Bagombo Snuff Box Read Online Free PDF Page B

seen the crash
of an experimental rocket fired out to sea in a test of range. The Secretary
of Defense promptly denied that any such tests were being conducted over the
Atlantic.
    In Boston, Dr. Bernard Groszinger, young rocket consultant
for the Air Force, told newsmen that what the Capricorn had observed might well
have been a meteor.
    “That seems quite likely,” he said. “If it was a meteor, the
fact that it reached the earth’s surface should, I think, be one of the year’s
most important science news stories. Usually meteors burn to nothing before
they’re even through the stratosphere.”
    “Excuse me, sir,” interrupted a reporter. “Is there anything
out beyond the stratosphere—I mean, is there any name for it?”
    “Well, actually the term ‘stratosphere’ is kind of arbitrary.
It’s the outer shell of the atmosphere. You can’t say definitely where it
stops. Beyond it is just, well—dead space.”
    “Dead space—that’s the right name for it, eh?” said the reporter.
    “If you want something fancier, maybe we could put it into
Greek,” said Groszinger playfully. “Thanatos, that’s Greek for ‘death,’ I
think. Maybe instead of ‘dead space’ you’d prefer ‘Thanasphere.’ Has a nice scientific
ring to it, don’t you think?
    The newsmen laughed politely.
    “Dr. Groszinger, when’s the first rocket ship going to make
it into space?” asked another reporter.
    “You people read too many comic books,” said Groszinger. “Come
back in twenty years, and maybe I’ll have a story for you.”
     
Mnemonics
    Alfred Moorhead dropped the report into his Out basket, and
smiled to think that he had been able to check something for facts without referring
to records and notes. Six weeks before, he couldn’t have done it. Now, since he
had attended the company’s two-day Memory Clinic, names, facts, and numbers
clung to his memory like burdocks to an Airedale. The clinic had, in fact, indirectly
cleared up just about every major problem in his uncomplicated life, save one—his
inability to break the ice with his secretary, Ellen, whom he had silently
adored for two years. . . .
    “Mnemonics is the art of improving the memory,” the clinic’s
instructor had begun. “It makes use of two elementary psychological facts: You
remember things that interest you longer than things that don’t, and pictures
stick in your mind better than isolated facts do. I’ll show you what I mean. We’ll
use Mr. Moorhead for our guinea pig.”
    Alfred had shifted uncomfortably as the man read off a nonsensical
list and told him to memorize it: “Smoke, oak tree, sedan, bottle, oriole.” The
instructor had talked about something else, then pointed to Alfred. “Mr.
Moorhead, the list.”
    “Smoke, oriole, uh—” Alfred had shrugged.
    “Don’t be discouraged. You’re perfectly normal,” the instructor
had said. “But let’s see if we can’t help you do a little better. Let’s build
an image, something pleasant, something we’d like to remember. Smoke, oak tree,
sedan—I see a man relaxing under a leafy oak tree. He is smoking a pipe, and in
the background is his car, a yellow sedan. See it, Mr. Moor-head?”
    “Uh-huh.” Alfred had seen it.
    “Good. Now for ‘bottle’ and ‘oriole.’ By the man’s side is a
vacuum bottle of iced coffee, and an oriole is singing on a branch overhead.
There, we can remember that happy picture without any trouble, eh?” Alfred had
nodded uncertainly. The instructor had gone on to other matters, then
challenged him again.
    “Smoke, sedan, bottle, uh—” Alfred had avoided the instructor’s
eyes.
    When the snickering of the class had subsided, the
instructor had said, “I suppose you think Mr. Moorhead has proved that mnemonics
is bunk. Not at all. He has helped me to make another important point. The images
used to help memory vary widely from person to person. Mr. Moor-head’s
personality is clearly different from mine. I shouldn’t have forced