I sit down on the sofa, but even though they have said they want to listen it is hard to talk. I look at the rug on their floor, with its wide border of blue-and-cream geometric patterns—there are four patterns within a frame of plain blue stripes—and try to make the story clear.
“There is a treatment they—someone—used on adult apes,” I say. “I did not know apes could be autistic, but what they said was that autistic apes became more normal when they had this treatment. Now Mr. Crenshaw wants us to have it.”
“And you don’t want it?” Tom asks.
“I do not understand how it works or how it will make things better,” I say.
“Very sensible,” Lucia says. “Do you know who did the research, Lou?”
“I do not remember the name,” I say. “Lars—he’s a member of an international group of autistic adults—e-mailed me about it several weeks ago. He sent me the journal Web site and I went there, but I did not understand much of it. I did not study neuroscience.”
“Do you still have that citation?” Lucia asks. “I can look it up, see what I can find out.”
“You could?”
“Sure. And I can ask around in the department, find out if the researchers are considered any good or not.”
“We had an idea,” I say.
“We who?”Tom asks.
“We… the people I work with,” I say.
“The other autistic people?”Tom asks.
“Yes.” I close my eyes briefly to calm down. “Mr. Aldrin bought us pizza. He drank beer. He said that he did not think there was enough profit in treating adult autistic persons—because they now treat pre-borns and infants and we are the last cohort who will be like us. At least in this country. So we wondered why they wanted to develop this treatment and what else it could do. It is like some pattern analysis I have done. There is one pattern, but it is not the only pattern. Someone can think they are generating one pattern and actually generate several more, and one of those may be useful or not useful, depending on what the problem is.” I look up at Tom and he is looking at me with a strange expression. His mouth is a little open.
He shakes his head, a quick jerk. “So—you are thinking maybe they have something else in mind, something that you people are just part of?”
“It might be,” I say cautiously.
He looks at Lucia, and she nods. “It certainly could be,” he says. “Trying whatever it is on you would give them additional data, and then… Let me think…”
“I think it is something to do with attention control,” I say. “We all have a different way of perceiving sensory input and… and setting attention priorities.” I am not sure I have the words right, but Lucia nods vigorously.
“Attention control—of course. If they could control that in the architecture, not chemically, it’d be a lot easier to develop a dedicated workforce.”
“Space,” Tom says.
I am confused, but Lucia only blinks and then nods.
“Yes. The big limitation in space-based employment is getting people to concentrate, not be distracted.
The sensory inputs up there are not what we’re used to, what worked in natural selection.” I do not know how she knows what he is thinking. I would like to be able to read minds like that. She grins at me.
“Lou, I think you’re onto something big, here. Get me that citation, and I’ll run with it.”
I feel uneasy. “I am not supposed to talk about work outside the campus,” I say.
“You’re not talking about work,” she says. “You’re talking about your work environment . That’s different.”
I wonder if Mr. Aldrin would see it that way.
Someone knocks on the door, and we quit talking. I am sweaty even though I have not been fencing.
The first to arrive are Dave and Susan. We go through the house, collect our gear, and start stretching in the backyard.
Marjory is next to arrive, and she grins at me. I feel lighter than air again. I remember what Emmy said, but I cannot believe it when I see Marjory. Maybe tonight I will ask her to go to dinner with me. Don has not come. I suppose he is still angry with Tom and Lucia for not acting like friends. It makes me sad that they are not all still friends; I hope they do not get angry with me and quit being friends with me.