Flowers for Algernon

August 11-Blind alley for the past two days. Nothing. I’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere, because I get answers to a lot of questions, but not to the most important question of all: How does Algernon’s regression affect the basic hypothesis of the experiment?

Fortunately, I know enough about the processes of the mind not to let this block worry me too much. Instead of panicking and giving up (or what’s even worse, pushing hard for answers that won’t come) I’ve got to take my mind off the problem for a while and let it stew. I’ve gone as far as I can on a conscious level, and now it’s up to those mysterious operations below the level of awareness. It’s one of those inexplicable things, how everything I’ve learned and experienced is brought to bear on the problem. Pushing too hard will only make things freeze up. How many great problems have gone unsolved because men didn’t know enough, or have enough faith in the creative process and in themselves, to let go for the whole mind to work at it? So I decided yesterday afternoon to put the work aside for a while and go to Mrs. Nemur’s cocktail party. It was in honor of the two men on the board of the Welberg Foundation who had been instrumental in getting her husband the grant. I planned to take Fay, but she said she had a date and she’d rather go dancing.

I started out the evening with every intention of being pleasant and making friends. But these days I have trouble getting through to people. I don’t know if it’s me or them, but any attempt at conversation usually fades away in a minute or two, and the barriers go up. Is it because they are afraid of me? Or is it that deep down they don’t care and feel the same about them? I took a drink and wandered around the big room. There were little knots of people sitting in conversation 168 groups, the kind I find it impossible to join. Finally, Mrs. Nemur cornered me and introduced me to Hyram Harvey, one of the board members. Mrs. Nemur is an attractive woman, early forties, blonde hair, lots of make-up and long red nails. She had her arm through Harvey’s. “How is the research coming?” She wanted to know.

“As well as can be expected. I’m trying to solve a tough problem right now.” She lit a cigarette and smiled at me. “I know that everyone on the project is grateful that you’ve decided to pitch in and help out. But I imagine you’d much rather be working on something of your own. It must be rather dull taking up someone else’s work rather than something you’ve conceived and created yourself.”

She was sharp, all right. She didn’t want Hyram Harvey to forget that her husband had the credit coming. I couldn’t resist tossing it back at her. “No one really starts anything new, Mrs. Nemur. Everyone builds on other men’s failures. There is nothing really original in science. What each man contributes to the sum of knowledge is what counts.”

“Of course,” she said, talking to her elderly guest rather than to me. “It’s a shame Mr. Gordon wasn’t around earlier to help solve these little final problems.” She laughed. “But then-oh, I forgot, you weren’t in any position to do psychological experimentation.”

Harvey laughed, and I thought I’d better keep quiet. Bertha Nemur was not going to let me get the last word in, and if things went any further it would really get nasty.

I saw Dr. Strauss and Burt talking to the other man from the Welberg Foundation — George Raynor. Strauss was saying: “The problem, Mr. Raynor, is getting sufficient funds to work on projects like these, without having strings tied to the money. When amounts are earmarked for specific purposes, we can’t really operate.”

Raynor shook his head and waved a big cigar at the small group around him. “The real problem is convincing the board that this kind of research has practical value.”

Strauss shook his head. “The point I’ve been trying to make is that this money is intended for research. No one can ever know in advance if a project is going to result in 169 something useful. Results are often negative. We learn what something is not-and that is as important as a positive discovery to the man who is going to pick up from there. At least he knows what not to do.” As I approached the group, I noticed Raynor’s wife, to whom I had been introduced earlier. She was a beautiful, dark-haired woman of thirty or so. She was staring at me, or rather at the top of my head-as if she expected something to sprout. I stared back, and she got uncomfortable and turned back to Dr. Strauss. “But what about the present project? Do you anticipate being able to use these techniques on other retardates? Is this something the world will be able to use?”

Strauss shrugged and nodded towards me. “Still too early to tell. Your husband helped us put Charlie to work on the project, and a great deal depends on what he comes up with.”