DR. AGONSON
The interview was going very poorly. Mr. Jack, as he was known in the club, pulled at his collar. There seemed to be no air in the room. The perfunctory interview was going anyway other than as planned. Perfunctory! thought Mr. Jack, and then tried to follow the perverse logic of his interviewee.
“…the pyramid being a perfect metaphor, if one may dissociate the negative implication brought to the mind by the phrase ‘pyramid scheme,’ though, to be clear, I’m making no imprecation against the use of that pyramid imagery, only bemoaning that such being so popular it poisons the well, one might say, for the more…I should say, for the…”
As Dr. Christoph searched for the right word, his hands waved abstractedly. Mr. Jack, in a helpless reaction, flinched, some childlike, even animalistic, fear momentarily flashing through his head. He knew it only retrospectively, and while the good doctor continued down whatever tangent he had fallen into, his interviewer was lost in reflection.
Mr. Jack pulled himself from his brown study and said:
“I’m sorry. I’m…I’m not sure how we fell on this subject. I asked,” he glanced at his notes and read, “‘How will your association further the cause of science?'”
“My dear boy,” the term made Mr. Jack squirm. “Whatever do you mean by ‘the cause of science’? How can science,” his hand was waving again, causing Mr. Jack an outbreak of goosebumps, “have that kind of cause?”
“You’re answering my question with a question.”
“Well, I’m trying to help you understand my answer, but you have to break out of dead language. If you ask me about ‘the cause of science,’ perhaps we shall call it, The Cause, you’ve fallen into a confusion. I know, or suspect, what you mean; mere osmosis, merely listening to how the phrase is used—but the words themselves are undefined. You’re hiding your own meaning from yourself in a…” those terrible hands were raised again, sending shivers down Mr. Jack’s spine, “in a…in a…what was that phrase?…a weaponized ambiguity. Really, I suppose, it’s a shibboleth, of a sort. One’s not supposed to think about its meaning; one’s supposed to react. One’s either nobly fighting for The Cause or he’s just a…what did I hear Dr. Gunther say in passing?…an inbred bastard. Then you and he laughed at the idea of sending their sons to fight wars for you.” Dr. Christoph grew quiet. He looked straight at his interviewer. Mr. Jack squirmed, his eyes darting away toward the ceiling. “You may find,” he said, his voice a grave whisper, “‘that you are more worthless and less fit to live than millions like this poor man’s child.'”
“This interview is over,” said Mr. Jack, closing his folder of questions.
“It was over a long time ago,” agreed Dr. Christoph, his face fallen from that demoniac sternness he’d momentarily adopted back into his customarily bemused amiability. “But my question still stands.”
“Please, Dr. Christoph—”
“It’s a ‘question you’re answering for me whether you want to or not: Are you strong enough to’ actually consider what the words you say mean? Leave, if you want, and I’ll know the answer.”
Mr. Jack was halfway out of his chair, trembling. Trapped in this limbo, he heard Dr. Christoph’s voice.
“You can’t even look me in the eye and say with a manly vigor what The Cause is. Shall I tell you what god you serve?”
Mr. Jack was startled at this point to discover he had punched Dr. Christoph. Blood was flowing from the old man’s nose, stoppered by some white towel he’d pulled from somewhere.
“Have I reached you yet?” asked the doctor. “Have you heard me?”
Mr. Jack looked at the old man with the crimson cloth pressed under his nose and at his hand, the knuckles covered in the doctor’s blood. His eyes went back and forth, his breathing growing quicker and quicker.
Finally, his head growing dizzier and dizzier, he let out a scream and fell senseless to the floor.
Tale Told 