at stealth, he latched his ubiquitous gaze on to mine as the car continued past the tower block.

I could not refrain from exclaiming, “There’s that hunchback fellow watching us! Did you know he spies on your house? I’ve seen him peering through the gate. He gives me the creeps!”

“Toto is a double agent … at least!” Rainer responded. “Poor fellow, his days are numbered!”

“God help us! Double agent for whom?”

“Toto believes in nothing beyond the hunger pangs of his wife and children. For money he does something he thinks is of little effect – like telling somebody about somebody else. In this way he slowly becomes trapped. His family eats well, but in exchange he finds he has sacrificed his life.”

“And who does he tell about you in particular?”

“Frelimo, of course. He worked for them until Renamo found out. So he ran an errand for Renamo. Now he is destined to run in circles until someone puts together the whole truth. Then, as you say in English, it is curtains for Toto.”

His words made me feel almost sorry for the hunchback. Was there a special programme in Rainer’s Universal Field that produced such obsequious and treacherous creatures? And if so, to what purpose? Where was Toto’s psi? – buried beneath his hump, his hunger pangs?

Rainer was circumnavigating pot-holes with unusual care when the car started to splutter. As though he were urging on a horse, he beat on the steering wheel. Nonetheless we came to a standstill next to the Parque dos Continuadores where some kids were playing soccer within the swirling dust of a running track. I started to hyperventilate. Rainer’s ridiculous attire alone could provoke them to attack!

We both got out. Rainer announced that he knew nothing about engines. We stuck our heads under the bonnet – there were no visible signs of ailment. Rainer returned to the driver’s seat and turned the key, making the fan belt spin and the old motor rock. I got him to try again with the choke out. Curiously there was no spillage from the carburettor.

“You sure you’ve got petrol?” I asked, poking my head through his window to look at the gauge. Sure enough, the needle was on empty.

Rainer smacked his head. “Merda! António forgot to fill up!”

I threw a glance at the kids less than a hundred yards away – many had stopped playing to watch us. “Now what do we do?” I asked.

“We sit and wait.”

A street sign informed us we were in avenida Martires da Machava, which struck me as ominous. I yelped, “There’s no cars around. We’ll never get a lift!”

“Come out of the sun. António will bring petrol from home.”

“António!”

“I’ve called him already … on the, er, car phone. Get in!”

For my own safety I did as he suggested, slamming the door and locking it. “This is not the time for jokes, Rainer,” I huffed as I wound my window up.

“Those kids you worry about – they are many metres from us. António will soon come. Luckily we are only a kilometre from home.”

“How in the hell is António supposed to know!” I exclaimed. “Let’s walk ... run back!”

“We will gain nothing. We will only pass António arriving with the petrol.”

I shrank down hopelessly into the spiky seat springs.

Then he said, “I am absent-minded. António is supposed to cover for me. I apologise for the negligence.”

My aggravation was augmented by what followed. It was one of the oddest things I have seen an adult do. A cricket flew in through the driver’s window, and Rainer speedily proceeded to crawl over the seats trying to catch it while the insect thudded against the windows, the upholstery, and even crashed into my head. When at last he had captured the black beast in his cupped hands, he made me take an empty workers’ pay envelope from the glove compartment and placed it inside. Then he wedged the buzzing packet in the dashboard ashtray.

“It’s a male!” he said in excitement. “The perfect replacement. Such luck to find one so soon after the other died!”

We continued to sit there with me straining my neck to keep watch on the kids while Rainer spoke about his cricket like some daft entomologist. He claimed to know it was a male by the wave length of its song which made it more able than the female to pick up weather patterns. The signal could cover twenty kilometres and was also used to attract a mate. Suddenly turning sombre he said, “Unfortunately the sound can get picked up by a female fly living in the Maputo Green Belt,” and he rattled off complex biological details about the ear of this Maputo fly which had been “specially designed in the Universal Field” to hear the pitch of this particular species of male cricket. “So instead of acquiring a mate,” he explained, “the poor fellow gets this devil of a fly that sets about laying larvae on its body. In ten days the larvae devour the cricket, then pupate.” He concluded with a malicious shout, “Aa-ha! If that is not a perfect example of the cruelty of the Positive-Negative Dynamic, tell me what is?”

Some of the children were now pointing at us. I let go of my breath with a long whistle to dissipate the tension in my shoulders. Undeterred, Rainer patted the envelope and continued, “He has a great Life-Line, this little chap – like a resilient thread of silk.” Then in a rush of words, he said, “Early this year Mozambique was hit by Cyclone Demoina. When the event was still young and unformed, I phoned our meteorological station and told them the sea was heating up near the coast and great quantities of water would soon be lifted into the sky. As a certified madman, my warnings were ignored.”

Getting no response from me, he addressed himself, “How did I know? Through the cricket, my watchdog.”

Right then my problem was the cyclone of soccer kids moving closer to the car. My hands shot up – “No sign of António!” I blurted.

“But what I am telling you relates to the healing,” he protested. “It is all tied up. I want to explain!”

I wrenched the Casio from my pocket and shoved it at him. “Here! ... If you must! Record your own voice! Push ‘Record’!”

Holding the recorder like a concert singer’s microphone, he pushed the button and began to declaim, “The cricket’s signal is ultrasonic, a great number of pulses per second. Such a signal is capable of transmitting precise information on events like ... a cyclone. So! … Imagine the enormity of pressure as the waters of the Indian Ocean gathered themselves. A tremor spread over the insect’s wings, which was in harmony with the vibrations within the disturbance. Fear was unmistakable in that signal. Why, the sensitive little cricket shook all over with fear!”

Ever since we had left home, Rainer had been speaking with an uneven urgency that had my adrenalin pumping. He gave the impression that something catastrophic could occur at any moment and interrupt his explanations leaving them forever incomplete.

At long last I caught sight of António: he was coming round a bend in the road … and he was carrying a can! I shouted, “It’s António! We’re saved!”

Rainer charged on regardless, faster even, waving the recorder about. “My cricket’s signal registered the volcanic shifts in the life of the ocean: metals groaning in the sand and rock … fish throbbing with terror as they found themselves sucked skyward by a force outside their experience ...”

António arrived beside the car and, without greeting us, began to empty his can into the tank. With immense relief, I saw the kids backing away.

“The fish sort of spoke to the cricket, is that it?” I am ashamed to say that this dumb interjection from me is recorded on the tape above the glugging and clanking of António’s can. As an indication of my revival, however, it delighted Rainer. “Not only the fish – everything was speaking: the fish spoke about the dangerous speed of the water molecules; the gulls spoke of the changing tune of the wind; even the hulls of ships in the port of Maputo sent out creaks of stress. Are you beginning to get the picture?”

I nodded vaguely. “What happened to you in all this?”

“Good question!” He beamed and handed back the recorder for me to resume my duty. “I was part of the chain reaction within the water and wind, the plankton and fish, the sand and the gulls and the boats, and finally within the cricket and within me – all of us responding to an accumulation of power as millions of structures changed shape to fit a giant new pattern named Cyclone Demoina. Changes that were readable to my cricket, and he passed them on to me. Now, there’s psi power for you – at least on the electromagnetic level.”

He shook himself like a happy dog, tapped on the envelope, and cooed, “My clever little spirit medium! Isn’t it, my sweet little cricket!” His habit of adding “isn’t it” into his sentences made me smile.

I looked through the rear window: António was walking off without a word, swinging his can.

“We should go now,” I said.

Rainer gave a little nod and reached absent-mindedly for the ignition. He turned the engine over while pumping the accelerator so that the car coughed with increasing inertia. “You’re flooding the carb!” I said as I clambered out and ran round to his side. “Let me do it!”

Humbly, he got out and let me take the driver’s seat. The car started after a few tries and I revved until the engine was idling nicely before climbing across into the passenger’s seat.

At long last we started forward, turning away from the park. Our resumed mobility gave me a certain victorious joy, and made me better disposed to listen to my expositor. Sure enough he quickly took up his train of thought. “It’s a shame – talking about psi can never be as good as personal experience. We should do some practical work together sometime … you and me. No?”

The idea of getting involved in Rainer’s hocus-pocus was truly alarming, and I warned myself that I was dealing with a highly disturbed man. To avoid answering his offer, I asked, “Tell me, what was all that agony about the other day when you were twisting about on your veranda chair?”

“Ah! Yes! Free-falling. I had let myself go at random through inter-related Life-Lines, not directing myself to known targets. Such pyrotechnics are entertaining. I spend hours jumping the Lines.”

“It looked as if you were about to die.”

“When things turn nasty, I pull myself out.”

“You didn’t pull yourself out – António did.”

Suddenly I had to jerk my head backwards because he made a startling move, throwing his arm past me, an inch from my nose, and slamming his hand on my raised window. “Instant connection!” he cried. “Between streams of energy – that’s what Life-Line jumping is about! You take psi power to its highest level – much higher than healing rays or a cricket’s frequency. Instant connection through the Universal Field. No projectiles, no electrons tumbling down wires, no photons racing through space. Far/near, here/there, fast/slow – all become irrelevant.”

I forcefully removed his arm from in front of my face, replaced his hand on the steering wheel, and rolled down my window for air. We were passing among the city buildings like a ship sailing through inhospitable islands. In an open market I saw a crowd fighting to get at a tray of tomatoes that a woman was holding high as she ran off. Rainer, of course, took no notice of this. His concern was a journey of another sort that had begun on the veranda chair. His next burst of rhetoric on the subject polished off my recorder’s batteries. All exchanges throughout the rest of this big day were noted down by me later.

According to Rainer, he had been “riding a General-Life-Line belonging to a host of bacteria” when he was thrown out on to a planet in the throes of suffocation. He had found himself in a yellow smog which was choking everything because photosynthesis was the only way to acquire energy. Oxygen was killing everything. The power of two suns had fattened this planet into a compost heap of bubbling slime, and made the boiling oceans electric blue with incessant lightning. While “riding” the bacteria, Rainer discovered it was responsible for much of the poisonous gas in the exosphere. “We were farting ourselves to death!” he exclaimed.

Scattered factories, mostly derelict or bricked up, heralded our entry into the light industrial sites. We were driving down the avenida do Trabalho that now could have been more aptly named The Avenue of No Work. There was a bus station full of dead buses and a big sign for the Matadouro – the long-closed slaughterhouse. Driving past the vast Matola cemetery I was reminded of the news on Agi’s radio about an insecticide factory that had been burned down somewhere in this very area. I rolled up my window again.

Then I made the following point to Rainer: “Those kind of evolutionary changes you’re talking about take thousands of years. You describe them as if they are immediate.”

“Of course. Because I can experience space-time in units of a thousand years, or a million years, or whatever. I have instant access to a Life-Line’s entire historic trajectory. So I can pick whichever space-time unit within the Line that I wish to ride.”

He was losing me here, so I asked, “What was going on when António grabbed you?”

“I had jumped forward up the bacteria’s Life-Line and found myself back on earth where these bacteria are surviving very well right now. What I had become part of on the other side of the galaxy was not death at all, but the end of a cycle and the birth of a new dimension – lungs, gills ... the ability of respiration to turn the poisonous oxygen into food. I was caught in this transition period when António dragged me off my chair.”

“You mean life on this other planet is like it was on earth millions of years ago? Before sexual reproduction?”

“Exactly. While I entered the revolutionary ‘Now’ on another planet,” he concluded, pointing skywards, “I was experiencing our distant past on earth. So, Miguel, the past is forever present somewhere, and the present – and, indeed, the future – is the Greater Now.”ii

Rainer explained that through the universal psi connection “there is an opening out in the mind from target site to target site”, and he illustrated his point by cupping his hands in a gesture of blossoming before grabbing the steering wheel none too soon. According to him, the Universal Field contained all the matrices of Life-Lines. After connecting with one, you could follow its past, present and future manifestations through time and space.iii

He also stressed that the inert Universal Field and activated matter did not exist in different places (as some of the religious myths would have us believe with their dualistic heaven and earth), but were interwoven. The living world, he said, was a lattice of Life-Lines, and the Universal Field a super-lattice of the same Life-Lines stored in blue-print or matrix form, like a map lying just above the land it charts. Even in English, he possessed a marvellous gift for description.iv

I woefully regret that I had no spare batteries because he spoke more coherently over the last leg of our tortuous drive to the Clube Naval than he had done during the recorded sessions. It was impossible to resist the charm of his exposition. And of course by now he must have realised all too well that the best way of gaining my attention and even my confidence was through his rational and intellectual propositions. I noticed that he tended to repeat his ideas, dressing them up in different ways. I found this useful as they were so foreign to anything I knew. Already his illustration of “the Greater Now” had struck a cord in me.

“Why is all this so important to you?” I asked.

“What?”

“All this psi stuff.”



Stupefaction further enlarged his onyx eyes. “Can you not see? We are units of energy moving within greater units.” Like the ardent proselytiser he was he threw up a warning finger. “Humanoids have no choice but to strive to understand the precise quality of their given energy, for within it lies the secret of all energy. To do this you have been provided with the necessary engine – the human brain, and the fuel – psi sensitivity. This is why you have no choice but to keep on seeking.”

“Who set us this task?”

“The Universal Field.”

I winced. “And for what purpose?”

He threw his hand up purposefully like a traffic cop, and his voice soared. “To harvest greater power, of course! To raise life to a higher level! To control the universe by scientific means!”

I recognised the chilling tone of the zealot. To defuse him I said, “I’ve read that snakes see the auras of their prey at one hundredth of a degree of heat. Some radio telescopes can pick up radio waves from atoms of hydrogen in far galaxies. But all this is measurable stuff. Psychic power at the level you’re describing it has never been successfully measured. For the scientist it doesn’t exist.”

As we neared our destination Rainer expressed himself in inspired staccato sentences. He said that certain expressions of psi power were measurable by instruments sensitive to electromagnetism, if you could find the appropriate observational point. But he agreed that no man-made instrument could register those instant psi connections between particles or their movements and traces.v “However! There is an organism that can do it perfectly,” he stressed. “The cerebral cortex.”

We were driving along the seafront on the Marginal when he came up with a revolutionary hypothesis about consciousness being behind the connective process of psi. Taking an apple as his example, he said, “Consciousness scans, searches and finds the code for apple as well as all the sites in the living universe where ‘appleness’ exists.”

Then he added something extraordinary to this proposition: “The brain is a carbon copy of the Universal Field made accessible through consciousness” – a sentence that was to settle within me like a burgeoning seed.




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